ng her valuable
anthology, by producing his attractive Annual, "The Forget-Me-Not;" a
species of literature which presents us with the pleasing facility of
holding yearly communion with our poets and authors, without being
subjected to the tedium of awaiting their protracted appearance in a more
voluminous shape. We can now more frequently greet Anacreon Moore,
wreathing his harp with the paternal shamrock, characteristically mingled
with "pansies _for love_;" Montgomery, mourning over our nature's
degradation; telling us of the affections and passions of earth, yet luring
us to higher hopes and brighter consummation; his every line evincing that
chastened sorrow which Byron threw into the portrait of the Sheffield
bard--

"With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale."

Coleridge, dropping "some natural tears," on viewing the altered features
of his native valley; sweetly and affectionately telling of

"The meadow, and its babbling brook,
Where roses in the ripple shook."

Southey, forgetting the ungentler theme of "battle field" amidst the
sublimity of rock and lake. Campbell, pouring from his plaintive shell
a tender eulogy to his northern home--a glowing tissue of

Dreams of the Highland mountains, and echoing streams,
And broken glades, breathing their balm.

--Scott, terrifically depicting a Sassenagh tournament, or inditing a
stirring appeal to the "blue bonnets," to settle some Border broil. James
Hogg, "the Scottish Virgil," on whom has surely fallen the mantle of
inspiration from the Mantuan bard, coming forth in all the richness of the
"Noctes Ambrosianae," from the misty hill where he dominates "the king of
shepherds." Delta, elegantly pensive, sighing beneath the blighted trees
which flourished over his boyhood; and listening to the rhetoric of the
changing seasons. Alaric Watts, "the fireside bard," giving us a touching
apostrophe to his "youngling of the flock," in melting verse, warm from
that kindred fancy

"Whose blessed words
Can bid the sweetest dreams arise;
Awaken feeling's tenderest chords,
And drown in tears of joy the eyes."

T.K. Hervey, following in the same bright path, or enthusiastically rapt
amidst the beauty and bloom of Australia.--Bernard Barton, bringing us
snatches of vernal philosophy, gathered in the silence of murky woods,
and the solitude of perfumed meadows.--John Clare, swearing everlasting
fealty to his beauteous Mary, by the el