L. E. L.

UNDER this signature, a very engaging Young Lady, of the name of Letitia Elizabeth Landon, has published much beautiful poetry in the "Literary Gazette ;" and a volume, called, from its principal poem, the "Improvisatrice." She has another, now on the eve of publication, under the name of "The Troubadour."

Of her private history we know nothing, except that we learn, from a Review of her Poems in a Magazine, that she lives in Sloane Street; and are assured that she is young (in her teens, we understand, or only just emerging from them) and pretty. Pickersgill's portrait of her, which was exhibited at the Royal Academy, is allowed, by every body who has seen her, to be any thing but a flattering likeness, except in the talent and animation which it indicates.

Some anecdotes that we have heard, tend highly to her honour; but it would be intruding too much on the privacy of domestic life, to mention them. Her father, lately deceased, was an army agent; and her uncle, a man of distinguished learning, is Dr. C. Landon, the present

VOL. II.

H

Head of Worcester College, Oxford. Her life can as yet afford but few events to chronicle; and we hope it will never be chequered by any of an unpleasant character. It is to the credit of the "Literary Gazette," that it has been the principal means of introducing to public attention so distinguished a Lady.

We cannot take leave of Miss Landon, without presenting our readers with a specimen of her Verses. We, therefore, select from her last Volume, the following sweet and truly poetic effusion.

Three times I thus have watch'd the snow

Grow crimson with the stain

The setting sun threw o'er the rock,

And I have watch'd in vain.

I love to see the graceful bow
Across his shoulder slung-
I love to see the golden horn
Beside his Baldric hung.

I love his dark hounds, and I love
His falcon's sweeping flight;
I love to see his manly cheek
With mountain-colours bright.

I've waited patiently, but now

Would that the chace were o'er; Well may he love the Hunter's toil, But he should love me more.

Why stays he thus?—He would be here
If his love equall'd mine;
Methinks, had I one fond cag'd dove,
I would not let it pine.

But hark! what are those ringing steps
That up the valley come ?

I see his hounds-I see himself

My Ulric, welcome home!"

WALTER MAPES.

THIS Poet, who was Archdeacon of Oxford, has been very happily styled " the Anacreon of the eleventh century." He studied at Paris. "His vein (says Warton) was chiefly festive and satirical; and as his wit was frequently levelled against the corruptions of the clergy, his poems often appeared under fictitious names, or have been ascribed to others. The celebrated

Drinking Ode' of this genial Archdeacon has the regular returns of the Monkish rhyme; but they are here applied with a characteristical propriety, are so happily invented, and so humorously introduced, that they not only suit the genius, but heighten the spirit, of the piece. He boasts that good wine inspires him to sing verses equal to those of Ovid. In another Latin Ode of the same kind, he attacks with great liveliness the new injunction of Pope Innocent, concerning the celibacy of the clergy; and hopes that every married priest, with his bride, will say a pater-noster for the soul of one who had thus hazarded his salvation in their defence."

JOOST VAN DEN VONDEL.

"THERE is," says Mr. Bowring, “a country almost within sight of the shores of our island, whose literature is less known to us than that of Persia or Hindostan: a country, too, distinguished for its civilization, and its important contributions to the mass of human knowledge.* Its language claims a close kindred with our own; and its government has been generally such as to excite the sympathies of an English spirit. It is, indeed, most strange, that while the Poets of Germany have found hundreds of admirers and thousands of critics, those of a land nearer in position-more allied by habit and by history with our, thoughts and recollections should have been passed by unnoticed. It would be as soon expected to hear the birds of the East filling our woods and valleys with their songs, as to find the Batavian minstrels in our libraries or our drawing-rooms. And it would appear as if they had been excluded after

We owe to the Dutch the discovery of the arts of Printing and Oil Painting: we owe to them the Microscope and the Pendulum.