THE LION'S HEAD.

A WELCOME paper from the late Mr. Edward Herbert-why did he not send it sooner?-has just given us a very pleasant evidence of his continued existence. It shall have an early place in our next Number. A Visit to the Monastery of Sorrento, by our Italian Correspondents, will appear at the same time.

Mr. C- is not the Mr. T

alluded to by a Templar.

T. Q. who comprehends Poetry in his charge against us-but not in itself -is singular in his complaint of its superabundance; and is it really possible that, with his penetration, he cannot discover the continuation of the Tales of Lyddalcross?

How could Gallus be so imprudent as to tempt a French song out of its own tongue, before he could provide for it in English? We shall pillory him for his folly in two of his own verses:

Alas! to make a love so vain,

And never win at all of bliss,

And never see it back again,

There is no smart so smart as this!

Ah! if she will not heal my woe,

Yet I will never cease of it;

But love with all my heart, although

She stole away the piece of it.

El Musa's communication respecting the Plymouth (Exhibition shall be forwarded to the proper quarter; but on these subjects we cannot well see without our own spectacles.

The

L. F. who dates himself under sixteen years of age, will do well to remember, that youth may excuse, but not recommend, bad Poetry. Night Thoughts are not admired because the Author was Young.

The thick (headed) letter from Ross, in Herefordshire, has failed in its object, the Post-office having returned the expences. If the Man of Ross would send us his address, we might make him some return for his trouble.

"On being asked to sing by a very beautiful Young Lady to whom the Writer is much attached," and "Lines written for a Bust of Fox," cannot have a place in our Magazine.

J. A. S. of Walworth! if Lindley Murray could rise out of his Grammar, what would he not make of thee-thou embroiler of verbs and nominatives, and verse-confounder of all numbers!" Do you hear how he misplaces ? " This morning bloom'd on yonder bank That rose now fading to the eye; How sweet and lovely were its sweet, Now blooms no more but fading die, And though its lovely beauties lost,

It still have left its sweets behind ;—

and then comes what Winifred Jenkins calls "the very moral of Lady Rickmansworth."

And learn fond youths before to late,

A lesson from it take in time,

Nor pass the morning of your life

In vanity and empty pride;

But store your mind before to late,

With wisdom's treasure that never glide.

Though like the rose you fade at last,
Your bosom with its sweet may glow,
And look with pleasure on the past,
And calmly wait afresh to blow.

We are well satisfied, from the earnest manner in which Augustus states his opinion, that he sincerely entertains it, and that he is really as much our friend as he professes himself to be.--We take, therefore, in good part the advice he offers, though we cannot allow his objections the weight which they appear to have in his estimation. Nay, we trust that the truth is conveyed with even less colour by our Contributor, (for the article in question is not ours), than by our Correspondent, and he may be certain that no erroneous representation could ever be intentionally admitted into our pages. Having said this by way of explanation, and deeming it useless to argue a question of mere opinion, we have much pleasure in adding, that it is probable his wishes will be gratified. We shall be glad to hear from him in his own name, and to see the papers to which he alludes.

Peter Patricius Pickle-herring has displayed considerable ability, and no little impudence, in his Vituperation. It far exceeds in merit his " Adventures:" they are inadmissible. If Peter had a little more refinement, he would become, probably, a welcome Correspondent.

We cannot do more than acknowledge the receipt of the following:Bourgeois, Philaploes, and Relics of Thomson.