In literary talent, as well as in graphic beauty, this elegant volume stands first; and from it we have selected the subject of the above engraving, accompanied by the following
Fill high the bowl, with Samian wine, Our virgins dance beneath the shade.
Lo! they come, they come! Garlands for every shrine! Strike lyres to greet them home; Bring roses, pour ye wine!
Swell, swell the Dorian flute Thro' the blue, triumphal sky! Let the Cittern's tone salute The Sons of Victory!
With the offering of bright blood, They have ransomed earth and tomb, Vineyard, and field, and flood;-- Lo! they come, they come!
Sing it where olives wave, And by the glittering sea, And o'er each hero's grave,-- Sing, sing, the land is free!
Mark ye the flashing oars, And the spears that light the deep! How the festal sunshine pours Where the lords of battle sweep!
Each hath brought back his shield,-- Maid, greet thy lover home! Mother, from that proud field, Lo! thy son is come!
Who murmured of the dead? Hush, boding voice! we know That many a shining head Lies in its glory low.
Breathe not those names to-day! They shall have their praise ere long, And a power all hearts to sway In ever-burning song.
But now shed flowers, pour wine, To hail the conquerors home! Bring wreaths for every shrine-- Lo! they come, they come!
The original engraving is by Edward Goodall, from a painting by William Linton, Esq. It is altogether a rich and glorious composition, at this moment too, glowing with more than pictorial interest; and the _carmen triumphale_ of the poetess is a worthy accompaniment. Among the other engravings the frontispiece and opposite page of this work are extremely rich and beautiful: _Psyche borne by the Zephyrs to the Island of Pleasure_, is full of languishing beauty; _Medora_, painted by Pickersgill and engraved by Rolls, is a delightfully placid moonlight scene; the _Declaration_, easy and graceful: there are, however, in our opinion, two decided failures in the volume, which, for the credit of the artists, had better been omitted. Our present notices of the _literary_ department must be confined to the following selection:
In days of yore, there lived in the flourishing city of Cairo, a Hebrew Rabbi, by name Jochorian, who was the most learned of his nation. His fame went over the East, and the most distant people sent their young men to imbibe wisdom from his lips. He was deeply skilled in the traditions of the fathers, and his word on a disputed point was decisive. He was pious, just, temperate, and strict; but he had one vice--a love of gold had seized upon his heart, and he opened not his hand to the poor. Yet he was wealthy above most, his wisdom being to him the source of riches. The Hebrews of the city were grieved at this blemish on the wisest of their people; but though the elders of the tribes continued to reverence him for his fame, the women and children of Cairo called him by no other name than that of Rabbi Jochonan the miser.