p>The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction / Volume 12, No. 344 (Supplementary Issue)
Ehrenbreitstein on Rhine
Here Ehrenbreitstein, with her shattered wall, Black with the miners' blast, upon her height, Yet shows of what she was, when shell and ball Rebounding idly on her strength, did light; A tower of victory! from whence the flight Of baffled foes was watched along the plain: But peace destroyed what war could never blight, And laid those proud roofs bare to summer's rain, On which the iron shower for years had poured in vain.
SPIRIT OF THE "ANNUALS."
We have the pleasure of presenting to the readers of the MIRROR, the completion of our notices of these very elegant publications; and in pursuance of the plan of our former Supplement, we are enabled to assemble within the present sheet the characteristics of eight works, whilst our quotations include fourteen prose tales and sketches, and poetical pieces, of great merit.
The above engraving and its pendant are copied from the Literary Souvenir, specially noticed in our last Supplement. The original is a drawing by J.M.W. Turner, R.A. and the plate in the Souvenir is by J. Pye—both artists of high excellence in their respective departments:—
The waters of the Rhine have long maintained their pre-eminence, as forming one of the mightiest and loveliest among the highways of Europe.
But among all its united trophies of art and nature, there is not one more brightly endowed with picturesque beauty, or romantic association, than the fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. When the eye of our own Childe Harold rested upon its "shattered wall," and when the pencil of Turner immortalized its season of desolation, it had been smitten in the pride of its strength by the iron glaive of war: and its blackened fragments and stupendous ruins had their voice for the heart of the moralist, as well as their charm for the inspired mind of genius. But now that military art hath knit those granite ribs anew,—now that the beautiful eminence rears once more its crested head, like a sculptured Cybele, with a coronet of towers,—new feelings, and an altered scale of admiration wait upon its glories. Once more it uplifts its giant height beside the Rhine, repelling in Titan majesty the ambition of France; once more, by its united gifts of natural position and scientific aid, it appears prepared to vindicate its noble appellation of "the broad stone of honour."
The Musical Souvenir
This is an elegant little collection of seven songs, a trio, duet, and glee, set to music, or "as they are appointed to be said or sung." As we have not our musical types in order, we can only give our readers a specimen of its literary merits. The first piece is Akenside's beautiful Invocation to Cheerfulness; this is pleasingly contrasted with a Song to the Forget-me-not, by Mrs. Opie. Then follow five pieces from recent volumes of Friendship's Offering and the Amulet. The three remaining compositions (expressly for the work) are a Song by T. Bradford, Esq.; a Scotch Song, by Mr. Feist; and the following pathetic Lines, by the Rev. Thomas Dale:—
Oft as the broad sun dips
Beneath the western sea,
A prayer is on my lips,
Dearest! a prayer for thee.
I know not where thou wand'rest now,
O'er ocean-wave, or mountain brow—
I only know that He,
Who hears the suppliant's prayer,
Where'er thou art, on land or sea,
Alone can shield thee there.
Oft as the bright dawn breaks
Behind the eastern hill,
Mine eye from slumber wakes,
My heart is with the still—
For thee my latest vows were said,
For thee my earliest prayers are pray'd—
And O! when storms shall lour
Above the swelling sea,
Be it thy shield, in danger's hour,
That I have pray'd for thee.
Whether we consider the purity of its sentiments and the amiable tone of feeling, or its merit as a musical work, we are induced to recommend the present volume as an elegant present for a musical friend, and it will doubtless become a favourite with thousands of graceful pianists. Thanks to the Muses, our lyrical poetry is rapidly rising in the literary scale, when such beautiful compositions as those of Mrs. Hemans and Miss Landon are no sooner written than set to music.
The Musical Souvenir is embellished with two engravings and a presentation plate, and bound in crimson silk—so that it has all the attractions of the annual Christmas presents, except prose.
The Keepsake
This is a magnificent affair, and is one of the proud triumphs of the union of Painting, Engraving, and Literature—to which we took occasion to allude in a recent number of THE MIRROR. Each department is unique, and the lists are like the Morning Post account of a drawing room, or Almack's—the princes of the arts, and the peers of the pen. Painters—Lawrence, Howard, Corbould, Westall, Turner, Landseer, Stephanoff, Chalon, Stothard, &c. Engravers—C. Heath, Finden, Engleheart, Portbury, Wallis, Rolls, Goodyear, &c. Contributors—Scott, Mackintosh, Moore, the Lords Normanby, Morpeth, Porchester, Holland, Gower, and Nugent; Wordsworth, Southey, Coleridge, Shelley, Hook, Lockhart, Croker, Mrs. Hemans, and Miss Landon; and the cost of the whole eleven thousand guineas! Of course, such a book has not been the work of a day, month, or, perhaps, a year; and its literature entitles it to a permanent place in the library, where we hope to see it stand auro perennius; were its fate to be otherwise, we should condemn the public—for we hate ingratitude in every shape—and write in the first page the epitaph—For, O, for, O, the hobby-horse is forgot. A guinea to twopence—Hyperion to a Satyr—how can we extend the fame of The Keepsake!
We cannot particularize the engravings; but they are all worthy companions of the frontispiece—a lovely portrait of Mrs. Peel, engraved by Heath, from Sir Thomas Lawrence's picture. In the literary department—a very court of fiction—is, My Aunt Margaret's Mirror, a tale of forty-four pages; and, The Tapestried Chamber, by Sir Walter Scott; both much too long for extract, which would indeed be almost unfair. Next comes an exquisite gem—
ON LOVE
What is Love? Ask him who lives what is life; ask him who adores what is God.
I know not the internal constitution of other men, nor even of thine whom I now address. I see that in some external attributes they resemble me, but when, misled by that appearance, I have thought to appeal to something in common, and unburden my inmost soul to them, I have found my language misunderstood, like one in a distant and savage land. The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience, the wider has appeared the interval between us, and to a greater distance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. With a spirit ill-fitted to sustain such proof, trembling and feeble through its tenderness, I have every where sought, and have found only repulse and disappointment.
Thou demandest what is Love. It is that powerful attraction towards all we conceive, or fear, or hope, beyond ourselves, when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of an insufficient void, and seek to
