me.

We congratulate the proprietors on their prospects of remuneration,
for the attractions of their publication are irresistible. It is
altogether a splendid enterprise, and we doubt not the reward will be
more than proportionate to the expectation it has raised--both in the
proprietors and their patrons--the public.

* * * * *

THE ANNIVERSARY,

_EDITED BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM._

Perhaps we are getting too panegyrical, for panegyric savours of the
poppy; but we must not flinch from our duty.

_Allan Cunningham_--there is poetry in the name, written or sung--and
high-wrought poetry too, in nearly every production to which that
name is attached--and among these "The Anniversary for 1829." All the
departments of this work too, (as in the "Keepsake") are unique. Mr.
Sharpe, the proprietor, is a man of refined taste, his Editor and his
contributors are men of first-rate genius, the Painters and Engravers
are of the first rank, and the volume is printed at Mr. Whittingham's
Chiswick-press. Excellence must always be the result of such a
combination of talent, and so it proves in the _Anniversary_. As
might have been expected from the talent of its editor, the volume
is superior in its poetical attractions--both in number and quality.

By way of variety, we begin with the _poetry_. First is a stirring
little ballad, the Warrior, by the editor; then, a humorous epistle
from Robert Southey, Esq. to Allan Cunningham, in which the laureat
deals forth his ire on the "misresemblances and villanous visages"
which have been published as his portrait.[1] Next is a gem of
another water, Edderline's Dream, by Professor Wilson, the supposed
editor of "Blackwood's Magazine." This is throughout a very beautiful
composition, but we must content ourselves with the following
extract:--

EDDERLINE'S SLEEP.

Castle-Oban is lost in the darkness of night,
For the moon is swept from the starless heaven,
And the latest line of lowering light
That lingered on the stormy even,
A dim-seen line, half cloud, half wave,
Hath sunk into the weltering grave.
Castle-Oban is dark without and within,
And downwards to the fearful din,
Where Ocean with his thunder shocks
Stuns the green foundation rocks,
Through the green abyss that mocks his eye,
Oft hath the eerie watchman sent
A shuddering look, a shivering sigh,
From the edge of the howling battlement!

Therein is a lonesome