SPIRIT OF “THE ANNUALS” FOR 1828.

Our readers have annually anticipated a high treat from this splendid intellectual banquet, served up by some of the master[1] spirits of the age.

    [1] We hope this epithet will not be considered ungallant—­for, to
        say the truth, the ladies have contributed the best poetical
        portion of the feast.  This display of female talent has
        increased in brilliancy year after year:  and the Lords should
        look to it.

We doubt whether the comparison is refined enough for the fair authoresses; but our fancy has led us to class their contributions to the present feast as follow:—­

Hock—­Champagne, (Still and Sparkling.)

L.E.L. 
Hood.

Bucellas.

Miss Mitford. 
Bernard Barton.

Lacrymae Christi.

Mrs. Hemans. 
Watts. 
Delta.

Port.

Coleridge. 
Southey.

Claret.

Montgomery,

with a due proportion of vin ordinaire.  This comparison may be pleasant enough as after-dinner chat, but we fear our readers will think it like cooks circulating the Bills of Fare on the morning of Lord Mayor’s Day; and lest we should incur their displeasure, we shall proceed with our select course:  but we are mere disposers.

* * * * *

THE LITERARY SOUVENIR.

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

ANCIENT SONG OF VICTORY.

By Mrs. Hemans.

Fill high the bowl, with Samian wine,
Our virgins dance beneath the shade.

Byron.

  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.