One arm upon her eyes she foldeth,
    O’er which her hair is softly fann’d,
  And still with fainting grasp she holdeth
    The lilies in her hand.

  Oh—­wake her not! the forest streams
    With balmy lips are breathing rest;
  Nor stir the garland of sweet dreams
    Which Sleep hath bound upon her breast.

New Monthly Magazine.

* * * * *

THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS.

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ADVENTURES OF A YOUNGER SON.

These are three volumes of spirit-stirring scenes, understood to be written by Captain Trelawney, the friend of Lord Byron.  They are said to embody many incidents of the early life of the writer, though portions are too strongly tinged with romance to belong to sober reality.  The Younger Son is driven from his native hearth by a cruel father.  His proud spirit revolts at such oppression.  He sings with Byron

  And now I’m in the world alone,
    Upon the wide wide sea;
  But why should I for others groan,
    When none will sigh for me.

His father intends him for the church, but instead of being sent to Oxford, he is taken to Portsmouth, and shipped on board a line of battle ship, the Superb, as passenger to join one of Nelson’s squadron; but through delay he falls in with the Nelson fleet of Trafalgar, two days after the deathless victory.  He returns to England, and is sent to Dr. Burney’s navigation school.  He next sails for the East Indies, and at Bombay he falls in with an adventurous stranger, whom he is minute in describing, “to account in part for the extraordinary influence he gained, on so short an acquaintance,” over his mind and imagination.  He became his model.  The height of his ambition was to imitate him, even in his defects.  Thenceforth his life of adventure begins.  In its progress, he describes many beautiful scenes in the East with touching enthusiasm, and some of his pictures of luxuriant nature are admirably painted.

We pass over these to the heroine, at Port St. Louis: 

An Arabian Beauty.

“Zela had the blood of a fearless race.  She had been bred and schooled amidst peril always at hand.  Not having learnt to affect what she did not feel, she crossed ravines, wound along precipices, and waded through streams and rivers, not only without impeding us by enacting a pantomimic representation of fears, tears, entreaties, prayers, screaming, and fainting, but she was such a simpleton as not even to notice them, unless, in the usual sweet, low tone of her voice, to remark that they were delightful places to sit in, during the sultry part of the day; or she would stop her pony over a precipice to gather some curious flowers, drooping from a natural arch; or to pluck the pendant and waving boughs of the most graceful of Indian tress, the imperial mimosa, sensitive and sacred as love, shrinking from the touch of the profane.