THE ANNUALS FOR MDCCCXXX.

FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING-FORGET-ME-NOT-BENGAL ANNUAĦ We have been favored with the proof sheets and engravings of the Friendship's Offering for 1830, and as we have reason to believe that we possess the only copy of the work in this country it affords us great pleasure to be able to make liberal ex-tracts from its pages for the amusement of our Readers. It is really surprizing to observe the rapidity with which the Annuals are now prepared for publication. The present work must have been nearly finished in the early part of August, and Ackermann's Forget-me-Not, was ready perhaps a month before. We hear that the latter publication has also been received in this country, and will be exposed for sale, perhaps before the appearance of our Magazine. Should we be fortunate enough to procure a copy in sufficient time we shall give our Readers some account, with a few specimens, of its contents.

The FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING for 1830 will support, but not increase the reputation, of this pleasing and elegant publication. We believe it is still edited by Mr. Thomas Pringle, though as our copy is defective in the title page and preface, which were not printed at the time the book was sent us, we cannot be sure that we owe the selection and arrangement of the articles and engravings to his acknowledged taste and experience. Whoever may be the Editor, however, the work will reflect credit on his name. It opens with the following very pleasant prologue in which, as the talkative little Book is represented as of the feminine gender, we can excuse an air of good humoured vanity, and a slight touch of jealousy and pretension.

PROLOGUE.

(Liber Loquitur.)`

KIND Reader-here thine ear incline:
I am the SEVENTH of my line;

Before me six fair sisters passed,

Each sweet one lovelier than the last;
With charms to win both ear and eye,

They came-they conquered-and swam by-
"Tis now my turn-and I am told—
(For though I blush to seem so bold—
So vainly vaunting of my beauty,
I must, you know, perform my duty)
I'm told that I shall far outshine
The elder sisters of my line;

That the first talents of the land
Have in my training had a hand;
"That money has been freely spent
In giving me accomplishment;

And nought, in short, has been awanting
To make me perfectly enchanting.

Nay more my kind admirers hint
(Though I dare say there's nothing in't)
That even the brilliant SOUVENIR
Will be eclipsed when I appear;
That the meek, prudish AMULET
With bitter jealousy will fret;

That KEEPSAKE, GEM, FORGET-ME-NOT,

And some whose names I have forgot,

Who dress themselves in silk attire,

For very envy will expire.

I mention this by way of jest-
Not that I credit it the least.
Comparisons might seem invidious-
I just shall hint I'm not quite hideous:
We ALL, I trust, shall lovers gain,
For men by diverse charms are ta’en;
Some fancy looks demure and grave,
Such as my serious cousins have,
OFFERING and AMULET, dear creatures;
Some like the more coquettish features
Of KEEPSAKE, that court-loving dame,
Who sets all Bond-street in a flame;
Some doat on pretty BIJOU; many
Prefer sweet SOUVENIR to any;
Others, again, have ne'er forgot
Their dear first love, FORGET-ME-NOT;
Still, on the whole-if friends don't flatter-
I bear the bell. But that's no matter;
We are a band of bright compeers—
Why should we pull each others' ears?
Our competition brings much good,
If followed in a generous mood.
'Tis owned that our own glorious land
Alone can boast so fair a band:

Then, let our jealousy be shewn

How best to keep that boast our own;

And teach our offspring to inherit

The noble RIVALSHIP OF MERIT.

Oct. 1829.

F.

The next article is a poem entitled " A Cry from South Afric by James Montgomery, the celebrated Bard of Sheffield. It c

tains perhaps more religion and philanthropy than good poetry though even as a literary composition it is by no means discredi table to his genius.

The next article that attracts our notice is The outline of a Life by William Kennedy, the author of a little volume of Poetry, entitled" Fitful Fancies." There is considerable power and condensation in this story, but it is too desperately sad, and there is occasionally a visible hankering after startling effects. These faults are also observable in the Author's Poetry, which with some energy and spirit, is a little melo-dramatic, and betrays at times the "toil and trouble" of the author, and his determination to be outrageously wretched. He is capable of better things, and if he would only look on the sunny side of the moral and external world, he would be a happier man, and a more useful and agreeable writer.

We think it one of the greatest objections to our Literary Annuals that so many murky and miserable narratives are allowed to darken their pages and invest them with a character of gloom, that is utterly at variance with the nature of a Keepsake, which should rather inspire gladness and merriment, than tears and horror If these melancholy contributions are encouraged and increase upon us, a Literary Annual, will eventually resemble Pandora's box, and be the last thing in the world that we should offer to a friend. What often renders these horrible stories, the more objectionable, is that they have no moral end in view, and gratuitously harrow up the reader's mind for no better purpose than to prove the author's power of inflicting pain.

On the whole however the prose compositions in the volume before us, though too often imbued with the melancholy, we have just reprobated, are more able and spirited than the poetical. The reverse is usually the case in the other Annuals. There are nevertheless many very beautiful verses, scattered through the work, and a few of them we must lay before our readers. The following little poem entitled "The Song of the Forsaken Maid" is full of simple pathos.

SONG OF THE FORSAKEN MAID.

I.

Он, weel I mind! the moon flang bricht
Upon the wave her quivering flame;
The birds sang love frae howe and heicht,-
An' ane was by I daurna name.
The fields are mute, the sangsters flown;
The leaves hae left the silent tree;

In haste awa the Spring has stown;
An' my fause love's forsaken me.

II.

Forgotten is that minstrel strain,
Sae loved an' lost; without regret
The wave in darkness sleeps again-
An' why maun I remember yet?

Oh, gin that lesson I could wrest

Frae thy deep heart, thou darksome sea!
An' whare suld I sae saftly rest,

Sin' my fause love's forsaken me?

Some "Lines to the Redbreast," by John Clare, the North tonshire Peasant, though rather too long for extract have mu the tenderness and truth of Burns. The Stanzas entitled Hills and Freedom," by C. Redding, the acting, though not o sible Editor of the New Monthly Magazine, have spirit and a tion.

This gentleman has lately published a volume of M Songs, and though it has not yet reached India, as We formerly the pleasure of perusing it in manuscript we can t to the energy and fervour of its contents.

The following are the Stanzas we have just alluded to though they are by no means equal to some of the Author' lected Songs, they exhibit his love of Freedom, and deserv praise we have awarded them.

THE HILLS AND FREEDOM.

BY C. REDDING.

THE hills, the hills, eternal hills!
O for the hills on high!

Their dizzy steep that fear instils,
Their wild blast's hollow sigh.

The hills, the hills, the eternal hills!
O for the hills, again!

Their name the soul with freedom fills-
The slave dwells on the plain!

The eternal hills that prop the sky!

Their mane of rolling cloud,
The lightning their red canopy,
Their music thunder loud;
Or clad in purple robes that vie
With Tyrian colour bright,
Proud of their brave regality,
Encrowned with starry light.

Dark forests on their shaggy side,
And heaths of rich perfume,
Tall brows of adamantine pride
Frowning o'er dells of gloom,

Where mountain nymphs in robes of blue]

Confess love's genial tie,

And nurse a hardy race,

To deathless liberty.

and true

The hills, the hills, the eternal hills!

O for their shades once more!
Their breath of life, their heaven-fed rills,
Their torrents' dashing roar :

Leave slaves their plain and Capuan ease,

The stagnant waters home,

Me the eternal mountains please,

And cataracts wild in foam.

Our next extract is a Sonnet of much elegance and beauty.

LAKE SCENERY.

A LINE of glorious light upon the hills
Edged the horizon. All the landscape lay
In deepest shadow; but the living rills,
Like veins amid the mountains, lapsed away
Through the purpureal garment of the day,
Sparkling in silvery beauty. At my feet,
Clad in a garb of twilight-tinctured grey,
The stirless lake reposed in slumber sweet;
And in its waveless mirror were enshrined
The sun-tipt mountains and the laughing streams
And shadowy landscape-perfectly defined,
As childhood's visions are in after dreams.

Above the sky was beautifully blue,

And one fair star beamed tremulously through.

R. F. H.

The next is almost as good though its merit is of a different character.

SONNET.

DEATH AND TIME.

TIME, taunting, said to Man with austere brow,
"Thou fool to pile up monuments of fame;
Thy lesser works are durable as thou-
The pyramids bear not the builders' name."
Death, Time's dark page, to Man in triumph said,

66

Thy mighty schemes of little power resign,

Millions, whence thou art sprung, are with the dead,
Canst thou escape? even Time himself is mine."
Then Man looked round with a despairing eye,
And asked his heart and heaven, if this were so ?'
Straight from the blooming earth, and glorious sky,
And from the soul, came the full answer- No!'-
Immortal hope then raised Man's brow sublime,-
And from him shrunk the Conquerors, Death and Time!