origin of Lord Brougham's mistake was probably this: In the Gigantomachia of Claudian there is a line, of which an obscure recollection probably dwelt on his mind, and the mind of the" critics," by whom he had "often heard it disputed." There is certainly none such as he pretends to quote. The nearest approach to it is in the following, in which the Earth is exhorting her giant brood to their warfare against the gods. To the giant Typhous she assigns that of seizing upon the thunderbolt and sceptre of Jove:

"Ite, precor; miscete polum, rescindete

turres

Sidereas rapiat fulmen sceptrumque Typhæus."

This sufficiently settles the point that Brougham's line is not from Claudian; independently of the fact of its manifest modern character, and of there being no reference to it in the Index.

In a list of medals struck in honor of Franklin, in Mr. Sparks' 9th vol., p. 509, there are two bearing this motto, -both French, and both engraved by Dupré, one in 1784 and the other in 1785. In the former, the obverse has a head and bust of Franklin, his locks flowing down over the shoulders, with the legend," BENJ. FRANKLIN Natus BOSTON, XVII., JAN. JAN. MDCCVI. ;" and the reverse has the figure of an Angel standing with one hand pointing to the lightning in the clouds, and the other to a broken sceptre and crown at his feet; in the back-ground a temple with a lightning-conductor, and the legend in question, Eripuit cælo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis." The other differs from this only in omitting the angel, &c., the admirable legend alone being surrounded with a wreath of oak leaves.

A model was struck in Philadelphia by the direction of Joseph Sansom, in imitation of this, having on the obverse a bust of Franklin, with the legend, in translation of the above, "Lightning averted, tyranny repelled;" and on the reverse an American Beaver gnawing down an oak-tree, symbolical of the condition of America at the Declaration of Independence.

We do not know the authority on which Mr. Sparks ascribes the authorship of the line to Turgot. Its own internal evidence proves it, as remarked

above, to be modern-how could such a combination of ideas ever have been conceived, before Franklin taught it in his own person? It was no doubt a variation, as it was a singularly happy and ingenious one, from the line of Manilius above given. The application of the line of Manilius is this: It refers to Epicurus, whose philosophy explained the superstitions by which the various operations of nature and the elements had been ascribed to the gods, and especially to Jupiter, so that he may be said to have torn from him his thunderbolt:

"Eripuitque Jovi falmen, viresque tonandi,

Et ventis sonitum concessit, nubibus ig

The Lady of the Lake, a Poem. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. İllustrated edition. Philadelphia: Carey & Hart. 1844.

Verily, it is a treat worthy of special note and thanks, to see an edition issue from the American press, in such satisfactory rivalry of the most elegant English typography. Over paper of unsurpassed fineness, whiteness and thickness, the fair large type winds its pleasant way as a narrow stream of print through a broad "meadow of margin." The illustrations are numerous, being beautiful steel engravings for the most part of the highest degree of fineness of the art. It is to be hoped that the success of the experiment, in a liberal sale of the edition, will be such as to make it the pioneer to a long sequel of American issues, on a similar scale of typographical beauty. Certainly no more suitable book could be selected for the purposes of the approaching season of holiday gifts.

The Poetical Works of Thomas Campbell, complete; with a Memoir of the Author by WASHINGTON IRVING, and Remarks upon his Writings by Lord JEFFREY. With Illustrations. Philadelphia: Lea and Blanchard, 1845.

This is a handsome reprint of the complete collection of Campbell's poetical writings, of which the poet himself superintended the publication a few months before his death, which took place in June last. Being the only complete American edition of his poems, it cannot, of course, fail of an extensive sale; as this must be the form in which the wide circle of his admirers will desire to possess and preserve them-superseding, indeed, former incomplete editions, even though the latter may, in truth, contain all the poems which have given Campbell his recognized rank as one of the high classics of the language. It is illustrated with a beautiful__mezzotint, by Sartain, from Thomas Phillips' well-known portrait of the poet, painted for Murray, the publisher, scarcely less celebrated than the great names which have made at once his fortune and his fame. There are numerous woodcuts scattered through the volume, in the finest style to which that art has been within a few years carried in England. The edition is accompanied with a

Memoir by Washington Irving, and an extract from Jeffrey's article in the Edinburgh Review in 1809, on "Gertrude of Wyoming." These additions give it a value superior to that of the English edition from which they are wanting.

Of course criticism has no proper place in a notice of Campbell's works. They have been classical to our parents, as they will remain so to many a generation of our children. We speak of those, at least, which constitute the true legacy of his genius and its true expression-excluding silently from the account the "surplusage," which it is to be regretted must fill a considerable space in any complete collection of all his writings.

This is a narrative and descriptive poem in the octo-syllabic measure so tempting to the pen by its proverbial " fatal facility" of structure and rhyme. Mr. Hosmer's chief purpose, in the choice of his subject, was to enable him to depict, on the canvass of his verse, the scenery, and various monuments of the old Indian time, of his native region the "Pleasant Valley" of the Genesee. The period of the tale is in the summer and autumn of 1687, that of the memorable attempt of the Marquis De Nonville (the "Yonnondio" of the poem, as he was styled by the Indians), under pretext of preventing an interruption of the French trade, to plant the standard of Louis XIV, in the beautiful country of the Senecas. To the incidents of the narrative itself no very particular interest attaches, the flowing monotony of the measure adopted, with the unrippling smoothness of the versification, not being very favorable to the preservation of the reader's close attention. These disadvantages require indeed to be compensated by all the condensed force and vivid beauty of style, which made this measure at one time so popular in the pages of Scott and Byron, to the misfortune of so many whom its very facility has tempted into the dangerous and difficult emulation of those models. "Yonnondio" contains numerous

"A beautiful lake is the Canadice, And warblings from its bosom clear

Go up by moonlight, and entice

The hunter to pause and hear.

Oh! mournful are the tones and low,

Like the mystic voice of the whip-po-wil, When evening winds through the forest blow, And other birds are still.

Ear never heard a sadder strain,

In the time of frost and falling leaves, When brown and naked woods complain, And the brook, late fed by summer rain, For perished verdure grieves.

“A beautiful lake is the Canadice,

And tribesmen dwelt on its banks of yore, But an hundred years have vanished thrice Since hearth-stones smoked upon the shore: The Munsee dreamed not of a foe;

Unstrung were the warrior's arm and bow;
And, couched on skins, he little thought
The fall of his nation was at hand:
His ear no rattle of serpent caught,
No gliding ghost a warning brought
While came the Mengwe band.
Too late-too late to fight or fly

Was rang the knell of his ancieut power;
His lip pealed forth no rallying cry,
From slumber he only woke to die

At the solemn midnight hour.

In gore his household-gods were drenched,
His altar-fires in gore were quenched;
The wail of babe in blood was choked,
In blood his burial-place was soaked,
And, lighting up the midnight-heaven,
To flame were the huts of his people given.

"Though tall oaks fell in their kingly pride,
The conqueror saved a trembling leaf;
Of that little clan all darkly died
Save On-no-lee, the cherished bride
Of their brave but luckless chief.

Morn dawned upon a frightful scene→
The Canadice in sunshine lay;

But blood was on its margin green

A tribe was swept away.

On the blackened site of a town destroyed,
The raven a goodly meal enjoyed,

And the wolf called forth her whelps, te share
That banquet red, from her gloomy lair.

"Morn dawned—and on their homeward track The Mengwe, flushed with conquest, sped,

"Mic-ki-nac sat on a fallen tree,

And of savory no-ke-hike partook, And by his side was On-no-lee,

Survivor of the butchery,

Who eyed his knife with an eager look,
Round the haft her fingers lightly wreathed,
The glittering weapon she unsheathed-
One well-aimed blow, and she was free!
Another,—and the purple tide

Gushed from her savage captor's side
Who leaped like a wounded stag, and died..

Thunder, without a cloud in sight,

Or whisper of warning on the gale,
Could not have roused more wild affright,
Amid his braves, than deed of might

Wrought by a hand so frail!
Ere they recovered from the shock
Fled On-no-lee like hunted deer;
Glen, stream and interposing rock
Barred not her swift career:

A vigor never felt before,
The form of the fugitive upbore,
And to her active foot gave wing,
Though fleet were the blood-hounds following-

"In vain the foremost runner strained,

And arrows launched from his twanging bow, For On-no-lee, exulting, gained

A cliff, beyond the reach of foe, That beetled over the lake below. Last of her race, with desperate eye

On the ruined home of her tribe she gazed;
Waved her avenging arm on high,—
Taunted her baffled enemy,

And a ringing scream of triumph raised-
'Base, worrying curs !-go back, go back,
My scalp is saved from Mengwe smoke!
Go hence, and look for Mic-ki-nac-
The famished crow, and the raven black
A dirge above him croak!'
Regardless of the whizzing storm
Of missiles raining round her form,
Imploring eye she then upcast,
And a low, mournful death-hymn sang:
On hill and forest looked her last,
One glance upon the water cast,

And from that high rock sprang.

"Away three hundred years have flown
Since the Munsee found a watery grave;
But when old Night is on her throne,
And stars troop forth her sway to own,
Rise warblings from the wave:
And a shadowy face of mournful mien,
With locks all draggled by the surge,
Belated wanderers have seen

From the glittering lake emerge-
One moment float in moonlight fair,

Then mix with the waters, or vanish in air."