n unique description in our last volume.

As our principal object is to give a few of the _poetical pictures_, we
shall be very brief with the prose, and merely quote an outline of the
poem. Mr. Bowles, it appears, is a native of the district in which he
resides, and this circumstance introduces some beautiful retrospective
feelings:--

But awhile,
Here let me stand, and gaze upon the scene,
Array'd in living light around, and mark
The morning sunshine,--on that very shore
Where once a child I wander'd,--Oh! return
(I sigh,) "return a moment, days of youth,
Of childhood,--oh, return!" How vain the thought,
Vain as unmanly! yet the pensive Muse,
Unblam'd, may dally with imaginings;
For this wide view is like the scene of life,
Once travers'd o'er with carelessness and glee,
And we look back upon the vale of years,
And hear remembered voices, and behold,
In blended colours, images and shades
Long pass'd, now rising, as at Memory's call,
Again in softer light.

The poem then proceeds with a description of an antediluvian cave at
Banwell, and a brief sketch of events since the deposit; but, as Mr.
Bowles observes, poetry and geological inquiry do not very amicably
travel together; we must, therefore, soon get out of the cave:--

But issuing from the Cave--look round--behold
How proudly the majestic Severn rides
On the sea,--how gloriously in light
It rides! Along this solitary ridge,
Where smiles, but rare, the blue Campanula,
Among the thistles, and grey stones, that peep
Through the thin herbage--to the highest point
Of elevation, o'er the vale below,
Slow let us climb. First, look upon that flow'r
The lowly heath-bell, smiling at our feet.
How beautiful it smiles alone! The Pow'r,
that bade the great sea roar--that spread the Heav'ns--
That call'd the sun from darkness--deck'd that flow'r,
And bade it grace this bleak and barren hill.
Imagination, in her playful mood,
Might liken it to a poor village maid,
Lowly, but smiling in her lowliness,
And dress'd so neatly, as if ev'ry day
Were Sunday. And some melancholy Bard
Might, idly musing, thus discourse to it:--
"Daughter of Summer, who dost linger here.
Decking the thistly turf, and arid hill,
Unseen--let the majestic Dahlia
Glitter, an Empress, in her blazonry
Of beauty; let the stately Lily shine,
As snow-white as the breast of the proud