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 VOTIVE OFFERINGS; 
 
 A HELP 
 
 STANNINGLEY CHURCH. 
 
 Blest is the Isle — our native Land — 
 Where battlement and moated gate 
 Are objects only for the hand 
 Of hoary Time to decorate ; 
 Where^shady hamlet, town that breathes 
 Its busy smoke in social wreaths, 
 No rampart's stern defence require, 
 Nought but the heaven-directed Spire, 
 And steeple Tower (with pealing bells 
 
 Far heard) — our only Citadels." 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Paucis ostcndi gemis, et communia laudas, 
 Non ita nutritus: fuge quo descendere gestis. 
 
 Horace. 
 
 EDITED 
 
 BY THOMAS FURBANK, M.A., 
 
 INCUMBENT OF BtfAMLEY. 
 '*. • 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER-STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXXXIX.
 
 H. PBRRTNG, I'HINTKH, lii D
 
 
 TO 
 
 WALTER FARQUHAR HOOK, D.D., 
 
 CHAPLAIN IN ORDINARY TO HER MAJESTY, 
 PREBENDARY OF LINCOLN, AND VICAR OF LEEDS, 
 
 THESE PAGES 
 
 ARE INSCRIBED 
 
 AS A TOKEN OF AFFECTION AND RESPECT, 
 
 BY 
 
 THE EDITOR. 

 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE, 
 
 Stanningley. By the Rev. T. Furbank, M. A I 
 
 " Enlarge the place of thy Tent." By the Rev. Robert Whitehead, 
 
 M. A., York 5 
 
 A Plea for Poetry. By Barry Cornwall 6 
 
 The Sabbath. By James Montgomery, Esq 7 
 
 Lines written at the request of a Friend, on her attending Service 
 
 in the Parish Church of Leeds, after an absence of Thirty Years 8 
 
 Hymn. By Mary Louisa Boyle 9 
 
 Pcestum. By Walter Farquhar Hook, D.D , Vicar of Leeds 10 
 
 The Conversion of Edwin, Anglo-Saxon King of Northumbria. By 
 
 Christopher Kemplay, Esq., York 12 
 
 " Making Melody in your Heart." Ephesians, v. 19. By the Rev. 
 
 John Haigh, B.A., Wortlcy 21 
 
 Maternal Affection. By William Philip Want 22 
 
 Infantine Innocence. By Harry Micklethwait, Esq., Rotherham .. 24 
 A Fragment of the Battle of the Nile. By the Rev. Thomas 
 
 Furbank, M.A 26 
 
 Ovv <og lyo) 0*\w, oW wq ov. Matthew, xxvi. 39. By the 
 
 Rev. W. H. Teale, M.A., Leeds 35 
 
 KM stall Abbey. By W. F. Jackson, Headingley 36 
 
 Impromptu on receiving a Letter from her Friend, Mr. B , in which 
 
 ho rejoices that though very old he still retains all his faculties. 
 
 By Mrs. Perring, Leeds 39 
 
 Adeline. Lines on a lovely Infant, on its departure for a distant Land. 
 
 By F. W. Cronhelm, Esq 39 
 
 To my Infant Daughter. By J. W. Partridge, Esq , Horsforth 40 
 
 To Florence, on hearing of her Illness. By R. H. Kennedy, M.D., 
 
 Superintending Surgeon, Sinde Field Force, Bombay 41 
 
 " Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." By Mrs. Curties, 
 
 Reading 42 
 
 Lines addressed to his Niece on attaining her Thirteenth Year. By 
 
 John HorE Shaw, Esq., Leeds. 43
 
 VI. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 Farewell to Childhood. By \V. S. Wood, Esq., Scholar of St. John's 
 
 College, Cambridge 44 
 
 Evening. By George Wilson, Esq., Leeds 46 
 
 Epitaph in Tillington Church Yard, Sussex. By the late W. 
 
 Hayley, Esq 48 
 
 Epitaph on a Little Girl. From the Greek. By C. W. Stocker, 
 
 D.D., St. John's College, Oxford 48 
 
 Translation of an Epitapth in the Cemetery of Fere La Chaise, 
 
 Paris. By W. II. B. Stocker, B.A., Incumbent of Ilorsforth .... 49 
 " Concerning them which are asleep." 1 Thes. iv. 13. By the Rev. 
 
 John IIaigh, B.A., Queen's College, Oxford 49 
 
 Redemption. By W. H. B. Stocker, B.A., Incumbent of Ilorsforth .. 50 
 Mary Magdalene. Luke vii. By an Oxonian, late Fellow of Oriel 
 
 College 51 
 
 Providence. By Harry Mickleth wait, Esq., Rotherham 53 
 
 A Wanderer's Thoughts. By Mrs. Perring, Leeds 55 
 
 A Widowed Mother's Soliloquy over her sleeping Infant By the 
 
 Rev. J. IIaigh, B.A., Wortley 5(! 
 
 The Bombardment of Algiers. By a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy . . 57 
 Clara's Tomb. By Samuel Lister, Esq., Caius College, Cambridge. . G'l 
 
 Waters of Elle. By the late Lady Caroline Lamb 64 
 
 Lines addressed to Lady Caroline Lamb, on reading " Waters of Elle." 
 
 By the late Lord John Townshend 65 
 
 Sonnet to the River Wharf e. By the Rev. R. Ridsdale, M.A., 
 
 Prebendary of Chichester 65 
 
 The Bee-Hive. By Mrs. Curties, Reading 66 
 
 The Veiled Harp. Lines on an unknown Poetess. By F. W. 
 
 Cronhelm, Esq 68 
 
 Friendship's Offering. By S. K. Y 69 
 
 Lines addressed to the Author of Pleasures of Memory. By Edward 
 
 Moxon 70 
 
 To Mamma on her Birth-day. By R. II. Kennedy, M.D., Bombay .. 71 
 
 Winter. By S. J. Partridge, Esq., Lincoln's Inn 72 
 
 Spring. By the Rev. W. II. Teale, M.A., Leeds 7:i 
 
 The Complaint of the Spring Time. By Mary Louisa Boyle 74 
 
 Thoughts after a Shower. By W, 8. Wood, Esq., Scholar of St. John's 
 
 College, Cambridge 76 
 
 The Cherry Tree. By R. H. Kennedy, M.D., Superintending Surgeon 
 
 of the Sinde Field Force, Bombay 78 
 
 To May. By J. \V. Partridge, Esq., Ilorsforth BO 
 
 " The Hospitaller.-, of St. John of Jerusalem." An Historical Sketch in 
 
 Verse. By the Rev. John HaI6B; B.A., Queen's College, Oxford, 
 
 Curate of Wortley '. 81
 
 VI 1 
 
 PAOF. 
 
 The Wild Rose and the Thistle. Pride and Humility. By Mrs. 
 
 Curties, Reading 91 
 
 Ode to Charity. By J. W. Partridge, Esq., Horsforth 92 
 
 Pity. By John Cawood, Esq., Leeds 93 
 
 Life. By Edward Moxon 93 
 
 The Eye. By T. Swale, Esq 94 
 
 An Extract from the Journal of a British Officer who served in the 
 
 Burmese AVar in 1824 95 
 
 Lines written on reading the preceding narrative. By a Member of 
 
 the Temple, and a Medalist of Cambridge 99 
 
 Lines written by one who, as Chaplain to the Forces, has often per- 
 formed over the remains of the deceased soldier the last rites of 
 
 religion 101 
 
 Forget me not. By C. H. M 102 
 
 To a Young Friend on her expressing amazement that the Author had 
 
 no wish ever to be a greater personage than she was at that time. 
 
 By Mrs. Perring, Leeds. .' 103 
 
 Endymion and Ponto. An Academic Tale. By the Rev. George 
 
 Avliffe Poole, M.A., Leeds 106 
 
 Farewell to Cambridge. By the Rev. Robert Ridsdale, M.A., Late 
 
 Fellow of Clare Hall, and Rector of Tillington, near Petworth, 
 
 Sussex HI 
 
 Return to Oxford. By an old Friend of the Author of the preceding 
 
 Sonnet 112 
 
 Lines addressed to tin Author of " The Excursion." By W. A. 
 
 Jackson, Headingley 113 
 
 Enigma 1. By the late M. T. Sadler, Esq., F.R.S 114 
 
 Enigma 2. By the same 115 
 
 Enigma. By George Micklethwait Stansfeld, Esq., Leeds 116 
 
 Enigma. By Griffith Wright, Esq 117 
 
 Enigma. By W. H. B. Stocker, B. A., Incumbent of Horsforth 118 
 
 First Solution. By Isabella Avarilla Stocker 119 
 
 Second Solution. By Martha Ann Stocker 120 
 
 To Isabel. Lines written on the Banks of the Gutssueba River. 
 
 ByR. II. Kennedy, M.D., Bombay 121 
 
 In Daphne's praise. By. S. J. Partridge, Esq. , Lincoln's Inn 124 
 
 Lines written in a Lady's Album, under a drawing of the Bridge of 
 
 Sighs, Venice. By W. A. Jackson, Headingley 125 
 
 A Speech prepared but not delivered. By the late Robert Humphreys, 
 
 B.A., Incumbent of Bramley; 129 
 
 Lines composed at Muncaster Castle, the 23rd July, 1832. By the late 
 
 Rev. Charles Isherwood, of Brothertou 137 
 
 To Solitude. By Mrs. Perring, Leeds 139
 
 vni. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Heart's Ease. Ry the Rev R. K. Maddock, M.A., Incumbent of 
 
 Lindley, near Huddersfield 141 
 
 The Lark. Ry the Rev. W. II. Teale, M.A., Leeds 142 
 
 The Two Lilies. A tale. Ry Mrs. Curties, Reading 143 
 
 Lines addressed to a Lady on her recovery from Sickness. Ry the late 
 
 Edward Lee, Esq 145 
 
 The Rome of my Childhood. Ry Thomas Rogerson, Esq., Eramley. . 146 
 
 Reflections on the Weather. Ry Matthew Molecatcher 147 
 
 Nature's First and Second Rirth. Ry the Rev. John Haigh, R.A 150 
 
 The Three Christian Graces. Ry the Rev. John Clark, Ilunslet 151 
 
 The Consolations of Religion. Ry QfiiKOOV 152 
 
 The Missionary. Ry W. J 153 
 
 The Fountain Pilgrim. Ry a Deceased Clergyman 154 
 
 To * * *. Ry * * M 155 
 
 Reflections on visiting Kirkstall Abbey. Ry S. S., of Hull 156 
 
 A Hymn of Charity. Ry John Cawood, Esq., Leeds 157 
 
 An Impromptu on approaching Kirkclla Church Yard. Ry Henry 
 
 Rogerson, Esq., Rramley 158 
 
 Written upon the Grave of a Friend 159 
 
 Sonnet on the Re-building of the Parish Church of Leeds. Ry W. A. 
 
 Jackson, Headinglcy 161 
 
 An Extract from a Manuscript preparing for publication, on the 
 Discoveries made in talcing down the Parish Church of Leeds. 
 Ry Robert Dennis Chantrell, Esq., Leeds, Fellow of the Royal 
 
 Institute of Rritish Architects 162 
 
 Lines on the Rev. JohnKillingbeck, H.D., Vicar of Leeds 167 
 
 To my dear Friend, Mrs. S , at Carlisle 168 
 
 A Spirit of Air. Ry Thomas Rogerson, Esq., Rramley 172 
 
 What is Poetry ? Ry George Wilson, Esq , Leeds 173 
 
 Good Eyo. Ry J. W. Partridge, Esq., Horsforth 174 
 
 Hymn on laying the Foundation Stone of a Church. Ry James 
 
 Montgomery, Esq 175 
 
 Concluding Address to the Reader. Ry the Kcv. Matthew Wilkin- 
 son, M.A., Principal of the Collegiate School, Huddersfield 176
 
 STANNINGLEY 
 
 Dear is the hallowed morn to me, 
 
 When village bells awake the day ; 
 And by their sacred minstrelsy, 
 
 Call me from earthly cares away. 
 
 And dear to me the winged hour, 
 Spent in thy hallowed Courts, O Lord ! 
 
 To feel devotion's soothing power, 
 And catch the manna of thy word. 
 
 And dear to me the loud Amen, 
 
 Which echos thro' the blest abode, 
 Which swells and sinks, and swells again. 
 
 Dies on the walls, but lives to God. 
 
 In secret I have often prayed, 
 
 And still the anxious tear would fall ; 
 But on thy sacred Altar laid, 
 
 The fire descends and dries them all. 
 
 Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre, 
 
 Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms, 
 
 Ours be the prophet's car of fire, 
 
 That bears us to a Father's arms. 
 
 Cunningham. 
 
 As this volume is an Offering of original contributions 
 to Kirkstall Bazaar, the object of which is to complete 
 the funds necessary for the erection of a Church at 
 Stanningley, a brief sketch of the locality and wants 
 of that village will not be deemed inappropriate at 
 the outset.
 
 Stanningley pretty nearly divides its population 
 between the two parishes of Leeds and Calverley. It 
 is generally, however, looked upon as a portion of the 
 Parish of Leeds and the Chapelry of Bramley, because 
 the greater part of the village was formerly, as are 
 almost all the houses which now constitute the street 
 that intersects it, within these limits. But since 
 the commencement of the present century a great 
 alteration has taken place, and the population, which 
 was previously small, is at present upwards of four 
 thousand. This circumstance is owing to the rapid 
 progress of manufacture, which, whilst it has increased 
 in an amazing degree the number of its inhabitants, in 
 common with many other places, and particularly in 
 what may be termed the new part of Stanningley, 
 from its better adaptation and closer contiguity to 
 the mills and manufactories, has altogether changed its 
 pristine appearance. 
 
 Of " Stanningley," or " Stainingley Green," — which, 
 as Thoresby reminds us, it was once called, and as he 
 says, " (as Stainmoor, &c.) is rigidly denominated, 
 from its being a rough and stony place that bounds our
 
 parish towards Bradford,"* — there are few now living 
 who can say, in the words of Goldsmith, 
 
 " How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green 
 
 " Where humble happiness endear'd each scene," 
 
 as for many years it has been occupied and defaced by 
 the dwellings and workshops of an industrious class of 
 people, and unhewn stones are nowhere discoverable 
 except at the adjacent quarries. 
 
 Every friend, therefore, of the Church of England, 
 however he may regret that no successful attempt has 
 been made previously to last year, for providing the 
 inhabitants of Stanningley with the advantage of public 
 worship according to the rites and doctrines of our 
 National Church, will be glad to learn that this evil 
 has in some degree been remedied by the commencement 
 of a Sunday Evening Service in a school-room licensed 
 by the Bishop of Ripon, and that there is every 
 reason to believe this useful building will, ere long, 
 be superseded for such purposes by a more suitable 
 and comely edifice — a Church dedicated to the Name, 
 the "Worship, and the Glory of Almighty God. 
 
 * Ducatus Leodiensis, p. 176, Whit. ed. 
 b2
 
 The Church is intended to be erected in the Bramley 
 part of the village, and will be a Gothic structure of 
 the pure Norman style, if tho spire be excepted, (which 
 is rather an appendage to the early English that 
 immediately succeeded,) and is intended to seat about 
 five hundred and FIFTY persons. Two hundred and 
 fifty sittings will be free, or let at a small rent to the 
 poor ; besides, there will be accommodation for fifty 
 Sunday scholars in the chancel. 
 
 The design is by Mr. Henry Rogerson, a young 
 architect, and native of Bramley, who has very 
 handsomely presented the plans and working drawings 
 to the Committee. 
 
 THOMAS FURBANK.
 
 " ENLARGE THE PLACE OF THY TENT." 
 BY THE REV. ROBERT WHITEHEAD, M.A., YORK. 
 
 Enlarge the place of thy tent, and let them stretch forth the curtains of 
 thine habitations : spare not, lengthen thy cords, and strengthen thy 
 stakes." Isaiah, ch. liv. v. 2. 
 
 When Israel's Prophet, wrapt in vision, saw 
 The future glory of his church and nation ; 
 
 " Enlarge thy tent," he cried, " and further draw 
 The spreading curtains of thy habitation." 
 
 So when our Anglia's duteous sons behold 
 
 Her Zion's hopes ascending to the skies ; 
 Anxious her budding glories to unfold, 
 
 They rear her walls, and bid her tow'rs arise 
 
 The fruitful mother of a numerous race, 
 
 The offspring of a dark and stormy day ; 
 The Church demands a more extended space, 
 
 To rear her brood, and point their heav'nward way. 
 
 This Bramley* asks of you her wealthier sons, 
 
 Whose manufactures grow on every side ; 
 Remember with your gifts Christ's little ones, 
 
 The humble Poor for whom the Saviour died. 
 
 * The population of the Chapelry of Bramley, A.D. 1821, was 4,916 ; in 
 1831 it was 7,039, and at the present time it is thought to be about 9,000; 
 y«t there is only accommodation in the Church for 600 persons. 
 
 T. F,
 
 6 
 
 A PLEA FOR POETRY. 
 BY BARRY CORNWALL. 
 
 That was not a barren time, 
 
 When the new world calmly lay 
 
 Bare unto the frosty rime, 
 Open to the burning day. 
 
 Though her young limbs were not clad 
 In the colours of the spring, 
 
 Yet she was all inward glad ; 
 Knowing all she bore within 
 
 undeveloped ; — slumbering. 
 
 There was Beauty, such as feeds 
 Poets in their secret hours ; 
 
 Music, mute; and all the seeds, 
 And the signs of all the flowers. 
 
 There was Wealth, beyond the gold, 
 
 Hid in oriental caves ; 
 There was — all we now behold 
 
 'Tween our cradles and our graves; 
 
 So, unto the Poet clingeth, 
 
 And his seeming barren rhyme, 
 
 That which, when developed, bringeth 
 Wonders in the aftertime. 
 
 Call not, then, his gentle dreams, 
 Idle, worthless, void of good : 
 
 There are in them azure gleams, 
 Wisdom not all understood ; 
 
 Fables with a heart of truth, 
 Mysteries that unfold in light, 
 
 Morals beautiful for youth, 
 Starry lessons for the night.
 
 To the Martyr in his strife, 
 To the Tyrant stern and strong, 
 
 Unto all, in death and life, 
 Speaks he in his song. 
 
 THE SABBATH. 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. 
 
 God, the Creator, bless'd 
 
 The Sabbath of his rest ; 
 
 His six days' work had brought 
 
 The universe from nought ; 
 
 The heavens and earth before him stood, 
 
 He saw them and pronounced them good. 
 
 God, the Redeemer, bless'd 
 The Sabbath of his rest ; 
 When, all his sufferings done, 
 The cross's victory won, 
 In Joseph's sepulchre He lay, 
 And rested on the Sabbath-day. 
 
 And God the Spirit bless'd 
 
 The Christian's day of rest, 
 
 When met with one accord 
 
 The servants of the Lord ; 
 
 To whom the Father's promise came, 
 
 Like rushing wind, and tongues of flame. 
 
 The Church hath ever bless'd 
 
 Her own sweet day of rest ; 
 
 When, in her spousal dress 
 
 Of blood-bought righteousness, 
 
 Her happy spirit doth rejoice 
 
 To hear her heavenly bridegroom's voice.
 
 8 
 
 They love the Sabbath-day, 
 Who love to sing and pray : 
 The day of rest they love, 
 Who seek the rest above ; 
 They love the day of God in sevei., 
 Who prize an autepast of heaven- 
 
 My God, the day is thine, 
 
 Oh may I make it mine : 
 
 By hallowing it to Thee, 
 
 'Tis hallow'd twice to me ; 
 
 And when with Thee my heart is right, 
 
 I call ir, holy — a delight. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OK A FRIEND, ON HER ATTENDING SERVICE IN XHB 
 PARISH CHURCH OP LEEDS, AFTER AN ABSENCE OF THIRTY YEARS 
 
 It seems but yesterday, since, meekly kneeling, 
 
 A simple child before this holy shrine, 
 I strove, half conscious of some new-born feeling, 
 
 To fix my wand'ring thoughts on things divine. 
 
 Then, not a care had stolen o'er my bosom, 
 Past, present, future — all alike seemed gay ; 
 
 Or if I wept, the dew upon the blossom 
 
 That tear, so passing light, might well portray. 
 
 Youth followed next ; — and added summers found me 
 
 A suppliant still within this ancient pile ; 
 With other thoughts and feelings opening round me, 
 
 Yet still I knew life only by its smile. 
 
 Long years since then have fled ; — and now returning 
 
 With feebler step, alas ! and altered brow, 
 \nd heart which has not 'scaped its share of mourning. 
 I come to kneel where rose my early vow.
 
 9 
 
 / kneel, — but where are those whose prayers ascended 
 Daily with mine at morn and evening grey ? 
 
 Where are those well-known tones with mine that blended, 
 The loving and ths loved — oh ! where are they 1 
 
 Some from their early home, like me, are parted, 
 And from this altar where they met in prayer ; 
 
 And some are gone — ah me ! a tear has started — 
 A mournful tear — when I bethink me where! 
 
 Gone to the grave ! some dropt, like flow'ret broken 
 By sudden storm from off the parent stem ; 
 
 While others bore of age each honoured token, 
 Almost affection checks the tear for them. 
 
 Nay, as I muse, e'en solemn joy comes o'er me, 
 Joy, that the lost to earth, to heaven are won ; 
 
 In bright array methinks they pass before me, 
 Each glorious vision ' — each with harp and crown. 
 
 And we who linger here, awhile forsaken 
 
 By those we love, shall share one home ere long; 
 
 And, knit into one band, again awaken, 
 With more of triumph, our suspended song. 
 
 HYMN. 
 BY MARY LOUISA BOYLE. 
 
 When the heart with sin and sorrow 
 Bends beneath its heavy load, 
 
 And fresh trials for the morrow, 
 Gloomy doubt and fear forebode. 
 
 When the hopes of earthly gladness 
 Fade like meteors in the air, 
 
 And the spirit bow'd with sadness 
 Seems a victim to despair.
 
 10 
 
 In that hour of tribulation, 
 God of love, we fly to thee ; 
 
 Wilt thou scorn our supplication, 
 Downcast eye and bended knee ? 
 
 By His blood who died to save us, 
 Lamb of God, without a stain, 
 
 By the blessed hope he gave us, 
 Peace and pardon let us gain. 
 
 PCESTUM. 
 BY WALTER FARQUHAR HOOK, D.D. 
 
 VICAR OF LEEDS. 
 
 Though roseate odours float on every gale 
 That sweeps, sad Pcestum, o'er thy desert vale ;* 
 Though each soft Zephyr bear upon its wing 
 The sweets and promise of perennial Spring, 
 Like life'9 illusions o'er the captive sense, 
 Veiling in smiles the ruin they dispense ; 
 Thy perfum'd breath a venom'd shaft conveys, 
 And the lorn pilgrim at thy shrine betrays ! 
 Yet joy'd the man on whose rapt vision first 
 The prostrate glories of thy city burst ;t 
 With kindred feeling traced thy classic plains, 
 Thy tower-capt walls, — thy desecrated fanes, 
 Whose massive columns from their deep repose 
 In mingled symmetry and ruin rose, 
 And as the wonders of the scene he viewed, 
 Broke the long silence of thy solitude. 
 
 * Tho roses of Pcestum arc celebrated as peculiarly fragrant, and blowing 
 twico every year, yet, though the air is thus perfumed, it is destructive, as the 
 Malaria prevails. 
 
 t Tho Temples of Pcestum, though in a situation so open to notice, remained 
 unknown for centuries; they were then, it is said, discovered by a Painter.
 
 11 
 
 Lo ! mid the desert, grateful to the eye, 
 
 As a green spot in sandy Araby, 
 
 Yon hallowed porch, above each rival form, 
 
 Bright in a sunbeam through the coming storm, 
 
 Stands like the ancient genius of the place. 
 
 Evoking from the tomb his Dorian race ! 
 
 Beauteous in ruin, in decay sublime, 
 
 A splendid trophy o'er the wreck of time ; 
 
 Struggling with fate, the glorious past recalls, 
 
 And, rob'd in Majesty, like Caesar falls. 
 
 Seems still the whispering breeze to bear along 
 
 The mournful melody of Grecian song, 
 
 As when in solemn rite thy patriot band 
 
 Sung of their fathers in a stranger land. 
 
 And yet, 'tis desolate ! no voice invokes, 
 
 No victim bleeds, — no teeming incense smokes ! 
 
 Where be thy gods ? Beneath the general gloom 
 
 Sleep they too in the silence of the tomb ? 
 
 See on yon moss-grown stone, with front serene, 
 
 The unmoved idol 'mid the changeful scene, 
 
 As when he gave thy sons to be, of yore,* 
 
 Lords of the dark-blue sea that laves thy shore ; 
 
 His shrine the shadow of that empty boast, 
 
 Stands a lone beacon on thy desert coast ! 
 
 So flits the pageant of life's troubled dream, 
 
 So float man's works down Time's oblivious stream ; 
 
 But Nature still the same through ages past, 
 
 Blush'd in the rose, and thunder'd in the blast ; 
 
 And in her great unerring laws we trace 
 
 The mighty mind that fills all time — all space. 
 
 Prostrate the Star on Bethlehem's plain we hail, 
 
 Which o'er the wreck of worlds, and through the vale 
 
 Of death itself spreads its celestial ray, 
 
 And breaks from darkness to eternal day. 
 
 * The largest of the Temples was dedicated to Neptune, the tutelary 
 Deity of ancient Posidonia : it is of Doric architecture.
 
 12 
 
 THE CONVERSION OF EDWIN, 
 
 ANGLO-SAXON KING OF NORTHUMBRIA. 
 BY CHRISTOPHER KEMPLAY, ESQ., YORK. 
 
 Igitur accepit rex Eduinus cum cunctis gentis suae 
 nobilibus ac plebe perplurimfi fidem et lavacrum sanctse 
 regenerationis, anno regni sui undecimo, qui est annus 
 dominicse incarnationis sexcentesimus vicesimus septimus : 
 ab adventu verb Angloruin in Britanniam annus circiter 
 centesimus octogesimus. Baptizatus est autem Eboraci die 
 sancto Paschae pridie iduum Aprilium, in Ecclesia sancti 
 Petri Apostoli, quam ibidem ipse de ligno, cum catechizaretur 
 atque ad percipiendum baptisma imbueretur, citato opere 
 construxit. In qua etiam civitate ipsi doctori atque antistiti suo 
 Paulino sedem Episcopates donavit. Mox autem, ut baptisma 
 consecutus est, curavit, docente eodem Paulino, majorem ipso 
 in loco et augustiorem de lapide fabricare Basilicam, in cujus 
 medio ipsum quod prius fecerat oratorium includeretur. 
 
 Venerabilts Beda, Lib. ii. c. xiv. 
 
 Such are the words of the venerable Bede in narrating 
 the baptism of the Northumbrian King Edwin, together with 
 all his Nobles, and a vast number of the common people, by 
 the Roman Missionary, Paulinus, who had accompanied the 
 king's christian bride, Ethelburgha, from the kingdom of 
 Kent, where the Gospel had already been preached successfully 
 by Augustine. This interesting ceremony took place, as is 
 related, on the festival of Easter, a.d., 627, in the city of 
 York, where Edwin had hastily erected an oratory of wood,
 
 13 
 
 dedicated to St. Peter, in which to go through the religious 
 exercises required of him as a catechumen. Afterwards, at 
 the recommendation of Paulinus, to whom he had assigned 
 a bishop's see in this city, he commenced a more durable 
 structure of stone, but lived not to complete it, being unhappily 
 slain by his Pagan enemies, Penda, King of the Mercians, 
 and Caed walla, a British Prince, about six years after his 
 baptism ; during which space of time Paulinus, with the 
 countenance and assistance of Edwin and Ethelburgha, had 
 been preaching and baptizing with happy effects throughout 
 Deira and Bernicia. Prom the concluding portion of the same 
 chapter already quoted we learn that Churches, or Basilica, 
 as Bede calls them, were built in some of the royal towns, 
 (regies villa) ; but these of course were few in number. One 
 of them, thus honoured with a Church, was " in Campo Dono," 
 supposed to be the same as Cambodurmm, (Almondbury) ; but 
 the Church being of wood, it was burned by the Pagans on 
 their over-runningr the country again. The altar, which was 
 of stone, being afterwards recovered, was preserved in a 
 monastery, in Elmete (Barwick in Elmete,) in Bede's time ; so 
 that we find the building of churches and religious houses was 
 even then extending in the direction and to the vicinity of the 
 now populous Leeds ; which town also appears to have had 
 existence in very early days ; for Bede says that, in place, of 
 the villa Regia, in Campo Dono, which, with the Basilica, was 
 destroyed by the Pagans, the succeeding kings built a town in 
 the district called Loidis, but no mention is made of a Church 
 here at this time. 
 
 On the death of Edwin, Ethelburgha and Paulinus returned 
 to Kent, the immediate successors of the Royal Convert having 
 apostatized to heathenism ;— but Oswald, a religious Prince, 
 having by great victories over the enemies of the faith made 
 himself master of the kingdom, with extended boundaries, 
 renewed the work of Edwin, completing the church of St. 
 Peter, at York, begun by that monarch, and putting down 
 the worship of idols, which had unhappily prevailed again 
 under the sad though brief interval of Pagan rule.
 
 1 1 
 
 Of King Edwin, William of Malmesbury speaks in the 
 highest terms, and thus writes, in reference to the state of the 
 kingdom during the reign of that wise and pious monarch : — 
 " At that time, there was no public robber, no domestic thief; 
 the tempter of conjugal fidelity was far distant, the plunderer 
 of another man's inheritance was in exile : — a state- of things 
 redounding to his praise and worthy of celebration in our 
 times." — And in all times, it may be added ; and in none less 
 than ours. 
 
 Edwin was slain in the seventeenth year of his reign, and 
 the forty-eighth of his age, in the year G33. 
 
 In the following lines an attempt has been made to reduce 
 these interesting events to the purposes of poetry ; and the 
 unusual but not unsuitable trochaic metre has been adopted. 
 It will be proper to mention the authorities for supposing that 
 a British Christian Church existed in York, previously to the 
 coming of the Saxon3, and for tracing back the Church of 
 York to an age anterior to the Roman missions of Augustine 
 and Paulinus. That the ancient Britons were evangelized at 
 a very early period, long before Rome itself had, as a state, 
 received the Christian faith, is certain : Tertullian speaks of 
 " Britannorum inaccessa Rouianis loca, Christo verb subdita," 
 — places among the Britons, inaccessible to Roman arms, but 
 subdued by Christ. And that there was a British Church at 
 York appears from the fact that here was a bishop's see in the 
 fourth century. Of three British bishops whose signatures 
 are appended to the canons passed at the Council of Aries, in 
 the year 314, one is that of " Eborius episcopus, de eivitate 
 Eboracensi, provincia Britannia. 
 
 Once again, where erst in Albion, island of the Western sea, 
 Ere the Saxon came and spoiled them, British Christians 
 
 worshipped free, 
 Lo ! a temple to Jehovah is in Ebor's wide vale raised, 
 And, anew the Gospel preached to the Pagan, God is praised.
 
 15 
 
 Edwin, royal catechumen, pagan thou no longer art, 
 Since the Word of Life hath reached thee, slowly though thou 
 
 gav'st thy heart, 
 Cautious, not obdurate, yielding nor to grave Paulinus' word, 
 Nor thy Christian wife's persuasion, sweet in pious converse 
 
 heard ; 
 Till the light divine from heaven, shining in upon thy soul, 
 Showed thee all the truth, unfolding to thine eye the sacred 
 
 scroll. 
 Then at length, no longer doubting, anxious only more and 
 
 more, 
 Both by prayer and holy teaching, to abound in heavenly lore, 
 Thou didst rear a simple chapel, in fair Ebor's plain, — a place 
 Meet for holy meditation, — where adored the ancient race. — 
 Seemed there still a blessing present, though, alas ! forgotten 
 
 long, 
 In the former time descending, when the Briton raised his song 
 Here to Sion's God, and worshipped? — o'er the spot, though 
 
 hushed its choir, 
 Hovered still its guardian angels? — Wist we not, nor would 
 
 inquire : — 
 But 'twas here the Saxon convert builded up his simple 
 
 shrine, 
 Here, instructed and baptized, received the faith with holy 
 
 sign :— 
 He and all his nobles,— princes swift to battle, slow in thought, 
 Proud of heart, averse from learning, to submissive temper 
 
 brought 
 By a missionary's teaching ; — not, as since, with Papal 
 
 thunders, 
 Rome, thou sought'st to conquer, showing vain tradition's lying 
 
 wonders : — 
 Though, alas! too soon assailing truth in her simplicity, 
 Lust of priestly sway already shunned not art's confed'racy : 
 Yet not thus were those stern warriors taught the Christian 
 
 creed to brook ; 
 But they yielded to the power promised in the sacred book.
 
 l(i 
 
 'Twas a lovely sight and holy, on the Paschal festival, 
 To behold the king and princes, converts won from heathen 
 
 thrall, 
 Thanes and people, all receiving gladly the baptismal rite, — 
 All as equals; for who greatest shall appear in heaven's sight? 
 Or of those, who then accepted outward sign of inward grace, 
 Unto whom shall finite judgment dare assign the highest 
 
 place ? 
 I ii the thronging host of converts thus confessing and baptized, 
 Some perchance the holy laving secretly in heart despised ; 
 Godless fools ! their ancient worship lightly left, the new one 
 
 feigned ; 
 Hypocrites ! in whom supremely Mammon and ambition 
 
 reigned — 
 Some perchance still cherished inly, 'neath a base time-serving 
 
 fear, 
 Those dull gods, their worthless idols, Woden grim, and Thor, 
 
 and Frear; 
 Weak dissemblers! not confounded (though to human ken 
 
 disguised) 
 With that better company whose faith sincere was highly prized, 
 Where alone all things are known and secrets of men's hearts 
 
 laid bare; 
 Where divine acceptance only " truth in th' inward parts" 
 
 shall share. 
 Deem not few those chosen persons, not in vain the Christian 
 
 name 
 Given to many — God, thou knowest! — on that day of hallowed 
 
 fame. 
 Edwin ! — he no earthly master sought to please with feigned 
 
 devotion : — 
 Thanes, too proud for such abasement, bow'd not down in 
 
 lowly motion, 
 Save to Him whose humblest service honours those who serve 
 
 with fear: — 
 Rude but true. Mure stood the Vassal, than his lord not less 
 
 sincere.
 
 17 
 
 Here not sparingly, believe ye, fell the heavenly dew like rain ; 
 
 Nor amongst the honest hearers had Paulinus preached in vain. 
 
 But " His fan is in his hand, and He will throughly purge his 
 floor" ;— 
 
 Days were coming when the staunchest must endure oppres- 
 sions sore ; 
 
 When should fall the fainter-hearted, and dissemblers turn 
 again 
 
 To their idols; — for with truth, the convert king most foully 
 slain, 
 
 Penda and Caedwalla triumphed o'er the land, — of truth the 
 foes, 
 
 From whose bloody altars reeking smoke of sacrifice arose. 
 
 But not yet these woes. A season still was given to sow the 
 Word, 
 Though the harvest came in sorrow; — and North unibria's 
 
 Christian lord 
 Saw with joy his bright example spreading peace and justice 
 
 round, 
 License, rapine, and disorder, driven beyond his furthest bound. 
 Nor unmindful of the honour to Jehovah's worship due, 
 Did he spare his treasures ; temples rude, indeed, were raised, 
 
 and few ; 
 For the means were few, and rude the artists of that simple 
 
 age,— 
 But each royal town, and Ebor chiefly, did this care engage. 
 
 Smile not ye who view the glories of that gorgeous house of 
 prayer, 
 Builded here in later ages, while with them you would compare 
 Edwin's oratory. Soothly, 'twas a structure reared of wood, 
 Mean and frail, yet not more precious were it made to have 
 
 withstood 
 Time's assaults : tho' least in splendour, lacking all that pomp 
 
 might need, 
 Rank it first in grace! — no beauty passeth that of pious deed. 
 
 c
 
 18 
 
 Nor of that which cost him nothing did the king his gifts 
 
 prepare ; 
 For, tho' humble wa3 the altar, gold and precious stones were 
 
 there. 
 Then, its fragile fabric noting, he was minded to uprear, 
 Round its hallowed site, a building wrought in stone, with wall 
 
 and pier, 
 Solid and enduring ; nor the work forsook while life was 
 
 spared ; — 
 But unfinished left it, standing like a fragment, whence were 
 
 scared 
 Both the architect and workman, — emblem of the scattered 
 
 church, 
 Edwin's fellow-converts, hiding from the cruel Pagans' 
 
 search 
 In the woods and caves, — a remnant faithful found in trial's 
 
 hour, 
 Ready still, when ceased th' oppressor, Sion's worship to restore. 
 
 And, O thou, who read'st the story, think not lightly of the 
 
 care 
 Given to spread the truth, tho' churches distant rose but here 
 
 or there : 
 Great the harvest, few the reapers ; more to hinder than to 
 
 speed ; 
 Who were helpers when the people all the help themselves 
 
 did need? 
 Not alone the mighty labour was to build the temple's walls ; 
 But the Church's living body must be gathered, and the 
 
 thralls 
 Of a heathen bondage ransomed into Gospel liberty, 
 Ere free service should be rendered to our God, th' Eternal 
 
 Three. 
 For an untaught race reluctant heard, but helped not : how 
 
 could they, 
 Who as yet scarce knew the Saviour, raise the Cross, or " point 
 
 the way"? —
 
 19 
 
 Who to God the cost of building freely of their substance 
 
 named ? 
 Where " the company of preachers" whom the temple-service 
 
 claimed ? 
 
 Lo! see now the high cathedral, ancient Ebor's Minster 
 fair: 
 " Mark her bulwarks, count the towers" — proud her aisles, 
 
 her windows rare. 
 How have grown the vast dimensions! how enriched through 
 
 gradual stages 
 Rise the battlemented summits,— labours of successive ages ! 
 And as thus in pride and glory waxed the Mother Church, so 
 
 grew, 
 Like a race of children round her, fanes to sacred service 
 
 due, 
 Scattered through the land, — the elder with the younger, great 
 
 and small, 
 Rich or mean, adorned or simple ; yet alike in duty all, 
 And in honour equal. — Ruined now, indeed, the abbey lies, 
 And monastic cells are roofless, never more in pride to rise ; 
 Tokens these of outpoured anger on a scheme of sinful rule, 
 Selfish, lustful and luxurious, whose iniquity was full — 
 But the steepled church, its altar purified but not cast down, 
 Still to prayer rings forth its summons shrill o'er hamlet, field 
 
 and town, 
 And the pastor, not retreating from the world to cloistered 
 
 gloom, 
 Heedful does his earthly work, a pilgrim here, in heaven his 
 
 home. 
 
 Look around! each hill, each valley, owns its church, and 
 tower, and spire 
 Frequent o'er the crowded city rise : Behold this, and admire ! 
 Yet, O, boast not ! — still increasing, countless as the sea-beat 
 
 sands, 
 Grows the race of man, renewing ceaselessly its dread demands 
 
 c2
 
 20 
 
 For the aid it needs?, but seeks not ; — still the former Adam's 
 
 sons 
 Multiply their seed with increase which the preacher's steps 
 
 outruns 
 
 Speed the lingering race ! and forward press as borne on eagles' 
 
 wings! 
 " Beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who brings 
 Tidings good, and peace doth publish" ; for the desert shall 
 
 rejoice, 
 And break forth the soul's waste places into song when heard 
 
 his voice. 
 Yet how vast the wildernesses unreclaimed, to rankness 
 
 run! — 
 Think not, for the things accomplished, that the work is well 
 
 nigh done. 
 E'en among us myriads languish, Christians but in empty 
 
 name ; — 
 Vales whence late the busy murmur never to the listener 
 
 came, 
 Hamlets swollen in bulk to cities, Mammon's service render 
 
 well, 
 But to God how ill ! — unheeded, scarcely heard, the distant 
 
 bell, 
 Which to prayer the flock invited scattered once remote and 
 
 thin ; — 
 Then respected, but how feebly striving now with labour's 
 
 din! 
 Who can say, tho' Christ's religion now be emulously preached, 
 And full many have approved it, that the Word hath fully 
 
 reached 
 All its confines ? Are they fewer who the truth have not 
 
 received 
 Now, than when of old Paulinos taught, and Edwin well 
 
 believed? 
 Question dread! but be the answer — Zeal for God ; the temple 
 
 door 
 Wide to open, and in faith to preach the gospel to the poor.
 
 21 
 
 " MAKING MELODY IN YOUR HEART." 
 
 Ephesians v. 19. 
 
 BY TIIE REV. JOHN IIAIGH, B.A., WORTLEY. 
 
 Heard ye that strain ? like living fire 
 
 It gushed from yon ^Eolian lyre 
 
 Long had its wild chords lov'd to keep 
 
 Their tuneful melodies asleep ; 
 
 It hung beside the rippling stream, 
 
 As if entranc'd in silent dream ; 
 
 No answering note of love it gave 
 
 To the fond wooing of the wave j 
 
 In melancholy strains, and faint, 
 
 The waters murmur'd their complaint, 
 
 And Eve's soft star which beam'd on high 
 
 Look'd with a mild reproachful eye ; 
 
 All, all in vain ! no gentle note 
 
 Through the still air was heard to float : 
 
 But, as the last faint gleams of day 
 
 Faded in gath'ring gloom away, 
 
 Just as the sun had gone to rest, 
 
 A breeze came sighing from the West. 
 
 It panted on the mute lyre's strings 
 
 With its mysterious whisperings, 
 
 And as it gaily swept along 
 
 It woke a sweet enchanting song, 
 
 And won each willing chord to pour 
 
 A melody unheard before. 
 
 And so the soul that finds its rest 
 
 Reposing on a Saviour's breast,
 
 22 
 
 Earth hath no syren charms to move 
 
 The heart which glows with Jesu's love ; 
 
 Pleasure's soft streams which murmur by, 
 
 In vain their magic wooing try, 
 
 And earthly hopes, though sparkling bright, 
 
 In vain emit their meteor-light ; 
 
 The heart its death-like silence keeps, 
 
 Each pensive chord of music sleeps : 
 
 But, when the Spirit from above 
 
 Comes breathing with inspiring love, 
 
 When, like a breeze, it softly steals, 
 
 The heart unwonted stirrings feels. 
 
 It bids each silent chord awake, 
 
 And tunes them all for Jesu's sake. 
 
 Music, how heavenly! how divine! 
 Lord, take this heart, and make it Thine ! 
 From heaven celestial music bring, 
 
 Breathe, Holy Spirit, make me sing ! 
 
 And endless ages shall prolong 
 The full rich chorus of the song, 
 
 When with the white-rob'd choir above 
 
 1 strike my harp, and sing Thy Love ! 
 
 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 l;V WILLIAM PHILIP WANT. 
 
 The rose is fragrant, lovely too, 
 Flora's enchanting pride it seems; 
 
 Charming the bride in tinsels deck'd, 
 
 Her cheeks suffused with beauty's gleams. 
 
 Triumphant to the altar led, 
 
 With sacred bunds >he's humid for life 
 To share her partner's weal or woe 
 
 And prove herself a faithful wife;
 
 23 
 
 A mother's joy perchance to know ; 
 
 But with it too a mother's care, 
 This moral maxim soon she learns, 
 
 Parents, alas! have much to bear. 
 
 Ah ! look into the mother's face, 
 Survey the flush that sparkles there, 
 
 Say who can paint that watchful eye, 
 And who her every anguish share ; 
 
 The tender look, th' angelic smile 
 She fixes on her slumb'ring child, 
 
 These well the hardest heart might move 
 And render it benign and mild. 
 
 View it on its fond guardian's knee 
 Unconscious of her deep concern 
 
 Of sympathy which it excites, 
 
 Of thoughts which in her bosom burn. 
 
 Aye, there it lies, observe it all 
 
 Upon its mother's beauty feed, 
 'Tis nourished by the tides of life, 
 
 Which through her generous veins proceed. 
 
 Approach the cradle of the babe, 
 The heavenly cherub sleeping there, 
 
 Behold its quiv'ring lips and see 
 Its arms exposed with thoughtless air. 
 
 Peace, watcher, peace, sleep on sweet child, 
 Uncertain are thy days on earth, 
 
 To-morrow's sun thy spirit takes 
 
 Far from that form which gave thee birth.
 
 24 
 
 Bereft of it, her comfort flic.*, 
 And she is then a mourner here, 
 
 Pronounce those words, thine infant lives, 
 Her soul revives, she dries the tear. 
 
 And it does live, thus much we know, 
 That such our Father's kingdom share, 
 
 Snatch'd from this earth they dwell above, 
 The objects of his fostering care. 
 
 Maternity ! extatic sound ! 
 
 How is it honied round the heart ! 
 Beloved in manhood, youth, and age, 
 
 'Tis of our dear religion part. 
 
 It claims a kindred with the skies, 
 Kind Providence the boon bestows ; 
 
 O let man's gratitude arise 
 
 And pay to God the debt he owes! 
 
 INFANTINE INNOCENCE. 
 i(V HARRY MIOKLETHWAIT, ESQ., ROTHERHAM. 
 
 Soft and tranquil be thy slumbers, 
 
 To that tender bosom prest, 
 Be thy dreams like music's numbers, 
 
 Infant of the spotless breast. 
 Rest iii peace, thou mother's joy, 
 
 Whilst she, faithful, watcheth o'er tlice, 
 
 Prom intrusion to defend thee, 
 
 Guardian o'er her sleeping \><".
 
 25 
 
 Rest in peace, thou lonely sleeper, 
 Undisturbed by thought or cares, 
 
 For the hour will come when deeper 
 Thoughts will be engraved by tears ; 
 
 And that mantling smile be shrouded 
 By fierce passion's gloomy frown, 
 And that brow, fair virtue's throne, 
 
 Be by rage or anguish clouded. 
 
 Be thy tranquil sleep unshaken 
 
 By those vine leaves' rustling noise, 
 
 For in manhood thou shalt waken 
 To the war-trump's hostile voice, 
 
 And thy weary limbs be cast 
 On the earth's cold naked bed, 
 Whilst around thy helmed head 
 
 Peals the chilling wintry blast. 
 
 Softly sleep, thou gentle one, 
 Pillowed on that holy breast, 
 
 Whilst ascend to heaven's throne 
 Prayers for thee the loved, the blest, 
 
 Mingled with a prayer for him, 
 The absent father of her child, 
 Whose fancied dangers, fierce or wild, 
 
 The brightness of her blue eyes dim. 
 
 Calm those fancies, cheer thy heart, 
 Let not tears unbidden stray, 
 
 Ere yon golden sun depart, 
 He shall kiss each drop away — 
 
 Shall break thy infant's balmy rest 
 By a father's transports mild — 
 And that mother and her child 
 
 Shall bless and in return be blest.
 
 26 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF THE BATTLE OF THE NILE. 
 BY THE REV. THOMAS FURBANK, M.A. 
 
 " O for that Seraph voice whose lofty strains 
 
 " Sung warring spirits in th' ctherial plains, 
 
 " And Gabriel, driving from the realms of bliss 
 
 " Hell's vanquish 'd legions to tho deep abyss! 
 
 " Then might I paint the fury of the fight, 
 
 " And all the horrors of that dreadful night, 
 
 " When the great Nelson, in Aboukir's Bay, 
 
 " Descried the Gallic fleet, and darted on his prey."— Dupbe. 
 
 ' ' Dulcc ct decorum est pro patria mori." — Horace. 
 
 On the first of August, 1798 — a day with which the annals 
 of British seamen will ever he emhlazoned — the Pharos of 
 Alexandria, a time-worn relic of the reign of Ptolemy Phila- 
 delphus, was a second time seen casting its shadow over the 
 lake Mareotis by the British fleet, under the command of 
 Rear-Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson. For nearly twenty cen- 
 turies, this wonder of the world had been the land-mark by 
 day and the beacon -light by night to the pathless wanderer o'er 
 the deep — the sea-beat mariner : yet, ere the sun had again 
 attained his altitude, it was to be illumined, not, indeed, as 
 heretofore, by that calm and placid light indicative of kindness 
 and charity to man, but by the lurid ray of suffering and death 
 issuing from a holocaust of human victims sacrificed at the 
 -hrinc of revolution, folly, and crime.
 
 27 
 
 During little less than three months had the gallant chiei 
 been baffled in his pursuit of the French, from being unac- 
 quainted with the place of their destination. lie knew that a 
 powerful armament had sailed from Toulon on the 20th May, 
 but he could only conjecture to what spot they were bound.* 
 The time however had at length arrived when the two fleets 
 were about to be brought into terrible collision, and the 
 existence of the one to be effaced by the victory of the other. 
 
 It was at the hour of noon, on the day first named, that 
 Captain Hood, in command of the Zealous, made signal that 
 the enemy's ships, sixteen in number, were at anchor in the 
 Bay of Aboukir, which, as it is bounded on the north-west by 
 
 * May 9.— Nelson sailed from Gibraltar, by direction of Earl St. Vincent, 
 to watch the enemy. 
 
 May 20 The armament above alluded to, consisting of fifteen sail of the 
 
 line, ten or twelve frigates, and two hundred transports, with upwards of 
 forty thousand men, under the command of Napoleon Buonaparte — left 
 Toulon. 
 
 May 31. — The British Admiral made that port, having been prevented 
 arriving earlier by a violent gale, which damaged his ship considerably, 
 and there received information of the sailing of the French. 
 
 June 5. — The Mutine brig conveyed to Nelson the pleasing intelligence 
 that ten sail of the line and a fifty gun frigate were on their way to join 
 him, and that with them he was to go in pursuit of the Toulon expedition. 
 
 June 7. — The two British squadrons joined, and Nelson had under his 
 command thirteen ships of seventy-four guns each, one ship of fifty guns, 
 and one gun brig. 
 
 June 22. — The two fleets crossed each other's track at night without being 
 aware of the fact. 
 
 June 28.— Nelson's fleet first came in sight of Alexandria, but the French 
 had not arrived : it therefore made a retrograde movement and took a 
 northerly course. 
 
 July 1.— Admiral Brueys, with the French fleet, arrived off that port 
 and landed Buonaparte. 
 
 July 7.— All the French troops had now landed ; but as the French ships 
 drew too much water to enter the port they proceeded to the Bay of Aboukir 
 and came to anchor. The fleet consisted of one ship of one hundred and 
 twenty guns, three of eighty, nine of seventy-four, and the frigates. They 
 there waited the issue of Buonaparte's plans, and as such were found on 
 the 1st of August, by the British.
 
 28 
 
 the lone neck of land that separates the sea from the Itosetta 
 mouth of the Nile, rendered them hitherto unseen. At this 
 announcement joy beamed in every countenance, and hope 
 anticipated in the bosom of every member of the fleet the 
 realization of his most ardent wishes. 
 
 To " conquer or die," when the undertaking is practicable, 
 has ever been the watchword of British sailors, and their 
 resolution on the present occasion, though inferior in 
 number of men and ships to the French, was effected in the 
 earliest possible time. Yet, as the British fleet were sailing at 
 a distance of four or five leagues from the Pharos tower when 
 the enemy were discovered, it was not till half-past five that 
 the signal was made for the ships to form in line of battle, 
 a-head or a-stern of the Admiral, as from their accidental 
 order of sailing they might the readier effect. About twenty 
 minutes past six the first shot was fired from the French, as 
 the leading ships, the Goliath and Zealous, bore down upon 
 them. The enemy's position was of the most formidable 
 kind, their ships being moored upon the two sides, as it were, 
 of an obtuse angle, having the apex or crest, protected by an 
 island in their van, well fortified by mortars and guns of 
 various kinds, whilst each extremity was defended by four 
 frigates and several gun boats; and as they were close in 
 shore, it would seem as if they had almost every advantage 
 on their side, having nothing to do but direct the fire of their 
 artillery, in which it was their boast to be well skilled. 
 
 Nelson's object was, in the first place, to secure a victory, 
 and then to render it complete. In doing this he determined 
 to capture the foremost ships before he attacked those in the 
 rear. This was speedily accomplished, for, before twelve 
 minutes had expired from the commencement of the engage- 
 ment, one of the French ships was dismasted, in ten minutes 
 afterwards a second and third shared the same fate and struck 
 their colours, and the fourth and fifth of the enemy's line 
 were taken possession of by half-past eight. These being 
 secured) Buch of the British Bhips u> were enabled to proceed 
 -ailed forward on their foes.
 
 29 
 
 The battle continued, with only two brief intermissions, till 
 three o'clock in the morning, when the whole of the French 
 fleet were captured, destroyed, or rendered comparatively 
 useless, except two ships and the same number of frigates, 
 which contrived to make their escape. 
 
 As early as seven total darkness veiled the sky, yet the British 
 ships, having been directed to hoist four lights horizontally at 
 their mizen peak, and having the white, or St. George's, ensign 
 flying, which bears the red cross in the centre, could easily 
 distinguish their adversaries. A light however was, about the 
 hour of nine, discovered in one of the French ships, the 
 Orient, which soon after burst forth into such a blaze as to 
 illumine the surrounding objects, and enable the contending 
 parties to ascertain correctly their respective situations. She 
 was on fire ! 
 
 " Breaking impetuous on the aching sight, 
 All glaring as the sun's meridian rays, 
 Flame roll'd on flame and blaze succeeded blaze ;"* 
 
 And at ten she blew up with such a tremendous explosion a3 to 
 shake violently many of the ships and open wide their seams. 
 Those in the immediate neighbourhood had anticipated the 
 occurrence, and guarded against it by closing their ports and 
 hatchways, removing combustible materials from their decks, 
 and placing fire-men with buckets to quench the flaming 
 masses that might be cast upon them; so that the British 
 fleet did not otherwise receive any serious injury from the 
 sad catastrophe. 
 
 To the glory of Nelson be it spoken, that when informed of 
 the probability of the awful event, he immediately went on 
 deck, though suffering from a severe wound, and with com- 
 passionate generosity gave orders that the boats which could 
 
 * Dupre.
 
 :io 
 
 be got ready should render every available assistance to the 
 sufferers. By these means about seventy persons were rescued 
 from destruction. The number of individuals who were 
 destroyed with the Orient is supposed to have been about 
 eight hundred, including Admiral Brueys, the commander- 
 in-chief. She was the largest of the French ships, and 
 mounted one hundred and twenty guns, with a crew of a 
 thousand and ten souls. The Timoleon, a seventy-four, 
 carrying seven hundred men, suffered a like fate. Thus was 
 the Gallic nation bereft of its finest vessels of war. Thus 
 were these proud and impious people, who gloried in infidelity, 
 taught a lesson which marked the worthlessness of their 
 opinions. Thus were they shewn that " the battle is not to 
 the strong ;" but that there is One mightier and more power- 
 ful than the sons of men, and " who doeth whatsoever he 
 pleaseth in heaven and in earth, in the seas and in all deep 
 places." 
 
 Of the British, the Majestic was the last ship but one that 
 formed in line of battle. She therefore bore down for the 
 centre and rear of the enemy, and took up her station abreast 
 of the heavy French ship the Tonnant. It subsequently hap- 
 pened that the latter having been compelled to cut her cable 
 that she might escape the burning wreck of the Orient, and 
 the Majestic, being obliged to slip to avoid falling on the 
 hawse of another French ship, the Heureux, her position 
 became so changed as to have the former ship of the enemy 
 on her larboard bow, and the other on her starboard quarter, 
 so that when morning dawned she was exceedingly crippled, 
 and had lost, in killed, fifty men, including her commander, 
 Captain George Blagdon Westcott. The death of this brave 
 man took place early in the action. His chaplain had just 
 come on deck, and (though the cock-pit is, during the battle, 
 the place assigned to individuals who are not required to take 
 part in the fight,) had placed his arm within that of his 
 much valued and gallant friend, and was taking a turn with 
 him on the quarter deck, when a shot from the tops struck
 
 31 
 
 the Captain, and he fell speechless into his chaplain's arms. 
 Immediately was he borne below, but death had triumphed. 
 Yet, 
 
 " How sweetly sleep the bravo, 
 " From the dust their laurels bloom, 
 
 " High they shoot and flourish free ; 
 " Glory's temple is the tomb ; 
 
 " Death is immortality."* 
 
 In addition to the number who had lost their lives on board 
 the Majestic — a number greater than any other ship in the 
 British fleet — one hundred and forty of her crew were 
 wounded. Among the latter was a fine youth of eleven years 
 of age, the chaplain's nephew. Though alike related to a 
 gallant captain in the navy, he had accompanied his other 
 uncle on board the Majestic, and young as he was, soon gave 
 proof, that should his life be spared, he would be an orna- 
 ment to his profession and an honour to his country. It may 
 well be imagined with what tender feeling and anxiety for his 
 safety and success in the perilous encounter of 
 
 " The battle and the breeze," 
 
 His fond parent would commit this, her first-born, to the care 
 of her beloved brother, anticipating probably that 
 
 " When the stormy tempests blow: 
 
 " When the battle rages loud and long,"t 
 
 The " Ocean" might be " his grave," and " the deck his field 
 of fame." Be this as it may, her confidence was not misplaced, 
 and the youthful hero found in his uncle, one disposed to 
 watch over him with all possible affection and concern. As 
 
 * Montgomery. t Campbell.
 
 32 
 
 soon as the engagement had ceased, and the chaplain could, 
 for a moment, leave the surgeons, upon whom it was his office 
 to attend, his first inquiry was for his charge — the gallant boy 
 to whom he was so nearly allied. Search was made : he was 
 not to be seen ; yet he had not been thrown overboard. At 
 length a heap of dead and wounded being removed from 
 besides one of the guns, the youngster was found besmeared 
 with blood and apparently lifeless. His uncle immediately 
 raised him in his arms, and though he seemed like one whose 
 spirit had for ever quitted its clay-tenement, yet he breathed. 
 No time therefore was lost in taking him below and examining 
 his person, when it was ascertained that he had received a 
 dreadful wound across the abdomen, and from which the 
 surgeons could not give the slightest hope of recovery. Life 
 however remained, and an uncle's hopes clung to him with 
 the fondest affection. He placed him in his own cot : he 
 nursed and watched him with the most assiduous care. Nor 
 were this kindness and labour misapplied. The boy rallied, 
 and by the blessing of God was eventually restored to health 
 and duty. 
 
 Although we may suppose that the day after the action 
 would be employed in securing the prizes and repairing the 
 ships, yet Nelson's first concern was that public acknowledg- 
 ment should be offered up to that Almighty Being without 
 whose assistance the wisdom and labour of man are nugatory 
 and unavailing, and who, as " the Lord mighty in battle" 
 had alone " made him to stand" in the hour of conflict and 
 given him the victory. Accordingly the following memo- 
 randum was issued : — 
 
 " Vanguard, off' the Mouth of the Nile, 
 August 2, 1708. 
 
 " Almighty God having blessed His Majesty's arms with 
 victory, the Admiral intends returning public thanks for the 
 same at two o'clock this day, and he recommends every ship 
 doing the same as soon as convenient." 
 
 " To the respective Officers of the Squadron*"
 
 33 
 
 Two o'clock arrived : 
 
 " And now the cannon's peaceful thunder calls 
 The victor bands to mount their wooden walls, 
 And from the ramparts where their comrades. fell, 
 The mingled strain of joy and grief to swell : 
 Fast they ascend, from stem to stern they spread, 
 And crowd the engines whence the lightnings sped 
 The white-robed priest his upraised hands extends ; 
 Hushed is each voice, attention leaning bends ; 
 Then from each prow the grand hosannas rise, 
 Float o'er the deep, and hover to the skies." * 
 
 As a sequel, it may be remarked that when the death of 
 Captain Westcott was known in Honiton, his native place, the 
 inhabitants, generally, for some time put on mourning, as a 
 mark of their high respect for his character when living, and 
 of deep regret at his death. Having entered the service as a 
 cabin-boy, by good conduct and an exemplary discharge of 
 the duties of his profession, he raised himself to the important 
 station he afterwards filled ; and not only did the inhabitants 
 of Honiton erect a monument to his memory, but his country 
 recorded his worth by giving him a niche in one of her 
 proudest Temples. In the testimonial to his memory, raised 
 in St. Paul's Cathedral, Banks has represented him as falling 
 in the embrace of victory. The explosion of the enemy's 
 ship, L'Orient, is introduced in basso relievo, while the 
 Egyptian shore is figured by the Sphinx and palms. 
 
 His chaplain survived him but ten years, and a mural 
 monument in the south transept of Ripon Minster points out 
 his resting place by the side of his brother — the gallant 
 Captain previously alluded to. 
 
 The young hero, his nephew, had, alas ! on leaving home, 
 bidden a last farewell to his relatives and friends. On his 
 departure from the Mediterranean he sailed to the East 
 Indies, where, having acquitted himself to the satisfaction of 
 
 * Grata anie. 
 D
 
 34 
 
 his superiors, he received his commission as Lieutenant in 
 1807. Unfortunately he was draughted to England in the 
 same year, and embarked on board the Blenheim with the 
 intention of returning, but that ship, which bore the flag of 
 Sir Thomas Trowbridge, one of Nelson's most intrepid officers, 
 and his companion in many desperate engagements, foun- 
 dered at sea about the same time as did the Java, when all 
 hands on board perished. 
 
 Such was the unhappy termination of a career auspiciously 
 begun ; and though the lamented youth lies entombed beneath 
 the billows of the deep : 
 
 " And tho' no Stone may tell 
 
 Thy Name, thy Worth, thy Glory, 
 They rest in hearts that lov'd thee well, 
 And they grace Britannia's story."* 
 
 His widowed parent is still living. She has, it is true, 
 passed that period when, as the Psalmist asserts, our 
 " strength is but labour and sorrow," yet she enjoys a 
 ripened old age, and the respect of all who know her ; and, 
 whether her term of days be protracted or of short duration, 
 she will look forward to the event which awaits her with the 
 same placid equanimity that has marked her endurance of 
 past bereavements, and exclaim to him who gives and takes 
 away: 
 
 " THY WILL BE DONE." 
 
 * Shelton.
 
 35 
 
 Oiiy we |yo) &'\w, o\X' we av. 
 
 Matthew xxvi. 39. 
 BY THE REV. W. H. TEALE, M.A., LEEDS. 
 
 Thy will, not mine, be done, O God ; 
 
 And far from me the wish to shun 
 The mercies of thy chast'ning rod : 
 
 So, gracious Lord, Thy will be done. 
 
 When earth's most bitter ills are nigh, 
 Remind me of thy Saviour son, 
 
 Who in his bloody agony 
 
 Did meekly pray, Thy will be done. 
 
 Should broken be the strongest stay 
 On which hope's fairest vision hung ; 
 
 Oh ! teach me faithfully to say, 
 
 Father, Thy will, not mine, be done. 
 
 When gushing tears can only flow, 
 And speechless is the silent tongue, 
 
 Tho' bleeds the heart, and burns the brow, 
 Still let me feel, Thy will be done. 
 
 And may, in life's expiring hour, 
 When time's swift sands are nearly run, 
 
 Resigned beneath death's harmless power, 
 
 This be my prayer, Thy will be done ! 
 
 d2
 
 36 
 
 KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 
 
 BY W. A. JACKSON, HEADINGLEY. 
 
 When Aire its silvery waters roll'd 
 
 Untainted by the foreign die, 
 And natural cloth of green and gold 
 
 O'erspread the vale and uplands high ; 
 Long ere at Mammon's dingy shrine, 
 
 A thousand wheels their homage paid, 
 When Heaven's sun could freely shine 
 
 Undimm'd by clouds which man has made ; 
 
 In that fair time, to this fair spot, 
 
 A group of wandering pilgrims came, 
 A quiet nook, a peaceful lot, 
 
 Were all their wishes' end and aim. 
 Here far, they said, from care and strife, 
 
 From thorny paths we long have trod, 
 Here let us live a holy life, 
 
 And build a temple to our God.
 
 37 
 
 Then, Kirkstall, sprang thy stately pile 
 
 Rejoicing from the green earth's breast, 
 Fit home for thought and pious toil, 
 
 For letter'd ease, and holy rest. 
 Duly at morn and even- tide 
 
 The voice of prayer and praise uprose, 
 While waving woods responsive sighed, 
 
 Nor failed their echoes at the close. 
 
 And if some darker shadows fell 
 
 At times across this beauteous scene — 
 If stern unpaltering records tell 
 
 Of errors gross and vices mean — 
 Still much of genuine piety, 
 
 And much of learning's antique grace, 
 And faith, and hope, and charity, 
 
 Were nurtured in this hallowed place. 
 
 Ne'er went the mendicant away 
 
 His scrip unfill'd, his heart uncheer'd, 
 Ne'er Sabbath pass'd or holy-day 
 
 By solemn service unendear'd ; 
 And o'er these pastoral wilds was thrown 
 
 The charm of fair civility,* 
 And rustic plainness temper'd down 
 
 By nature's true gentility. 
 
 Fie on the desolating hand 
 
 Of bigot zeal, more cruel far 
 Than savage Hun, or Pictish band, 
 
 Or rage of elemental war ! 
 
 * " An air, a mien of dignified pursuit, 
 Of sweet civility, on rustic wilds." 
 
 Wordsworth ,
 
 38 
 
 These beauteous forms of strength and power, 
 The crowning glories of our land, 
 
 Which tooth of time could scarce devour, 
 In sudden ruin roofless stand ! 
 
 These walls, with moss and ivy drest, 
 
 Are now the bat's bleak dwelling place, 
 From ancient life they seem to rest, 
 
 And smile at each succeeding race — 
 Scorning whatever man can do, 
 
 In their majestic, slow decay, 
 Deface the old, or raise the new — 
 
 Ephemeral beings of a day. 
 
 And still a spirit dwells in thee, 
 
 O Kirkstall, and around thy towers, 
 All bared and shattered though they be, 
 
 Float shadows of ancestral powers. 
 And scenes of elder, simpler times, 
 
 Come thronging o'er the thoughtful heart, 
 That idly spins these tedious rhymes, 
 
 With lingering steps, loth to depart. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 Now, reader, if the strain that tells 
 
 Of ancient zeal and charity, 
 Within thy heart one moment dwells, 
 
 And wakes one chord in sympathy, 
 O list to him, who fain would raise 
 
 Another temple in the vale, 
 So may thy lot be length of days — 
 
 So may thy scrip and cruise not fail !
 
 39 
 
 IMPROMPTU 
 
 ON RECEIVING A LETTER FROM HER FRIEND MR. R., IN WHICH HE REJ0ICE5 
 THAT THOUGH VERY OLD HE STILL RETAINS ALL HIS FACULTIES. 
 
 BY MBS. PERRING, LEEDS. 
 
 Rich in earth's blessings, happiness, and ease, 
 
 With every social comfort that can please, 
 
 Old age without infirmities or pains, 
 
 Dear Friend, are these thy losses or thy gains ? 
 
 Doth thy soul prosper ? For I fain would know ; 
 
 And do the flowers of faith, hope, patience, grow ? 
 
 Are earthly glories fading from thy view, 
 
 And waiting, trusting, say do3t thou renew 
 
 Thy strength, till grace " her perfect work complete," 
 
 Conduct thee safely to Emmanuel's feet ? 
 
 With earnest prayers that this thy lot may be, 
 
 Eliza proves her friendship still for thee. 
 
 ADELINE. 
 
 LINES ON A LOVELY INFANT, ON ITS DEPARTURE FOR A DISTANT LAND. 
 
 BY F. W. CRONHELM, ESQ. 
 
 Bud of promise ! verify 
 All that fondest hopes impart ; 
 
 Light with pride thy father's eye, 
 Thrill with joy thy mother's heart ! 
 
 Bud of hope ! entreasured flower ! 
 
 In whatever land thou blow, 
 Truth and goodness be thy dower, 
 
 Blessings earn, and bliss bestow !
 
 H. 
 
 TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER. 
 BY J. W. PARTRIDGE, ESQ., IIORSFORTIT. 
 
 Dear babe, thy little prattle 
 
 Charms a parent's heart, 
 Thy dimpled cheek, thy beaming eye, 
 
 To him true joy impart : 
 
 He partial reads the future, 
 
 Th' aspiring spirit traces 
 Thro' many a year of sweet delight. 
 
 Adorning thee with graces. 
 
 Too fondly doating o'er thee, 
 
 He fain would this forget, 
 That all thy charms must perish. 
 
 That e'en thy sun must set : 
 
 That, as the springing flower, 
 Which decks the early scene, 
 
 At noon is numbered only 
 
 With things that once have been, 
 
 So thou, my babe, must wither, 
 So thou, my child, must die, 
 
 So thou wilt be forgotten 
 And hi the cold grave lie.
 
 41 
 
 Then let it be my care, love, 
 
 To guide thee in the way 
 Of truth ; for that alone can 
 
 Lead to th' eternal day. 
 
 Sweet virtue let me cherish, 
 
 The only flower below 
 Which lives for ever blooming 
 
 In this wide world of woe. 
 
 Thus shall we meet again, love, 
 
 To part no more for ever, 
 Death shall re-unite the hearts 
 
 Which nought but death could sever. 
 
 TO FLORENCE, ON HEARING OF HER ILLNESS. 
 BY R. H. KENNEDY, M. D., 
 
 SUPERINTENDING SURGEON, SINDE FIELD FORCE, BOMBAY. 
 
 My heart watch'd with thee, Florence, my sweet child, 
 When on the bank of Indus in my tent 
 I slept a troubled sleep ; my spirit went 
 
 In quest of thee my poor pale rose, and smil'd 
 
 'Mid intermitted ills ; — the while, beguiled 
 
 Of thorn and sting, night pass'd — too quickly spent — 
 Whilst thou wert mine in visions, how I bent 
 
 In ecstacy of feeling o'er thee ! O ! how wild 
 
 And rapturous were my transports, undefil'd 
 
 With one alloy of earth ; on thy young cheek 
 Glow'd roseate health, and thy bright eyes did speak 
 
 Of happiness to-day — and for to-morrow, 
 
 Vain, fleeting, false !— how sadly doth day break 
 
 To him who sleeps to joy, and wakes to sorrow.
 
 42 
 
 REMEMBER THY CREATOR IN THE DAYS OF 
 THY YOUTH." 
 
 BY MRS. CURTIES, READING. 
 
 When pleasures are newest, 
 
 And sorrows are fewest, 
 Oh ! then is the time of delight ! 
 
 In childhood our hours 
 
 Are perfumed with flowers, 
 That spring where our footsteps alight. 
 
 Old Time with your glass, 
 
 Oh ! stop ere you pass, 
 And give me one moment again ; 
 
 Oh ! no ; he is gone, 
 
 He is journeying on, 
 And will not an instant remain. 
 
 When joys are the brightest, 
 
 And young hearts are lightest, 
 Oh ! let us not pass on too soon ; 
 
 But alas ! there's no string 
 
 Can tie Time by the wing, 
 The morning leads on to the noon. 
 
 While hope blooms the fairest, 
 
 And young life is dearest, 
 My thoughts let my Maker engage ; 
 
 Tho' sorrows o'ertake me, 
 
 He will not forsake me 
 When 1 shall arrive at old age.
 
 43 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO HIS NIECE ON ATTAINING HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 BY JOHN HOPE SHAW, ESQ., LEEDS. 
 
 When last the poet's magic art 
 
 I ventur'd to essay, 
 My theme, dear girl, was to impart 
 The feelings of an uncle's heart, 
 
 Upon thy natal day. 
 
 How was that age of childhood blest, 
 
 From care and sorrow free ! 
 Cloudless the sunshine of thy breast, 
 Thy nights were past in gentle rest, 
 Thy days in harmless glee. 
 
 J lov'd thy frolics unconfin'd, 
 
 Thy infant prattle gay, 
 I lov'd to aid, with guidance kind, 
 The earliest dawnings of thy mind, 
 
 And mark each bright'ning ray. 
 
 But great the change that has been wrought 
 
 In six eventful years, 
 Advancing time new scenes has brought, 
 New friendships form'd, new lessons taught. 
 
 New duties, hopes, and fears.
 
 44 
 
 And thon, a romping child erewhile, 
 
 Art my companion now ; 
 To welcome, with affection's smile, 
 My respites brief from care and toil, 
 
 And soothe my aching brow. 
 
 The toys and sports of early age 
 Thy rip'ning pow'rs disdain, 
 And graver trains of thought engage 
 A mind intent on learning's page, 
 Or music's measur'd strain. 
 
 Yet still each hour serenely glides 
 
 In cheerful, light employ ; 
 The hand that all thy footsteps guides, 
 For every stage of life provides 
 Its own appropriate joy. 
 
 To-day he sends a richer treat ; 
 
 Then join the festive scene, 
 With smiles of cordial welcome meet 
 Each friend whose kindly wishes greet 
 
 My Fanny at Thirteen. 
 
 FAREWELL TO CHILDHOOD. 
 BY W. S. WOOD, ESQ. 
 
 SCHOLAR OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Farewell to childhood! like a dream at waking 
 Seems the brief vista of those happy years, 
 
 When life's young blossoms into beauty breaking 
 Breathed only fragrance : no corroding fears 
 Clouded the future ; and if gush of tears
 
 45 
 
 Burst forth at times, 'twas but the fleeting shower 
 
 That April often 'mid her sunshine wears, 
 Spanning the far-off heaven with bow of power 
 And shedding fresher hues on each Spring-blooming flower. 
 
 Farewell to childhood ! never pang of sorrow 
 Gave more than passing paleness to the cheek : 
 
 Hope looking forward to the blissful morrow 
 Enhanced to-day's enjoyment; and each freak 
 And boyish fancy served alike to speak 
 
 The bosom unbedimmed by grief— the mirth 
 Which clothes with sunny joyousness all bleak 
 
 And desolate places of the varying earth, 
 
 Lends joy to melancholy, and plenty gives in dearth. 
 
 Farewell ! a long farewell ! some thought of sadness 
 Cannot but steal at times upon my heart, 
 
 Mingling unbidden with its hours of gladness. 
 Even as when the friends we love depart, 
 Forgotten scenes upon the memory dart, 
 
 Stirring its founts of feeling, till the brow 
 Is clouded, and unwilling tear-drops start ; 
 
 And when at length lingering and loth they go, 
 
 The words of parting fall reluctantly and low. 
 
 Thus, too, across my fancy's day-dreams flitting 
 Come the still voices of departed days, 
 
 And dimly shadowed forth, such strains befitting, 
 Hover the pictured forms before my gaze 
 Of friends I would have cherished in the maze, 
 
 The intricate maze, of being. But no more 
 
 Shall mortal eye behold them through the haze 
 
 Wrapping all spiritual things, till time be o'er, 
 
 The voyage ended on eternity's far shore.
 
 Hi 
 
 Full many joys, perchance, may be hereafter; 
 
 Full many hopes unfold themselves to view ; 
 But when, in place of childhood's thoughtless laughter, 
 
 The stern realities of life ensue, 
 
 When other friends — it may be none more true — 
 Will be my partners in the future toil, 
 
 Deem it not strange that hopes and friends so new 
 Should sometimes fail my sadness to beguile, 
 Should sometimes be denied the power to win a smile. 
 
 All will be changed ! but childlike still in feeling 
 Would I prepare for manhood's opening cares, 
 
 And while the years roll onward, each revealing 
 Some novel aspect that existence wears, 
 The world's unnumbered wiles, her slights and snares, 
 
 Fain would I pray amid the increasing load — 
 Pray with the meekness of a child's first prayer — 
 
 To tread with undeviating step the road, 
 
 Rough though it be and strait, that leads man to his God. 
 
 EVENING. 
 BY GEORGE WILSON, ESQ., LEEDS. 
 
 Beneath yon west the weary sun is dying, 
 Through the dark boughs a lonely voice is sighing; 
 On the still river not a ripple swells, 
 Scarce doth it vibrate to the vesper bells. 
 
 Let us roam forth, ]\larie ! 
 Seest thou the stars in lustrous beauty? meek 
 As tears new fall'n upon an angel's cheek. 
 Seest thou the stars ? they are celestial eyes, 
 Which weep still sorrow for the miseries 
 
 Frail mortals cannot flee !
 
 47 
 
 There is a melody — around — above — 
 Throughout high space — the melody of love. 
 There are no voices — neither breath nor words- 
 But the whole silent universe affords 
 
 A thrill of deepest pow'r. 
 The planets humming as they wander forth, 
 The moonbeams singing as they leap to earth : 
 The blades of grass in stirless rapture growing ; 
 The harps of heaven an echo faintly throwing 
 
 Over the world's best hour. 
 
 The spirits of the past to night are here, 
 Seeking old haunts amid the moonlight clear ; 
 Feel'st thou not, ever and anon, the chill 
 Of passing souls into thy nature thrill ? 
 
 Hear'st thou no rushing wings ? 
 Our dead first-born this night hath left the choir 
 Of white-rob'd seraphs with the golden lyre ; 
 And these fond yearnings of our hearts are given 
 To warn us that a child of love from heaven 
 
 Joins in our wanderings. 
 
 Speak we on earth ? or is it some wild dream 
 Which buoys our senses on its mystic stream? 
 Is it indeed our infant's voice which calls, 
 Or cherub stray'd from Love's ethereal halls? 
 
 Why weepest thou, Marie, 
 Why weepest thou ? It is because my tongue 
 Hath nam'd the source whence all our grief hath sprung. 
 Let us depart — and with more earnest pray'r 
 Seek Him who lightens every load we bear ; 
 
 Him of Eternity !
 
 48 
 
 EPITAPH 
 
 IN TILLINOTON CHURCH YARD, SUSSKX, 
 
 BY THE LATE \VM. HAYLEY, ESQ. 
 
 Ye passing Villagers who loitering tread 
 
 Across these hallow'd mounds of mouldering dead, 
 
 Leave not unmark'd this unpresuming tomb, 
 
 Where Christian virtue waits her final doom. 
 
 The fostering mother of our hamlet here, 
 
 Rests from those labours which her name endear, 
 
 And all the Village, in rememb'rauce just, 
 
 Honour'd with tears of deep regret her dust. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A LITTLE GIRL. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK. 
 
 BY C. W. STOCKER, D.U., ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD. 
 
 Thou didst not die, sweet Maiden , but remove 
 To a far better place. Thou now dost love 
 To dwell in bright Elysium's happy isles, 
 Where bloom eternal spring's unfading smiles ; 
 There frisk, with fawn-like steps, there blithely trill 
 Thy bird-like song, beyond the reach of ill. 
 No more shall summer scorch thee, winter freeze, 
 Or thirst or hunger, trouble or disease 
 Assail. Nor dost thou long to tread again 
 (What men call "life" !) a pilgrimage of pain : 
 For these thou hast life ; life of endless day, 
 Where Heav'n's empyreal arch is lit with purest ray.
 
 49 
 
 TRANSLATION OF AN EPITAPH IN THE CEMETERY 
 OF PERE LA CHAISE, PARIS. 
 
 BY W. H. B. STOCKER, B.A., INCUMBENT OF HORSFORTH. 
 
 Thou art resting in innocence here, 
 In a cradle that's dreary and chill : 
 
 Awake, love, and dry up the tear 
 That drops at thy sleeping so still. 
 
 " CONCERNING THEM WHICH ARE ASLEEP." 
 
 1 THESS. iV. 13. 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN HAIGH, B. A. 
 
 QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD. 
 
 Tread softly, for she sleeps — how calm that brow I 
 The heated cheek has lost its fev'rish glow ! 
 She slumbers sweetly — yet, there is no breath ! 
 The heart has ceased to beat ! — can this be death ? 
 'Tis but a slumber — yes, the day-light's past, 
 May not the weary sink to sleep at last? 
 The shades of night are gath'ring in the west, 
 May not the pilgrim hie him to his rest ? 
 That dreamy smile ! 'tis heaven's own signet-ring, 
 "Tis a reflection from the angel-wing, 
 That wing of radiant light which bore on high 
 Th' enraptur'd spirit to its native sky : 
 O death, how beautiful ! Thus would I sleep ! 
 Such be my last repose, so calm ! so deep ! 
 Asleep in Jesus, till the morning break, 
 And the last trump the slumb'ring dust awake. 
 
 E
 
 50 
 
 REDEMPTION. 
 BY W. H. B. STOCKER, B.A., INCUMBENT OF HORSFORTH. 
 
 Where proud Euphrates rolled his tide, 
 Where trees were decked with fadeless green, 
 
 And verdant lawns expanded wide, 
 There first the form of man was seen. 
 
 Not mortal then — he loved to stray 
 
 Through Eden's bowers with her, whom heaven 
 Had formed to cheer him on his way — 
 
 Had as a fitting consort given. 
 
 And as the shades of evening shed 
 
 Refreshing dews o'er Eden's sod, 
 He loved, unchecked by sin and dread, 
 
 To hold sweet converse with his God. 
 
 But, oh ! how soon an awful change 
 
 Was seen ! how soon did sin destroy 
 His prospects bright, his heart estrange 
 
 From God, and scatter all his joy ! 
 
 His trust in his Creator's word 
 
 One sole command was given to try ; 
 He kept not faithful to his Lord ; 
 
 He sinned — and so was doomed to die. 
 
 But death is conquered, Hades' chains 
 
 Are broken now ; and man may sing — 
 Redeemed, forgiven — in joyful strains 
 
 The praises of his God and King. 
 
 Go with the eye of faith, and see 
 
 The infant in the manger lying — 
 Then climb the mount of Calvary, 
 
 And watch the lowly prophet dying :
 
 51 
 
 That infant is the son of God — 
 That prophet is the King' of Glory : 
 
 His back for us has borne the rod, 
 For us his hands and brow are gory. 
 
 Go, view him now ascend on high 
 To those bright seats he owned before, 
 
 And claim a kingdom in the sky 
 
 For man, whose sin and shame he bore. 
 
 And see him soon — with glory crowned — 
 
 Almighty to destroy or save — 
 Return with trumpets' awful sound 
 
 To call the nations from the grave. 
 
 Then must we all before him stand ; 
 
 And they who loved, and served him well 
 On earth, shall join him in the land 
 
 Of peace, where joys eternal dwelL 
 
 MARY MAGDALENE. 
 
 BY AN OXONIAN, LATE FELLOW OP ORIEL COLLEGE. 
 
 By Simon called the feast to share, 
 A mortal's board Immanuel blest ; 
 
 And many a gazing eye was there, 
 
 To mark that meek but wondrous guest ; 
 
 Nor long had marked, with hurried pace, 
 "When, lo ! a guest unbidden came ; 
 
 Deep sorrow marred her faded face, 
 The piteous blight of sin and shame. 
 E 2
 
 52 
 
 Unasked she came, but not unknown ; 
 
 Her conscious bosom inly bled, 
 Yet passed the sinner boldly on, 
 
 By more than mortal impulse led. 
 
 Prostrate the SAVIOUR's couch beside 
 She kissed His feet — and duteous there, 
 
 The precious balsam poured, and dried 
 Her mingling sorrows with her hair. 
 
 She reck'd not of their scornful glance, 
 Unheeded fell each angry tone ; 
 
 Rapt in o'erpowering mental trance 
 She sees, she hears, her LORD alone. 
 
 Yes, sinner, yes — that impulse high 
 
 That led thee thither came from heaven ; 
 
 Which bade thee mourn thy sin's deep dye, 
 Yet hope and love like one forgiven. 
 
 Tho' man deride thine anguish wild, 
 For ever now thy sorrows cease ; 
 
 The SAVIOUR owns His long lost child, 
 And bids the mourner go in peace. 
 
 O wondrous power of grace divine, 
 At once to rouse, convert, console ! 
 
 Such tears of penitence be mine, 
 And love like Mary's melt my soul. 
 
 And when at length, life's thraldom o'er, 
 This spirit hopes yet fears release, 
 
 LORD ! may Thy voice, at that dread hour, 
 In gentle accents whisper peace.
 
 53 
 
 PROVIDENCE. 
 
 BY HARRY MICKLETHWAIT, ESQ., ROTHERHAM. 
 
 The golden sunlight of a summer's eve 
 
 Shone on a cottage, overhung with flowers, 
 
 That, lonely, 'mid a still sequestered vale 
 
 Upraised its lowly head ; — the whispering wind 
 
 Soft moved the murmuring leaves, whilst from the boughs, 
 
 Breathing of harmony and love, the evening song 
 
 Of nature's feathered choristers rose softly sweet. 
 
 How bounteous are thy gifts, great God of Heaven, 
 
 To man's too sinful race ! for Thou his wants 
 
 Hast all supplied, and on his wondering mind 
 
 And soul enrapt hast poured thy splendour forth, 
 
 And bathed it in thy rich magnificence. 
 
 The dewy brightness of the early morn, 
 
 When nature wakes refreshed ; the silent eve, 
 
 When like an infant tired she sinks to sleep ; 
 
 The changing seasons with their varying hues, 
 
 Each beautiful alike ; the solemn night 
 
 With all her countless lamps that stud the sky,— - 
 
 These are thy gifts, and thus so wondrous fair 
 
 His habitation here hast Thou endowed. 
 
 E'en in this earthly globe are moments, when 
 
 The still tranquillity of earth and sky 
 
 Spreads round the human heart a heavenly charm, 
 
 And all things breathe of happiness and peace. 
 
 E'en such this hour, e'en such the stillness thrown 
 
 O'er hill and vale, e'en such the calm around,
 
 54 
 
 That who could dream of pain or sorrow here ! 
 But in the brightest hour of human life 
 A something intervenes to mar the bliss, 
 A sorrow 'neath the rosebud lurks unseen 
 To pain the heart and stamp it wretched still. 
 For from that open lattice, hark ! a sound 
 Of stifled grief, and now a thrilling cry, 
 A cry of heartstruck sorrow and distress, 
 The wail of death, a mother's mournful shriek 
 When, pressing with her anxious lip the brow 
 Of the pale slumberer on its lowly couch, 
 She feels the chill of death — the hour long feared, 
 The hour of separation and despair. 
 " Who dies in early youth is blest by heaven :" 
 Such was the moral ancient sages taught : 
 Yet to the heart bereaved such words but seem 
 A cruel mocking of a mother's grief, 
 A grief that hears not, heeds not, cannot feel 
 Words breathed by friendship's or affection's lips; 
 A grief that all-absorbs the mourning heart, 
 And bows its wretched victim to the earth. 
 But from on high a voice divine hath said, 
 u Come unto me who mourn, come those who weep, 
 And I will give you rest."
 
 55 
 
 A WANDERER'S THOUGHTS. 
 BY MRS. PEERING, LEEDS. 
 
 Farewell my pleasant vale, it is my lot 
 
 To go far off from thee ; 
 To leave the shelter of my peaceful cot, 
 
 And track the boundless sea. 
 
 But shall I e'er forget thee ? Answer no ! 
 
 Ye echos that surround 
 My happy straw-roof 'd shed ; where wild flowers grow, 
 
 Breathing sweet perfume round. 
 
 Shall I forget thee ? Will the turtle dove 
 
 Her downy nest forsake ; 
 Leaving the unfledg'd nurslings of her love 
 
 For cruel hands to take ? 
 
 Ye shades that witness'd oft the fond delight 
 
 Which fill'd my glowing breast, 
 What time the sun behind the mountain's height 
 
 In beauty sunk to rest : 
 
 Ye streams, on whose fair banks I lov'd to stray 
 
 When evening's gentle sigh 
 Bade the bright moon upon your waters play 
 
 And lit the stars on high : 
 
 Ye trees, whose over-hanging boughs have made 
 
 A shelter from the heat, 
 When with my slight repast I sought the shade 
 
 Of your belov'd retreat : 
 
 Shall I forget ye ? Never, till this heart 
 
 Hath lost its wonted glow ; — 
 'Till love, and hope, and feeling, all depart, 
 
 And tears have ceased to flow !
 
 56 
 
 I will remember thee, my peaceful vale, 
 
 Whatever be my lot; 
 If prosperous breezes swell the gallant sail 
 
 I'll think upon my cot. 
 
 Or should the storm arise and tempests flee, 
 
 In terror round my head, 
 E'er in the midst I will remember thee, 
 
 My little straw-roof d shed. 
 
 A WIDOWED MOTHER'S SOLILOQUY OVER HER 
 SLEEPING INFANT. 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN HAIGH, B.A., WORTLEY. 
 
 Sleep softly, lovely one, and take thy rest, 
 Care sits but lightly on thy infant breast, 
 That placid brow betrays no inward woes, 
 No anxious dreams disturb thy still repose. 
 Sweet be thy slumbers ! time alas ! will bring 
 Sorrow and sighing on its darkling wing ; 
 Smile, while thou canst, amid thy slumbers deep, 
 Care soon will come to mar that placid sleep. 
 May guardian angels hover near, and spread 
 Their sheltering wings of mercy o'er thy head ! 
 God of the widow, hear the widow's prayer— 
 Thou Father of the fatherless, O spare, 
 O spare this only hope, my lovely boy, 
 And cause the widow's heart to sing for joy ! 
 Heaven bless thee, sweetest! be thy darkness light! 
 May heaven's own glory gild the shades of night ! 
 Good night, my lovely babe — one parting kiss — 
 O be thy sleep of death as calm as this !
 
 57 
 
 THE BOMBARDMENT OF ALGIERS. 
 
 BY A LIEUTENANT IN THE ROYAL NAVY. 
 
 Prouder scene never hallow'd war's pomp to the mind, 
 Than when Christendom's pennons woo'd social the wind, 
 And the flower of her brave for the combat combined, 
 Their watchword, humanity's vow : 
 Not a sea-boy that fought in that cause, but mankind 
 Owes a garland to honor his brow. 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Beautiful looked the newly white-washed castles and 
 batteries of Algiers, as, on the morning of the 27th of August, 
 1816, the fleet, under the command of Lord Exmouth, arrived 
 off that port. There 1500 pieces of ordnance bristled in their 
 embrasures, and 40 gun-boats and 9 frigates added to the 
 defence of the place. About half-past two p. m. almost all the 
 ships had taken up their stations according to signal. The 
 Fury bomb, in which I had the honor of serving as a midship- 
 man, was commanded by Captain C. R. Moorsom, eldest son 
 of the late Admiral Sir Robert Moorsom, K. C. B., who so 
 nobly commanded H. M. S. Revenge in the ever-memorable 
 battle of Trafalgar. She was moored head and stern with her 
 larboard broadside to the batteries in the line of the largest 
 diameter of the town, so that the shells which were thrown 
 from her could not miss their aim ; and her position was such 
 as was deemed by the Captain sufficient to give precision of 
 fire with proper effect on stone walls.
 
 58 
 
 The Fury was furnished with two mortars — one of thirteen 
 inches in diameter, the other of ten and a half — also with 
 twelve carronades : she commenced firing about three o'clock, 
 and gave her parting shot at midnight, during which time 308 
 shells had been discharged from her deck. With the Fury 
 were associated three other bomb-vessels — the Hecla which 
 fired 154 shells, the Infernal 149, and the Beelzebub 167. 
 This quick firing on the part of the Fury was accomplished by 
 a combination of arrangements made by her commander, 
 different from the rest, and which, with some improvements of 
 the late Sir William Congreve, have since been adopted in all 
 other bombs, so that a bomb of the present day would fire as 
 quick as the Fury did, but not quicker on account of heating 
 the mortars. 
 
 The arrangements referred to were as follow : two fakes of 
 the small lower cable were hauled up on the main deck, 
 thereby leaving space sufficient in the cable tier to fix a 
 shoot — one of the spare fishes for the lower masts — along 
 which were rolled the shells for the purpose of being filled in 
 a temporary place erected for the purpose on the quarter-deck 
 instead of the usual one. 
 
 It was impossible to have fired more shells from a couple of 
 mortars in the same time than did the Fury, and once we 
 were compelled to stand fast to let the mortars cool. Yet 
 my servant, a marine artilleryman of the name of Harvey, 
 who was stationed in the thirteen inch mortar bed, never left 
 his post during the action. About eight o'clock I took him a 
 good draught of weak rum and water, which, lie remarked to 
 me, was worth his right arm. One other circumstance I must 
 relate in reference to this fine fellow. It happened that the 
 place for hanging up my cot wae in the cable tier, and when 
 the firing terminated, I gladly laid myself on the top of it — 
 being completely exhausted — without having it suspended. 
 In a moment after I was in a sound sleep from which I was 
 presently aroused by my faithful Harvey, who insisted upon 
 my waking up until he hang the cot in its usual place, and 
 <-a\v inc snugly deposited between the Bheetfi ; and not till then
 
 59 
 
 would he retire to bis own hammock. "gin proof of the fatigue 
 we underwent I may state that I found myself indulging in 
 forty winks during the action, and Captain Moorsom's boy 
 slept soundly for some time on one of the carronade slides in 
 spite of the thundering shocks from the mortars which were 
 indeed fit to split our ears. So great was the concussion 
 which they produced, that hides were nailed against the 
 carlings of the main deck to prevent the chronometers being 
 injured in the Captain's cabin : but as the aftermost or 
 thirteen inch mortar became so heated the shock was such as 
 to draw out the nails, and a carpenter was stationed for the 
 purpose of replacing the hides after each discharge. 
 
 The day after the battle was employed in, offering terms of 
 peace to the Dey through the medium of the Captain of the 
 port. These were acceded to on the following day, among 
 which it was stipulated that on the next day the Christian 
 slaves, of whom there were 1400, should embark at the hour of 
 two (p.m.) It fell to my lot to have charge of the ship's barge 
 on that occasion, and it probably never happened to any one 
 to witness a more spirit-stirring scene than was the embarka- 
 tion of these poor creatures from the accursed soil where 
 many of them had been loaded with the heaviest chains for 
 upwards of thirty years. I doubt whether I can ever again 
 be engaged in any service which will create such feelings as I 
 then experienced, and which were more gratifying to me than 
 could have been the possession of the whole of the Dey's 
 treasure. 
 
 The slaves were marched down to the wharf in lots, and as 
 my boat was waiting her turn to get to the stairs, so eager was 
 their desire for liberty that they threw themselves off the 
 wharf into the boat without seeming to care whether they 
 reached the bottom with whole limbs or not, and I was 
 obliged to draw my sword and threaten them before they 
 would desist from this frightful mode of proceeding. Yet, as 
 we were quitting the shore it was indeed most exhilarating to 
 hear them exclaim in their various provincialisms (for they 
 belonged to the different Mediterranean ports) " Long live
 
 (JO 
 
 King George." On taking them along side the vessel which was 
 to convey them to their respective places of destination, I found 
 that the officer who commanded her had been obliged to make 
 them lie down on deck, and so closely were they stowed, that 
 on trying to reach the cabin, I found it impossible to avoid 
 treading upon some of them, without picking my way very 
 carefully. This precaution was however rendered unneces- 
 sary, for the moment I stepped from the gangway, my foot 
 was seized and placed by a man upon his breast, and most 
 lovingly hugged, and in this way I gradually got to the cabin, 
 each man testifying his gratitude by embracing the feet as 
 they were respectively allowed to make their way among this 
 mass of grateful beings. My return to the boat was by a 
 similar process. 
 
 Immediately afterwards we set sail for our native shores, 
 rejoicing that we had added another wreath to Britannia's 
 brow, and given another proof that as " Britons never shall 
 be slaves," they cannot look with satisfaction on the slavery 
 of others.
 
 01 
 
 CLARA'S TOMB. 
 BY SAMUEL LISTER, ESQ. 
 
 CAIUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 I saw her in her infancy 
 With curling, golden hair, 
 How sweet, how cherub fair ! 
 Reposing on her mother's knee, 
 A blossom on the parent tree. 
 
 Oft have I bended o'er 
 
 Her cradle, as she slept, 
 
 And oft on softest tiptoe crept, 
 
 Lest she should wake before, 
 
 To steal a sweet, sweet kiss 
 
 Of innocence and bliss. 
 
 I've gazed upon her marble features 
 
 Calm as in happy death ; 
 
 She, loveliest of living creatures, 
 
 Scarce seemed a thing of breath, 
 
 But rather some pale fragrant flower 
 
 Fallen asleep at even-hour, 
 
 While the gentlest zephyr blows 
 
 Softly o'er its soft repose. 
 
 I saw her in her childhood's hours 
 Dance and laugh amidst the flowers, 
 With feelings fresh and new ; 
 The daisies kissed her little feet, 
 
 And the violets blue ; 
 
 Gay as a fairy queen, 
 
 She ruled the magic scene, 
 
 With charm complete.
 
 62 
 
 Her laugh was full of melody — 
 
 The lark, that blithely sang 
 
 Till the blue vault of heaven rang 
 
 With mirth and joy and glee, 
 
 Was not more glad than she. 
 
 Her smile — the richest, gayest dress 
 
 Beauty could give to happiness. 
 
 I saw her as an opening rose, 
 Maturer form and grace disclose, 
 In fuller lines of beauty ; 
 And childhood's free confiding glance, 
 Died beneath laws of duty. 
 Modest, gentle, light, and fair, 
 As the angel of a trance, 
 With her long and golden hair, 
 Daughter of joy, unknown to care, 
 She moved as in the air. 
 
 I saw her form and feelings rise 
 
 To womanhood's perfection, 
 
 She seemed from the blue mirror skies 
 
 A seraph's bright reflection ! 
 
 And pensive glanced her trembling eye, 
 
 And oft escaped a gentle sigh, 
 
 She seemed as if she feared, yet sought 
 
 An object where might softly melt 
 
 The feelings tender, passion fraught 
 
 Of love, which in her heart she felt. 
 
 He came of high and noble blood, 
 
 His fine brow stamp'd with honor, 
 
 And sweetly smiled he as he stood, 
 
 And earnest gazed upon her, 
 
 Her eyes drank in his looks of love, 
 
 Her soul could feel each glance ; 
 
 Gay as a summer singing-bird 
 
 With song of harp to please she strove, 
 
 And her young heart would gaily dance 
 
 At his approving word.
 
 63 
 
 But o'er their summer hung a cloud, 
 They danced beneath a pall, — 
 A jealous rival, fierce and proud, 
 Climb'd o'er the garden wall, 
 And, like a snake, crept slowly on, 
 O'er yielding grass and mossy stone, 
 To where she with her lover stood, 
 Then plunged into his noble blood, 
 A hissing, poisonous dart! 
 Down — dead he fell, without a sigh : 
 A film of sickness closed her eye, 
 She could not weep, she could not cry, 
 To ease her bursting heart. 
 
 She stood as still and mute as stone, 
 
 The statue of despair! 
 
 Without a sigh, without a groan, 
 
 With long dishevelled hair ! 
 
 Her eye's bright sparkle dreadful shone, 
 
 Yet fix'd as marble was her face, 
 
 Expression's varying, changeful grace, 
 
 Hardened, yet strangely beautiful ; 
 
 Cold, pale as death, 
 
 She seemed alive without a soul, — 
 
 A being without breath. 
 
 No flower can live without the sun, 
 
 She could not live when he was gone, 
 
 Her soul had fled with his ; 
 
 And life soon left her living corpse, 
 
 And there she buried lies. 
 
 And many a passing stranger stops 
 
 To gaze upon that sculptured tomb, 
 
 Where they have carved her lover's form, 
 
 Pointing to heaven as their home !
 
 ti4 
 
 WATERS OF ELLE. 
 
 BY THE LATE LADY CAROLINE LAMB. 
 
 Waters of Elle ! thy limpid streams are flowing, 
 Smooth and Untroubled o'er the flowery vale ; 
 On thy green banks once more the wild rose blowing, 
 Greets the young spring and scents the passing gale. 
 
 Here 'twas at eve, when near this bank reposing, 
 One, still too dear, first breath'd his vows to me ; 
 " Wear this," he cried, then first his thoughts disclosing, 
 " Near to thy heart for one who loves but thee !" 
 
 Love's cherish'd gift, the rose he gave, is faded ; 
 Love's blighted flower shall never bloom again, 
 Weep for thy fault, in heart and mind degraded, 
 Weep, if thy tears can wash away the stain. 
 
 Could'st thou recal the vows that once were plighted, 
 Vows full of love, of innocence and truth ; 
 Could'st thou recal the scenes that once delighted — 
 Scenes of past joy, that bless'd my early youth. 
 
 Chang'd is the scene, nor ever spring arraying 
 Nature in charms, to me can make it fair, 
 Ill-fated love clouds o'er my path pourtraying 
 Years past of bliss, and future of despair. 
 
 Water3 of Elle ! tho' threatening tempests lour, 
 Bright, swift, and clear thy streams impetuous dart 
 O'er thy green banks, the spring's young blossom's flower ; 
 All breathes in vain for this forsaken henrt.
 
 65 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO LADY CAROLINE LAMB ON READING " WATERS OP ELLE." 
 
 BY THE LATE LORD JOHN TOWNSHEND. 
 
 Fair Elle ! whose tributary waters glide 
 
 In mild obedience, roll'd to ocean's tide, 
 
 Their progress stopt, hark ! how the torrent roars, 
 
 O'er-swells thy banks and wildly threats thy shores. 
 
 But oh ! when calm within their native bounds 
 How silver sweet their warbling music sounds, 
 There when o'er coral sands thy currents stray, 
 Kissing each sedge that greets their winding way. 
 
 Run on, for ever run, pellucid stream, 
 
 At once thy poet's model, pride, and theme, 
 
 Flow thus his own soft verse ! smooth, clear, and strong, 
 
 When least controll'd the muse, most sweet her song. 
 
 SONNET JTO,THE RIVER WHARFE. 
 
 BY THE REV. R. RIDSDALE, M.A., PREBENDARY OF CHICHESTER. 
 
 Welcome, my native stream, full many a day 
 
 Of joy and sadness o'er my head has pass'd, 
 Since first upon thy banks I us'd to stray, 
 
 When care no shadows o'er life's path had cast. 
 Yet passing years to thee no change has brought, 
 
 And o'er thy pebbled bed thy waters flow 
 As soft and limpid, as when first was taught 
 
 The TV! use's influence in my breast to glow : 
 With cheerful heart, I hail thy banks again, 
 As I would welcome a long parted friend ; 
 Fondly recalling all the busy train 
 
 Of joys, which in my bosom used to blend. 
 Years yet to come, should they be granted me, 
 May they glide peaceful, as they've pass'd with thee ! 
 
 F
 
 66 
 
 THE BEE-HIVE. 
 
 BY MRS. CURTEIS, READING. 
 
 Come hither, little wandering bee, 
 
 And tell me why you roam, 
 Why cannot you content yourself 
 
 In building cells at home ? 
 
 I'U tell you, little lady, why 
 
 I roam about all day, 
 And visit every little flower 
 
 I meet with on my way. 
 
 I'm on the wing by early dawn, 
 And search each flow'ret's cup, 
 
 To take its honey, ere the sun 
 Has time to drink it up. 
 
 With merry heart and joyful wing 
 
 I carry home my store, 
 And having hived it carefully, 
 
 Haste out to gather more. 
 
 What has yon bee upon its thighs, 
 
 So yellow and so bright ? 
 See how it flies, although its load 
 
 Cannot be very light. 
 
 'Tis bread from flowers' farina made — 
 
 That yellow dust you see, 
 When kneaded well, becomes a paste, 
 
 To feed the infant bee.
 
 07 
 
 Where are you flying off so fast, 
 
 You little bustling bee? 
 I hasten home to feed the young, 
 
 And tend the nursery. 
 
 You droning bee with sounding horn, 
 
 What is your task, pray tell, 
 You're bigger than the other bees, 
 
 But cannot work so well. 
 
 We are the nobles of the hive, 
 
 But very seldom seen, 
 Being the royal body-guard, 
 
 Who wait around the queen. 
 
 We all have duties to perform, 
 
 No idle bee is found, 
 Some cleanse the hive, some guard the gate, 
 
 And some keep watch around. 
 
 Some search for plants that give out wax, 
 
 Our curious cells to build, 
 In the nice arts of masonry, 
 
 By native instinct skilled. 
 
 What then, within your happy hive, 
 
 'Tis industry that's prized ? 
 Yes, lady, and you'll ever 'find, 
 
 The idle are despised. 
 
 f2
 
 68 
 
 THE VEILED HARP. 
 
 LINES ON AN UNKNOWN POKTKSS. 
 
 BY W. F. CRONHELM, ESQ. 
 
 She veils her harp, the harp she loves, 
 The handmaid of her holiest hours — 
 The trusted friend, to whom her heart 
 Its treasured depths outpours- 
 
 The living harp, that wings to heaven 
 Her thoughts away from earth's control, 
 And gives her back, in strains of bliss, 
 The music of her soul. 
 
 She veils her harp— for she would shun 
 The uncongenial gaze of Fame, 
 Nor let its desecrating voice 
 
 Breathe on her gentle name: 
 
 O never rend that beauteous veil! 
 Be still unseen that harp of power ! 
 Yet, sometimes, let those strains of bliss 
 Float on the night's still hour.
 
 69 
 
 FRIENDSHIP'S OFFERING. 
 
 BY S. K. Y. 
 
 " Whom but to see is to admire, 
 
 " And, oh ! forgive the word — to love." — Byron. 
 
 As the faint sunbeam's genial ray 
 Marks the approaching close of day, 
 When vivid streaks illume the west 
 And clouds are clad in golden vest — 
 Nature arrayed in purple hue, 
 Displays her beauties to the view — 
 Harmonious, cheerful is the scene — 
 All quiet, hushed in peace serene. 
 Such the sweet face that beams with virtue's smile, 
 Not settled, calm, and tranquil for a while, 
 But, like the heaven-born Graces, ever seen 
 Void of all malice, envy, hatred, spleen. 
 Resplendent glitters in that heavenly face 
 A sun which shines in every time and place : 
 It's rays pierce deeper than that glorious sun 
 Whose beams proclaimed creation far begun. 
 Man's the prime object of his Maker's will — 
 Man shews his boundless, matchless, wondrous skill. 
 Shall woman, then, whose beauteous form and grace 
 Of mien, reflect a heart that's pure, give place 
 To an inferior second cause — 
 Some subject of the heavenly laws? 
 Oh, no ! There golden rays enchanting shine — 
 Rays into which all others soon entwine- 
 So deep they pierce to reach man's inmost soul, 
 O'er all his heart and mind they bear control.
 
 70 
 
 Ask not whose picture have J drawn, 
 Whose radiant beauty like the morn 
 Of summer — pleasant, fragrant, sweet, 
 When flowerets spring around your feet. 
 Yours is the lovely face I've drawn, 
 Resembling much the opening morn — 
 Whose hallowed blushes — smiles of virtue — beam 
 Worthy a better, more exalted theme. 
 If, faint the picture, should the poet fail, 
 Let his best wishes for the attempt avail. 
 
 Remote or near, whatever form I see, 
 Affection's links will bind my heart to thee. 
 
 LINKS 
 
 ADDRESSES TO THE AUTHOR OK " PLEASURES OF MEMORY." 
 
 i;\ EDWARD MOXON. 
 
 Rogers ! when thou art gone, thy graceful page 
 
 Fond hearts will cherish 'mid their choicest stores. 
 
 Happy the man who, while his spirit soars 
 And themes immortal his pure thoughts engage, 
 
 Can stoop to earth, Heaven's messenger of love, 
 Zealous the wrongs unmerited to assuage 
 Of struggling genius or desponding age. 
 
 This be thy fame, my friend- A wreath above 
 Even the crown of laurel thou hast won ! 
 
 Better it is to win the heart than mind ; 
 
 But he who both in one sweet spell can bind, 
 Cheer with kind looks, or shine as Dry den shone, 
 
 And something good in every thing can find, 
 May safely hope his course he well hath run.
 
 71 
 
 To MAMMA, ON HER BIRTHDAY. 
 
 BY R. H. KENNEDY, M.D., BOMBAY. 
 
 Mamma, mamma, what will you say 
 
 When Florence writes ; yet such a day 
 
 As our dear thirtieth of July 
 
 Must make even little Florence try 
 
 To lift her helpless hands in prayer 
 
 To her dear good mamma, and dare 
 
 To hope that God will hear in heav'n, 
 
 The thoughts to infant fancy giv'n ; 
 
 Nay, since we little ones are blest 
 
 With ministering angels, who are placed 
 
 Even at the throne of God, and thence 
 
 Their holy influences dispense 
 
 Upon us here, our parents too 
 
 Must be their care ; yes, must be so ; 
 
 God bless you, dear mamma, God bless you, 
 
 And may your Florence ne'er distress you. 
 
 And now, mamma, she begs you'll wear 
 
 This grass-green brooch with baby's hair, 
 
 And baby's love ; she could not blot 
 
 The line to write " forget me not"; 
 
 For how could sweet mamma forget, 
 
 Or fond papa, their only pet ? 
 
 But let the mimic blossom claim 
 
 The magic of its pretty name, 
 
 A talisman to heart and eye, 
 
 And speak of hope and memory, 
 
 Of pleasures past, of joys to come, 
 
 And all the happiness of home, 
 
 Since first they interchanged the vow 
 
 Beneath the Christmas misletoe! 
 
 God bless you dear mamma, God bless you, 
 
 And may your Florence ne'er distress you.
 
 72 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 BY S. J. PARTRIDGE, ESQ., LINCOLN'S INN. 
 
 Chill winter has frozen the streams, 
 
 The throstle is mute in the grove, 
 The sun hides his radiant beams, 
 
 All nature is adverse to love- 
 No bank now invites to recline, 
 
 Where the violet was wont to perfume, 
 The snow covers over the thyme, 
 
 Mournful Eurus too deepens the gloom. 
 
 Oh ! where is the sheltered retreat 
 
 Frequented by Cloe the fair, 
 When I used to sigh at her feet 
 
 And twine the fresh flow'rs in her hair ? 
 
 Alas ! 'tis a desolate spot, 
 
 The leaves are all fall'n from the trees, 
 The birds have forsaken my grot, 
 
 There is nothing my Cloe to please. 
 
 Bright Phcebus, return with thy rays, 
 Show nature again in her charms, 
 
 And the valleys shall echo thy praise, 
 When my Cloe comes back to my arms.
 
 73 
 
 SPRING. 
 
 BY THE REV. W. II. TEALE, M.A., LEEDS. 
 
 All the earth is gay.; 
 Land and sea, 
 Give themselves up to jollity : 
 
 And with the heart of May, 
 Doth every beast keep holiday. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 It is the merry spring-time now. 
 
 And bright blue skies appear ; 
 Heather on hill, and leaf on bough, 
 And sparkling stream, — all seem to know 
 This birth-time of the year. 
 
 Oh ! what a troop of happy things, 
 
 Above, around us rise, 
 The daisy rath in green wood springs ; 
 Warm zephyrs spread their balmy wings: 
 
 The sun illumes the skies ; 
 
 The charm of earliest birds is come, 
 
 The lark is soaring high ; 
 Glad children leave their cottage home, 
 And o'er the vale and mountain roam 
 
 Chasing the butterfly.
 
 74 
 
 For cheering is this vernal hour 
 
 like to old or young: 
 Yea ! all who own calm nature's power 
 May drink pure joy from stream and flower, 
 And ev'ry wild bird's song. 
 
 Here, too, methinks, Hope's thankful glow 
 
 Must soothe the saddest breast, 
 And 'neath this sky what sullen brow 
 May mock with throb, or wrinkle shew? 
 Who feels himself unblest ? 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF THE SPRING TIME. 
 
 BY -MARY LOUISA BOYLE. 
 
 Do not ask what grief o'erwhelms me 
 In the bloom of life and years, 
 All is hope and joy and promise 
 Now the merry Spring appears. 
 
 But the thousand tones that waken 
 Nature from her icy sleep, 
 Only wake within my bosom 
 Recollections dark and deep.* 
 
   Tho two first stanzas are a translation from the German.
 
 75 
 
 Hope unfurls her verdant banner, 
 Hangs it from eack budding tree ; 
 But the sight and sound of pleasure 
 Have, alas ! no charm for me. 
 
 Would you chide me thus for passing, 
 Trampling flowers beneath my feet ? 
 If I pluck'd them, who would wear them .' 
 Who would call them fresh and sweet ? 
 
 When the Nightingale is singing, 
 Raptured by her matchless tone ; 
 Would'st thou ask the wailing songstress, 
 Why she loves to mourn alone ? 
 
 Do not question, do not ask me, 
 Silence is my only friend ; 
 Well I know the canker's in me, 
 Grief, like life, must have an end ! 
 
 All that droops in autumn weather, 
 All that fades in winter tide, 
 Blooms in spring and flowers in summer, 
 With redoubled strength and pride. 
 
 But the chilly blast of sorrow 
 
 On the vital sap will prey ; 
 
 When the heart is sear'd and wither'd, 
 
 Can the wretched trunk look gay ? 
 
 Let us dance and sing together, 
 Deck with wreaths each youthful brow ; 
 Who can tell while I am smiling, 
 That my heart is breaking now !
 
 76 
 
 THOUGHTS AFTER A SHOWER. 
 BY W. S. WOOD, ESQ. 
 
 SCHOLAR OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Parched by the drought of summer, 
 
 The morning landscape lay, 
 And the brooding haze gave promise of 
 
 A dull and sultry day. 
 No breath upon the mountain, 
 
 No flutter 'mid the trees — 
 The delicate stalks of the trembling grass 
 
 Stood moveless by a breeze. 
 
 At noon a change around him, 
 
 The gladsome traveller found : 
 The clouds had shed their fulness down 
 
 Upon the weary ground. 
 The sun looked forth as joyous 
 
 As a maiden in her mirth, 
 And he saw the blessed influence shed 
 
 O'er all the wakening earth. 
 
 Like pearls amid the forest, 
 
 Glistening the shower-drops lay, 
 And the slightest breath of the west wind shook 
 
 Them down in silvery spray. . • 
 
 The greenness of the meadows 
 
 Wore a tenfold lovelier hue, 
 And the far expanse of heaven was clothed 
 
 In rich unclouded blue.
 
 77 
 
 Drooping and faint at morning 
 
 The thirsty flowers had pined, 
 But they raised their heads at noon to meet 
 
 The kisses of the wind. 
 And everything was lovely 
 
 When the sun went down at even, 
 For the blessing of a shower that day 
 
 In mercy had been given. 
 
 Not seldom thus the bosom 
 
 Lies bowed beneath its sorrow, 
 While fancy seeks from memory's stores 
 
 Redoubled grief to borrow. 
 The parching sun lowers on it, 
 
 No life is in his glare, 
 And a deep drear stillness broods around — 
 
 The stillness of despair. 
 
 But if a dew from heaven 
 
 Pour down its healing balm, 
 The deadening anguish of the breast 
 
 Lulls into holy calm. 
 Hope lends her aid to waken 
 
 The heart to heavenly things, 
 And buoyantly the spirit flies 
 
 Aloft on eagle's wings. 
 
 At once, his grief forgotten, 
 
 Man revels in new pleasure, 
 He hails the blessings strewed around 
 
 So boundless in their measure : 
 And grateful to the Giver 
 
 Of all happiness, he pours 
 The lark's glad song, that sweeter sounds 
 
 The nearer heaven he soars.
 
 78 
 
 THE CHERRY TREE. 
 
 BY U. II. KENNEDY, M.D., 
 
 SUPERINTENDING SURGEON OF THE SINDE FIELD FORCE, 
 
 The oak is a lordly tree, 
 
 And the ash has a silver leaf, 
 And the sycamore's buds are bright to see, 
 
 Tho' like joy, when 'tis brightest, brief; 
 But our praise is the fairy-loved cherry tree, 
 
 The wilding, graceful cherry tree 
 With its berries black, and its glossy rind, 
 And its pensive boughs in the wooing wind ; 
 
 Who loves not the wild wood cherry tree ? 
 But come by night, 
 In the paly light 
 Of the full orbed moon in the merry May, 
 
 And the night's delight shall surpass the day ; 
 For they say — they say that the gifted see 
 Full many a fairy lady bright. 
 And many a tiny Elphin Knight, 
 Dance round and round the wild cherry tree ; 
 
 Round and round i" a frantic glee, 
 
 To the chimes of unearthly minstrelsy, 
 And nothing on earth resembles 
 
 The gifted see under the cherry tree.
 
 79 
 
 Hast thou sorrowed on earth, and with many a sigh 
 
 Recorded its stings and lashes and crimes, 
 Hast thou turned indignantly thence thine eye, 
 
 To another world and the coming times? 
 Thy dreams will be of the legends bold, 
 
 Which the bards of forgotten ages told, 
 And thy heart will treasure the glowing tale, 
 
 Of the winter's hearth and the grandame old, 
 On all that has been o'er hill and vale, 
 
 On the foaming flood or the wintry wold, 
 And think not thine age, 
 Tho' morose and sage, 
 Shall ever become so icy cold, 
 
 As to cease to love the dreams of youth ; 
 
 No, no, they shall glow in life and truth, 
 And thy darkening eye shall at times be seen, 
 With a flashing light, when leaves are green, 
 
 And fancy returns to the cherry tree, 
 
 The fairy dance round the cherry tree ; 
 Round, round and round in a frantic glee 
 To the chimes of unearthly minstrelsy, 
 When nothing on earth resembles the glee 
 
 The gifted see under the cherry tree.
 
 80 
 
 TO MAY. 
 
 BY J. W. PARTRIDGE, ESQ., IIORSFORTH. 
 
 How cheerly, how gaily, in mantle of green, 
 Young spring trips it lightly o'er valley and hill, 
 
 Sweet handmaid of nature, wheree'er she is seen, 
 She spreads the soft verdure around at her will ; 
 
 The flow'rets bloom gaily, the merry birds sing, 
 The insect tribes peep from their pillows of clay, 
 
 All nature reviving its tribute shall bring, 
 To hail the approach of the sprightly young May. 
 
 Dear maiden ! for still thou art dear to my heart, 
 Tho' frail be thy beauty, and transient thy reign, 
 
 Tho' each flitting evening forewarns we must part, 
 I still would embrace thee again and again. 
 
 But ever coquetting thou fliest my arms, 
 
 Even now when I think thee securely possest, 
 
 Transformed to December, thou mockest the charms 
 Which I thought but too fondly to clasp to my breast. 
 
 But why should I chide thee ? Because thou art frail ? 
 
 That frailty was written as part of man's curse; 
 Oh ! come dearest May then, thy season I'll hail, 
 
 And content me to take thee for better and worse.
 
 81 
 
 " THE HOSPITALLERS OF ST. JOHN OF JERUSALEM." 
 
 AN HISTORICAL SKETCH IN VERSE. 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN IIAIGII, B.A., QUEEN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD, 
 
 CURATE OF WORTLEY. 
 
 A brief summary may suffice to elucidate the design of the 
 following poem. The Hospital, dedicated to St. John the 
 Almoner, was instituted about the year 1048, by some 
 Italian merchants, as an asylum for the Latin pilgrims ; 
 some of whom, abandoning the idea of returning to their 
 native country, devoted themselves in this establishment to 
 the service of the destitute and wounded. Towards the close 
 of the eleventh century the Hospital was endowed with some 
 rich demesnes by Godfrey of Bulloign ; and other individuals 
 contributed by donations to augment its revenues. These, 
 in process of time, were found to be more than suffi- 
 cient to carry out the object of the Institution ; it was 
 resolved, therefore, that the surplus should be conse- 
 crated to the Holy War ; and thus the Hospitallers were 
 instituted a military body, and joined the Crusaders. 
 After the loss of the Holy Land they retired to Cyprus ; but 
 in the year 1308 they took the Island of Rhodes from the 
 Saracens, and settled there. Amidst many reverses, they 
 bravely retained this Island in their possession 213 years ; but 
 jn 1522 it was besieged and taken by Solyman II.; and three 
 years afterwards, Charles V. gave them the Island of Malta, 
 
 G
 
 82 
 
 from which they were finally expelled by Buonaparte; and 
 thus, this noble order, which for seven hundred years had 
 been the terror of Infidels and the bulwark of Christendom, 
 fell from its glory, and now lives only in the records of 
 history. 
 
 ' Avopwt iTapavuv <xa.au. yri rikipos, »a.i oi arnXaiv //.ovov iv rri oixita, 
 trypan/u i-viypa.tyn, aXXa. xui iv rn f*h •rpoanx.ouan aypctlfti; favriffl Ttctp 
 ixd<rrty rrii yvuftn; puXXov ri rou 'ipyou ivoiairarai. 
 
 Thuc. B. II. ch. 43. 
 
 It was th' oppressor's hour — the tyrant hand 
 Sway'd its dread sceptre o'er Arabia's land, 
 Mohammed's host the banner wide unfurl'd, 
 And bade defiance to a trembling world : 
 Onward the torrent roll'd its purple flood ; 
 Stain'd with a brave and conquer'd nation's blood, 
 Byzantium sinks; before the swelling tide 
 The Roman Eagle bends his tow'ring pride. 
 Alas ! for Palestine, her brighter day 
 Lost in surrounding darkness fades away ; 
 On Sion's Mount the black'ning shades of night 
 Obscure the dawning of a better light; 
 The mossy fountains and the crystal rills 
 Winding their course amid the vine-clad hills, 
 In mournful cadence as they murm'ring flow 
 Responsive echo to the minstrel's woe ; 
 No more are heard the palmy vales among 
 The joyous accents of the poet's song. 
 
 Not long in widow'd sorrow Zion wept, 
 
 While with'ring ruin o'er her beauty swept ; 
 
 Not long her children brook'd the tyrant's rod, 
 
 Scorning to bow except before their God ; 
 
 Ten thousand thousand swords are raised on high, 
 
 Ten thousand thousand voices rend the sky ;
 
 83 
 
 Soldier;! of God cainc dauntless from afar, 
 
 Rush'd to the fight, and " wak'd the storm of war" ; 
 
 Ne'er had the Sun from fields of cloudless light* 
 
 Majestic gaz'd on such a glorious sight, 
 
 Nations and tribes their thronging myriads pour,t 
 
 More countless than the sands which stud the shore, 
 
 Or than the shining host of stars which move 
 
 In perfect beauty through the realms above. 
 
 My Muse, assume a milder, softer strain, 
 Leave the fierce conflict and th' embattled plain, 
 Disdain not here to rest thy wing awhile, 
 Where heav'n beams brightly with her sweetest smile ; 
 Here holy love her constant vigils keeps 
 In lonely solitude, while nature sleeps, 
 Whisp'ring her comfort to the aching breast, 
 And soothing troubled sorrow into rest ; 
 Here may the wretched outcast find a home, 
 Here may the dying warrior find a tomb- 
 House of St. John, within thy quiet door 
 Hush'd was the fury of the battle's roar ; 
 'Twas thine the mourner's sinking heart to cheer, 
 And wipe from sorrow's eye the burning tear, 
 Bid sad despair and dark forebodings cease, 
 And to the anguish'd spirit whisper peace ; 
 Thy pious priests with holy love inspir'd, 
 With more than patriot zeal and courage fir'd, 
 Bid to their native land a last farewell, 
 To scenes where mem'ry fondly lov'd to dwell, 
 Fled to the still and solitary shade, 
 On wings of mercy to the captive's aid. 
 
 * See Fuller, ch 16, p. 24. 
 
 f The Princess Anna Comcna compares the myriads which pressed forward 
 to the war to the sands of the sea and the stars of heaven.— See Sutherland's 
 History of the Knights of Malta. 
 
 G 2
 
 1U 
 
 Monastic solitude ! th' unsullied spring 
 
 Of purest happiness, so poets sing !* 
 
 Alas! and does no sorrow intervene 
 
 To break the quiet stillness of the scene ? 
 
 Does pensive woe indeed forget to weep ? 
 
 Do warring passions there for ever sleep 1 
 
 O say, ye pious pilgrims, as ye shed 
 
 A tear of pity o'er the sorrowing head, 
 
 'Mid the deep silence of the gloomy night, 
 
 As sad ye watch'd the dying taper's light, 
 
 Say, did no thoughts arise, no bright regret 
 
 Of by-gone days ye never could forget ? 
 
 Still did not faithful mem'ry oft retrace 
 
 The wonted haunt, the well-remembered face ? 
 
 And as ye listen'd to the mourner's cry, 
 
 Ileav'd ye yourselves no deep responsive sigh ? — 
 
 But not for you to seek a living tomb 
 
 'Mid the sad darkness of monastic gloom. 
 
 There was a radiant form which hover'd nigh, 
 
 While fiery flashes lighten'd from her eye, 
 
 She saw where melancholy wept alone, 
 
 'Twas Valour's self — she mark'd you for her own, 
 
 She fir'd your noble bosoms to assume 
 
 The glitt'ring helmet and the nodding plume, 
 
 She bade your high-born spirits scorn to bow 
 
 Beneath the fury of a Moslem's blow, 
 
 Bravely to wrench away the heathen chain, 
 
 And give to Salem liberty again. 
 
 Unhappy Salem ! could the patriot's brand 
 
 Have sav'd thy beauty from the spoiler's hand, 
 
 * Sec Pope's Eloisa to Abelard— 
 
 How happy is the blameless vestal's lot, 
 
 The world forgetting, by the world forgot, 
 Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, 
 Each pray i accepted, and ea<
 
 85 
 
 Could the unconquer'd courage of the brave 
 Have snatch'd thee from a dark dishonour'd grave, 
 Ne'er hadst thou felt the fierce usurper's pow'r, 
 Which rag'd its fearful and predestin'd hour, 
 Ne'er midst thy cruel enemies forlorn 
 Would'st thou in hopelessness have learn'd to mourn. 
 
 Ye pilgrim knights, in vain ye dauntless stood 
 By Acre's walls, and shed your noblest blood, 
 No power could stay the dread Impostor's might, 
 And valour sunk beneath th' unequal fight. 
 The patriot's sword ye rais'd — alas ! in vain, 
 Still ruin swept o'er Salem's lonely plain ; 
 Mournful ye listen'd to her captive groan, 
 And saw a tyrant sitting on her throne, 
 Watch'd the last ling'ring of her parting ray, 
 Wept for her fate, and sadly turn'd away. — 
 
 And who are these whose looks dejected show* 
 A mighty spirit bursting with its woe ? 
 Bar'd are the breasts where many a noble scar 
 Tells of the horrors of a bloody war ; 
 Landed in Cyprus' isle their weary feet 
 Seek there a refuge and a calm retreat. 
 Can these be they whose bosoms scorn'd to fear 
 The Moslem's terrors and th' oppressor's spear, 
 Whose deeds of fame by distant nations known 
 Bade the proud tyrant tremble on his throne ? 
 The darting fury of that downcast eye 
 Proclaims a spirit which can never die. 
 
 True courage sheds its clearest, brightest light 
 O'er the dark shadows of affliction's night : 
 
 * C etoit un spectacle bien touchant de voir ces braves Chevaliers tout 
 converts de blessures, sortir de leurs vaisseaux avcc une contenance con- 
 forme a leur fortune, et penetres de douleur d' avoir survecu a la perto 
 entiere de la Terre Sainte Vertot. Liv, III.
 
 86 
 
 'Tis not the conqueror with his proud array, 
 While vanquish'd nations crouch beneath his sway, 
 While banner'd hosts the joyful poean raise, 
 And shout exultingly their hero's praise, — 
 'Tis not the world's great master in his pride 
 Borne on the swelling waves of fortune's tide, 
 Who feels that truest and sublimest glow 
 Which suff'ring worth and virtue only know ; 
 Oh ! it is felt in fortune's darkest hour, 
 When stormy clouds and gath'ring tempests low'r, 
 Full many a time its brightest rays illume 
 The silent chamber and the dungeon's gloom. 
 
 Heroic warriors ! not the threat'ning cloud, 
 
 Which hung around your heads its darken'd shroud, 
 
 Could veil the glorious splendour which arose 
 
 And flash'd its lightnings on your startled foes; 
 
 'Twas yours to spurn the fetters which would bind 
 
 The eager struggles of the lofty mind ; 
 
 Hope, ever sanguine, smil'd upon the storm, 
 
 While rainbow colours deck'd her seraph form, 
 
 Westward she beam'd her soul-inspiring ray 
 
 On Rhodes' illustrious isle, and led the way, 
 
 Till on its lofty tow'rs victorious wav'd 
 
 The flag which many a tempest's shock had brav'd. 
 
 Glory of ancient Greece, thou lovely isle, 
 Where all the seasons in their beauty smile, 
 Around whose shelving crags and rocky steeps - 
 In rich luxuriance the wild-rose creeps, 
 Beside whose streams the flow'ring laurels grow, 
 And kiss the waters as they gently flow, 
 
 * Les rosea sauvages y perfument V air de leurs suaves emanations, des 
 touffes de laurier-roso y liordcnt les ruisseauz dc lours flours eclatantes— 
 Bee Bavary'8 Letters sur la Cr6cc— Lett. l. r t.
 
 87 
 
 Where beds of fragrant myrrh are seen to bloom, 
 
 And shed around their redolent perfume ; 
 
 Well may'st thou smile for what thy sons have done, 
 
 The splendid trophies which their arms have won, 
 
 Last of the Grecian states to sheath the sword,* 
 
 And own allegiance to a Roman Lord ; 
 
 More sweetly smile than thou wast wont before, 
 
 See Christian warriors throng thy verdant shore, 
 
 Bright o'er thy native loveliness appears 
 
 The sacred cross, and points to happier years. 
 
 Heroic band ! and will the tyrant's hate 
 Pursue thee still with all the storms of fate, 
 Still unrelenting drive thee from thy rest, 
 Like the scar'd wild-dove frighted from her nest, 
 Like the poor exile wand'ring from his home 
 To seek in distant lands an unwept tomb ! 
 
 For many a rolling year thy fortress rock 
 
 Stood firm, unmov'd amid the battle's shock ; 
 
 Long time in vain against its iron side 
 
 The Turkish Sultan pour'd his rushing tide, 
 
 Till, like a giant tott'ring to his fall,t 
 
 Sunk, slowly sunk, each high and tow'ring wall! 
 
 Still as they bent their shatter'd summits low, 
 
 They look'd defiance on th' exulting foe. 
 
 'Tis night — the pale moon's silv'ry radiance fallst 
 On yonder lonely isle's deserted walls — 
 
 * " When the other Grecian states were brought under the dominion of 
 Rome, the Rhodians alone retained their laws and liberties." — See Hist, of 
 Greece. 
 
 t So shattered were the towers, that Rhodes after the siege was little 
 better than a ruin. 
 
 $ The knights, upon the conquest of Rhodes, departed thence; "the 
 embarkation took place at night ; the moans and lamentations of the 
 wanderers resounded throughout the city — even the sternest knights were
 
 88 
 
 Why weeps the warrior ? why that tearful eye ? 
 Why heaves his bosom with the bursting sigh '! 
 Sadly he gazes on the farting shore, 
 His last fond look — that land is seen no more ; 
 Dark thoughts arise, and storms of anguish roll 
 In wild disorder o'er his tortur'd soul. 
 
 Malta, thy barren rock and desert shore, 
 
 Round which the tempest and the rude winds roar, 
 
 Smile not so sweetly o'er their wild domain 
 
 As Rhodes' delicious grove and sunny plain ; 
 
 Nature in thee assumes her awful form, 
 
 Scowls in the tempest, revels in the storm, 
 
 But there, with ever-blooming verdure crown'd, 
 
 She beams her softest brightest smiles around ; 
 
 Yet though thou frown'st so darkly o'er the sea, 
 
 The wretched exiles found a home in thee ; 
 
 Upon thy rocks the sacred banner rose, 
 
 The Christian's hope, the terror of his foes ; 
 
 Undimm'd amid the furious storms of war, 
 
 Long did the Cross beam brightly from afar ; 
 
 Still smil'd defiance at the tyrant's boast,* 
 
 His mighty fleet and Dragut's pirate host. 
 
 Vain futile boast ! the Sultan on his throne 
 
 Deem'd, haughty man ! that he was God alone, 
 
 Gaz'd on his armament in all its pride 
 
 Riding majestic on the ocean's tide, 
 
 And vow'd from Malta's island rock to tear 
 
 The sacred Cross which long had triumph'd there. 
 
 There is an arm, proud tyrant, that can slay 
 Thy daring hand and break tliy ruthless sway. 
 
 overwhelmed with grief at bidding an eternal farewell to the sacred walls 
 which, for upwards of 200 years, had presented an impregnable barrier to 
 the Ottoman arms." — See Hist, of Knights of Malta. 
 
 * Soljman swore by his beard to extirpate the order.
 
 89 
 
 Turn pale, and tremble at th' avenging rod, 
 See Christian warriors kneel before their God ; 
 Before the holy altar bending low, 
 They kiss the Cross and swear the solemn vow, 
 In one acclaim their voices rend the sky, 
 Nobly resolv'd to conquer or to die. 
 
 That pray'r is heard — the glorious work is done 
 
 The battle's fought — the victory is won ; 
 Th' avenging angel rode upon the blast, 
 Spreading destruction as he onward pass'd, 
 Tracking his course with wings of flaming light* 
 Athwart the gloomy darkness of the night ; 
 Before the battle's tide were swept away 
 That gorgeous armament and proud array- 
 Brave and intrepid band ! above thy head 
 Benignant heav'n its covert banner spread ; 
 Thy holy shrines and altars, bath'd in blood, 
 The glorious monuments of valour stood. 
 
 Alas ! that e'er thy virtue should decay, 
 That worth and excellence should pass away ! 
 Fain would my muse still trace thy bright career 
 Through fields of light unsullied by a tear ; 
 Fain would she leave the deep and darkling gloom 
 That broods in mournful sadness o'er thy tomb ; 
 Pensive she hangs her lyre on sorrow's urn, 
 And sighs for days which never can return. 
 
 Shades of those warriors whose immortal fame 
 Sheds a bright halo round the Christian name, 
 Who spurn'd from freedom's neck the slavish yoke, 
 And the dread fetters of th' oppressor broke, 
 
 * The Knights used large hoops made of light wood soaked in a combus- 
 tible preparation, which they set on fire, and threw into the midst of the 
 enemy, and thereby caused great slaughter.
 
 1)0 
 
 Weep for your children, o'er the mournful bier 
 
 Of foul dishonour shed a pitying tear ; 
 
 See them, alas! of all their glory reft, 
 
 No vestige of their former splendour left, 
 
 Bending the knee in suppliant homage low* 
 
 To Europe's tyrant, Europe's deadliest foe ; 
 
 See o'er your graves the haughty Frenchmen tread, 
 
 Where sleep the ashes of the mighty dead ; 
 
 Behold your offspring, like a shrunken oak 
 
 Blasted and wither'd by the thunder-stroke, 
 
 A wretched spectre of the past, forlorn 
 
 In desolation, and the mark of scorn, 
 
 Dispers'd, unknown, and wand'ring through the earth, 
 
 The sad dim relics of departed worth ! 
 
 Still would we gaze upon a brighter ray 
 Which tells the splendour of their former day ; 
 Still would we fondly linger for awhile 
 Amid the glories of the Grecian isle ; 
 Still stand on Malta's rock, and watch afar 
 The beaming radiance of the hero's star; 
 Still trace it in its flight, and see it fling 
 A glitt'ring lustre from its parting wing. 
 
 Thus have I watch'd in evening's tranquil hour, 
 Ere yet the gloom of night begins to Iow'r, 
 The sun fast hast'ning in his westward flight, 
 Flinging o'er ocean's wave his setting light. 
 I low fair the scene, the waters as they flow 
 Now sparkle bright, and now more dimly glow, 
 Rippling in faintest murmurs as they pour 
 A flood of liquid lustre to the shore ; 
 
 * So much, in later times, did the Knights of Malta degenerate, that 
 Ruonaparte declared that he could never have taken Malta, unless the 
 craven Knights had opened the sate for him.
 
 91 
 
 The sun has set, — but still a trembling beam 
 In softest shadows lingers on the stream, 
 Smiling its last upon the lovely scene 
 To tell how glorious that Sun has been. 
 
 THE WILD ROSE AND THE THISTLE. 
 
 PRIDE AND HUMILITY. 
 BY MRS. CURTtES, READING. 
 
 An Eglantine, by nature vain. 
 
 Flaunted her flow'rets to the gale, 
 
 While a plain Thistle, growing near, 
 Sheltered a lily of the vale. 
 
 Dear Zephyr, said the haughty flower, 
 Blow hard against that Thistle's shoot, 
 
 I31ow hard, and tear it up, that dares 
 Cumber the ground so near my root ! 
 
 Does it forget that I am sprung 
 From Icosandria's noble race, 
 
 And am allied to flowers and fruits 
 That erst in Paradise had place ? 
 
 The Thistle modestly replied, 
 Little have I to boast, 'tis true, 
 
 My race less ancient too, I own, 
 For Thistles ne'er in Eden grew ;
 
 92 
 
 Your fragrant breath'.-; the gift of heaven, 
 But the same voice that hade you bloom, 
 
 Commissioned me to work his will 
 
 When he pronounced fall'n Adam's doom. 
 
 The wanton flow' ret tossed its head, 
 And caught a little urchin's eye, 
 
 Who, full of life and loving flowers, 
 Was at that moment passing by. 
 
 He seized, he broke the tender shrub, 
 And well nigh tore it from the ground ; 
 
 Fainting and sad, it humbled saw 
 Its blushing honors strewed around, 
 
 While in content the Thistle stood, 
 Unheeded, and devoid of pride, 
 
 Protectress still of the meek flower, 
 That sought a shelter by its side. 
 
 ODE TO CHARITY. 
 ]}V J. AV. PARTRIDGE, ESQ., HORSFORTll 
 
 Hail Charity, thou loveliest form of good, 
 
 Thy cheering beams our clay-cold hearts dilate 
 Sweetly dispel the gloom of earth's dire curse, 
 
 Restore the peace of man's primeval state ; 
 Earth without thee is a wild wilderness 
 
 And man a wretch no pencil can portray : 
 Fierce passion drives his weather-beaten bark 
 
 Through the rough waves of life's tempestuous sea ; 
 But thou canst calm e'en passion's boisterous wave, 
 
 Canst bid that troubled ocean be at rest; 
 Oh ! come, celestial maiden, now descend 
 
 And sweetly shed thine influence o'er my breast.
 
 93 
 
 PITY. 
 
 BY JOHN CAWOOD, ESQ., LEEDS. 
 
 When sickness pale, or frenzied notions, 
 With dread o'erwhelm the human soul, 
 
 Sweet pity, then thy soft emotions 
 Can pain assuage or fear control. 
 
 I saw the cheek with hectic flushing, 
 
 I saw the sunken eye of care, 
 I saw from hope the last streams gushing 
 
 To feed the gnawworm of despair. 
 
 But then I saw a lovely creature, 
 
 With pity beaming in her eye, 
 Assiduous soothe these pangs of nature, 
 
 And plant a smile when heaved a sigh. 
 
 LIFE. 
 BY EDWARD MOXON. 
 
 Ah me ! this little life will soon run out ; 
 
 Methinks I feel myself already old, 
 
 Eyes dim, limbs stiff, step feeble, and blood cold, 
 With youth no longer flushed or vigour stout. 
 Thus is it with us all ; we start at first 
 
 Eager as panting steeds the race to run ; 
 Age comes ere half the hopes we fondly nursed 
 
 Have scarcely yet to blossom e'en begun. 
 Thus is it with us all : time's calm fore-warning 
 
 We heed not till the noon of life is past. 
 Swift are the wings of youth ; the brightest morning 
 
 Fadeth the soonest ; thus we hasten fast 
 Whether in joy or grief, an endless river 
 Entering that sea whose tide returueth never.
 
 94 
 
 THE EYE. 
 BY T. SWALE, ESQ,. 
 
 What is the little lurking spell 
 That hovers round the eye, 
 
 Without a voice, a word can tell 
 The feelings as they fly. 
 
 When tearless, it can speak of woe, 
 When weeping, still the same, 
 
 Or in a moment catch the glow 
 Of thoughts without a name : 
 
 Can beam with pity on the poor, 
 With anger on the proud ; 
 
 Can tell that it will much endure, 
 Or flash upon the crowd. 
 
 Now brightly raised, or now depressed, 
 With every shade of feeling, 
 
 It is the mirror of the breast, 
 The thought, the soul revealing. 
 
 Oh ! tones are false, and words are weak, 
 
 The tutored slaves at call ; 
 The eye, the eye alone can speak, 
 
 I n lettered, tell us all !
 
 o:> 
 
 AN EXTRACT 
 
 FROM THE JOURNAL OF A BRITISH OFFICER WHO SERVED 
 
 IN THE BURMESE WAR IN 
 
 1824. 
 
 On the Gth of August a few Burnians arrived at Rangoon 
 in two canoes, who stated that they had escaped from a 
 village on the Dalla side of the river. On heing examined 
 they made the following statement. " From an ordinance 
 having heen issued for a general levy of men in the Dalla 
 district the whole country is in disorder. The inhabitants 
 have refused to comply with it, and a chief of high rank has 
 been sent down to enforce obedience. During the disturbances 
 which consequently took place, we found means to escape, 
 and have come hither for protection." Permission to remain 
 was granted to them; and the information which they had 
 communicated being in some measure corroborated by others, 
 Sir Archibald Campbell was induced to send, on Sunday the 
 8th, a detachment of four hundred men, consisting of Madras 
 Europeans, Native Infantry, some artillery and sailors, under 
 the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Kelly, to attack any part 
 of the enemy's line that he might fall in with, and to act 
 otherwise as from circumstances he might judge requisite. 
 We had not proceeded far up the Dalla creek, before several 
 of the enemy were observed escaping in canoes from some 
 chokeys on the banks. The General's boat being well 
 managed and unencumbered with troops gave way in chase, 
 when, on opening a point, two stockades were seen on the 
 opposite side of the creek. Fortunately she had got suffi- 
 ciently a-head to return and give notice, before the rest of the
 
 9f> 
 
 boats, which were advancing with a strong flood tide, became 
 exposed, and the whole were brought under cover of a bank 
 until arrangements for proceeding farther were made. The 
 advance then sounded. Badly as the Bengalees in the row- 
 boats had often behaved, they were now worse than ever; 
 getting their boats foul without pulling, and then leaving the 
 troops exposed to the enemy's fire, while they drifted nearly 
 under the stockade. After endeavouring in vain to get the 
 row-boats on, the General's boat, in which Col. Kelly then 
 was, cheered and pulled past to support Lieut. Frazer, who 
 was advancing; but, from the difficulty of getting up to the 
 Stockade when landed, on account of mud, together with the 
 bad conduct of the rowers, much damage was done, and it 
 required the best exertions of the soldiers and seamen to end 
 the business successfully. The Stockades were at length car- 
 ried by assault, the enemy running out as our troops entered, 
 leaving only two or three dead behind them. Our loss con- 
 sisted of six killed and thirty-nine wounded. Among the 
 latter were three officers. I received a ball in the head. 
 
 It was generally supposed that the people who came in on 
 the 6th had been sent by the Burmese for the purpose of 
 decoying us into a scrape. Had not the Stockades been seen 
 before the whole detachment became exposed, our loss would 
 probably have been much greater. Arrangements could not 
 then have been made, and the boats might have drifted to a 
 part of the bank where we could not have landed. 
 
 The same day another detachment was sent to Siriam, but 
 returned the following evening without having seen the enemy. 
 Being for some time after confined to bed, and unable to 
 speak, I was in a great measure ignorant of what was going 
 on ; from what I heard, however, it appeared that the 
 Governor of Siriam had been sent for in chains by the Prince 
 of Sarawaddy, for allowing that place to be taken : that, after 
 having had his head kept three days on a block for the pur- 
 pose of being taken off, he was allowed to return to his 
 government on promising to become more zealous in future. 
 This led him to keep parties »m the look-out, who, unfortu-
 
 97 
 
 nately were too successful. A boat belonging to the General 
 Wood transport was shortly afterwards captured, and some 
 Lascars, who were fishing, taken prisoners. Sentries were often 
 seen sitting like monkeys on the highest trees of the neigh- 
 bouring jungles; they communicated with parties on the look- 
 out, and if an unfortunate straggler was discovered, he was in 
 all probability taken prisoner, and then tortured to death. 
 From the body of one of that boat's crew, which was after- 
 wards found, it appeared that pieces of flesh had been torn 
 off with an instrument, and that the sufferer had then been 
 speared till death terminated his sufferings. When I received 
 my wound I was looking towards one of the angles of the 
 Stockade, where, as it appeared to be in an unfinished state, 
 1 thought we might enter. My attention had been so com- 
 pletely occupied that I was somewhat surprised when I was 
 knocked down. I soon, however, found out that I had received 
 a shot ; my nerves were immediately affected, and I can 
 scarcely describe the sensation which I experienced ; but if 
 the ball of the right thumb be struck into the palm of the left 
 hand, a sensation will be created which in some respects 
 resembles what I felt throughout my body. My head and 
 legs were both drawn upwards, and I imagined I was killed. 
 My heart was singularly affected, but not altogether unplea- 
 santly, and it has often surprised me that I felt no regret at 
 the idea of dying, but only wished the last struggle at an end. 
 My senses were quite perfect, though I could not move ; yet 
 every thing passed through my mind with amazing rapidity. 
 Whilst lying in this state quite reconciled to the idea of dying, 
 something, which I took to be the ball, came from my throat 
 with a rush of blood, and passed through my mouth. I suddenly 
 felt confident that the wound was not mortal; but the teeth, 
 jaw, and part of the tongue, which had been cut, getting into 
 the throat, I began to think I should be suffocated : much 
 blood also issued from the wound. Some of the men who had 
 seen me fall now came to my assistance. I was able to tell them 
 to keep up my head and reach my sword which had slipped 
 from my hand. I was then put into a row-boat, and after 
 
 H
 
 98 
 
 I be Stockades were taken, sent with two other wounded officers 
 to Rangoon. At the moment the ball struck me, I was stand- 
 ing near the top of a slope, down which I fell, pitching on my 
 right shoulder. The first inquiry the surgeons made was for 
 the ball. I wrote, as well as I was able, that it had come from 
 my mouth. This they did not seem to credit, but I felt con- 
 fident that I was not mistaken. The first evening, fever 
 coming on, I was put into a warm bath, and bled from the 
 arm, although I bad lost a considerable quantity of blood 
 from the wound. The second night I was worse, and opium 
 was given to me. I awoke twice, and was able to ask the men 
 who were watching over me what was the hour. I felt sick, 
 and on both occasions the lamp that was burning appeared as if 
 it was going out. In the morning, however, I was better, and 
 I believe that I afterwards gradually improved, although the 
 pain was not so violent on the first day, as it was on the two 
 days subsequent to receiving my wound. It entirely prevented 
 me from sleeping for near a fortnight, except twice, when opium 
 was given to me. At the end of that time I became easier, but 
 was unable to sleep more than half an hour at once for the 
 space of two months. I lost the sense of touching : my fingers 
 and toes and joints were affected, and I could not raise my 
 bead without assistance. The head was terribly shaken. 
 
 On the 2Gth of August, the surgeons being of opinion that I 
 should not, for some time, be fit for duty, and that I ought to 
 return to England, I was sent on board the Roberts transport 
 to Calcutta. On the passage, finding the tongue had adhered 
 to the jaw in healing, and, there being no surgeon on board, 
 F cut it away with my penknife. 
 
 On the 28th of October I again embarked on board a free- 
 trader for England.
 
 99 
 
 LINES 
 
 'VRITTEN ON READING THE PRECEDING NARRATIVE, BY A MEMBER OF THE 
 TEMPLE AND A MEDALIST OP CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 'Twas noon, and silence o'er the sultry plain 
 
 Held universal rule, save when the roar 
 
 Of frighted buffalo proelaim'd aloud 
 
 The Chitar's neighbourhood : nor does the thrush 
 
 Or nightingale of Europe hush to sleep 
 
 The wearied husbandman ; for, not to thee 
 
 Is given, O India, to beguile thy pain 
 
 With these celestial songsters' melody. 
 
 I stood alone and watched where waved in air 
 
 The glitt'ring standard of the savage host, 
 
 Its ample bosom open'd to the gate. 
 
 There was an anxious panting in my heart, 
 
 A ceaseless tremor in my eager nerves, 
 
 Such as is felt by warriors before 
 
 The roar of battle, when the silent plains 
 
 Form a sad contrast to the din of arms. 
 
 Sudden that beating ceases : ev'ry nerve 
 
 By a strong spasm contracted and benumbed 
 
 Forgets its proper functions ! Am I dead 
 
 Or living? Are these twinkling stars, which rise 
 
 Continuous, and fall when scarcely seen, 
 
 Delusive phantoms of my wand'ring thoughts ? 
 
 Or far supernal worlds to earth unknown ? 
 
 The phantoms vanish, and within my heart 
 
 The quick vibration of my shatter'd pulse 
 
 Causes a pleasing anguish, and the power, 
 
 Which at a distance viewed, curdles the blood. 
 
 h2
 
 100 
 
 The boldest breast unnerving horrid death, 
 
 Now grown familiar, causes little fear, 
 
 And loses all the terrors of his form. 
 
 So when the youthful courser tries his speed 
 
 Amid the throng of crowds, each rock, each stone 
 
 Causes new terrors, and in all he sees 
 
 Such horrid phantoms, as the sicken'd brain 
 
 Creates in visions ; but when nearer view'd 
 
 He sees unmov'd the unoffending mass, 
 
 And its fantastic horrors disappear. 
 
 In that dread moment when I fell to earth, 
 
 And each corporeal faculty was still, 
 
 My mind remain'd uninjur'd, and I thought 
 
 Of life and death, and of eternity, 
 
 As calmly and as unappal'd, as erst 
 
 When far from danger in my native land 
 
 I thought of battles and the pomp of war, 
 
 As of a splendid vision. Ah! what hope ! 
 
 Rapid as light'ning passes thro' my breast, 
 
 Life may be sav'd unless too long delay'd, 
 
 Help comes in vain to stay my fleeting breath ! 
 
 Vain are my groans if I assay to speak ! 
 
 The thick gore suffocates the lab'ring words, 
 
 Pours from the wound and curdles in my throat. 
 
 There is a morning to the darkest night, 
 
 And from my tortur'd bosom, when each hope 
 
 Seems fled for ever, unexpected joy. 
 
 Assistance comes, surrounding friends proclaim 
 
 The wound not mortal, and again I live.
 
 101 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN BV ONE WHO, AS CHAPLAIN TO THE FORCES, HAS OFTEN PERFORMED 
 
 OVER THE REMAINS OF THE DECEASED SOLDIER 
 
 THE LAST RITES OF RELIGION. 
 
 "Cari sunt parentes, cari liberi, propinqui, familiares ; sed omnes 
 omnium caritates patria una complexa est ; pro qua quis bonus dubitet 
 mortem oppetere, si ei sit profuturus ?" — Cicero. 
 
 The soldier's grave ! how small the place, 
 
 How narrow that lone bed, 
 Which now contains whate'er could grace 
 
 A valiant hero's head. 
 
 Undaunted courage, noble pride, 
 
 High honour bravely won, 
 A generous soul were all allied 
 
 In Albion's manly son. 
 
 On distant shores, in tented field, 
 
 In fort or sacred ground, 
 The warrior lies who ne'er could yield, 
 
 Unless with victory crowned ! 
 
 Remember then the soldier's grave, 
 
 'Tis gratitude's demand : 
 Firm on the heart he died to save, 
 
 A tablet there should stand.
 
 102 
 
 FORGET ME NOT. 
 
 BY C. 11. M. 
 
 Forget me not, tho' seas may flow 
 Between us ; midst Siberia's snow 
 
 My foot may traverse deserts fell, 
 Or burning suns of southern shore 
 Their fierce beams on my head may pour, 
 
 Thou in my memory still shalt dwell. 
 
 The joys that other scenes impart 
 From off the tablet of my heart 
 
 Shall ne'er erase, nor wear away 
 Tlie form of beauty graven there ; 
 Too deep the lines and far too fair — 
 
 Too bright the image to decay. 
 
 Forget me not — No, tho' delight 
 Shall woo me in the halls of light 
 
 Where noble dames and damsels move ; 
 No, though a host of friends shall blc ■-- 
 My future, and around shall press 
 Their love's sincerity to prove. 
 
 I'll not forget thee, tho' the eye 
 That softly beams in apathy 
 
 When I approach shall turn nway ; 
 Nor though the sunlight of thy smile, 
 Which erst could all my cares beguile, 
 
 Should cease upon thy lip to plaj
 
 103 
 
 Forget ine not — forget thee ! no ! 
 The tide of life may fail to flow, 
 
 Yet surely in my strength's decline 
 Memory will closer cling to me ; 
 As ivy boughs on aged tree 
 
 In its decay more firmly twine. 
 
 And when my pulse shall cease to beat, 
 My spirit from its earthly seat 
 
 Wing its way heavenward blithe and free, 
 When death the golden bowl shall shiver, 
 The silver cord be loosed for ever, 
 
 My last prayer shall ascend for thee. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND 
 
 ON HER EXPRESSING AMAZEMENT THAT THE AUTHOR HAD NO WISH EVER TO 
 BE* A GREATER PERSONAGE THAN SHE WAS AT THAT TIME. 
 
 BY MRS. PERRING, LEEDS. 
 
 Oh, look not thus amazed, fair lady, 
 
 Nor wonder when I tell 
 That I have no ambition 
 
 In a higher sphere to dwell ; 
 That wealth and power no charms possess, 
 
 That tempt my heart to roam, 
 But all my hopes and happiness 
 
 Are center'd in my home.
 
 101 
 
 Who would not be content, fair lady, 
 
 With such a lot as mine ? 
 Why should I wish a coronet 
 
 Upon my brow to shine, 
 When brightly sparkle at my board 
 
 So many youthful eyes? 
 These, lady, are my treasur'd hoard, 
 
 The jewels that / prize. 
 
 'Tis sweet to kiss the cherub lip 
 
 Of smiling infancy, 
 Or listen to the prattling babe 
 
 That fondly clasps my knee ; 
 Or on the young inquiring mind 
 
 The seeds of knowledge sow, 
 And watch the opening bud to find 
 
 When summer suns shall glow. 
 
 Oh, blame me not, nor say my joys 
 
 Are mean and worthless things, 
 I would not change them for the toys 
 
 That glitt'ring fashion brings ; 
 Yet think not my desires are dull, 
 
 My spirit poor or tame ; 
 I love the bright, the beautiful, 
 
 In Nature's wide domain. 
 
 I love the glories of the morn, 
 
 When in the purple easl 
 The rising sun the clouds adorn 
 
 A many-colour'd ve.-i . 
 I love the gentle twilight hour 
 
 Ere yet the dews have shed 
 Their pearly drops on leaf and flow'r, 
 
 Day's lingering tints have fled.
 
 105 
 
 I love to watch the rising moon 
 
 Ascend the azure sky, 
 To see the gems of night array'd 
 
 In all their majesty ; 
 To feel the deep enchanting thrill, 
 
 The exquisite del ight, 
 To wonder, worship, and be still, 
 
 Rapt in those scenes of light. 
 
 I love the harmony of thought 
 
 That kindred spirits know ; 
 The joy that springs from converse sweet, 
 
 The pleasure books bestow ; 
 The winter-evening's cheerful scene, 
 
 When friends around are met, 
 And wisdom shines with wit between, 
 
 A pearl in diamonds set. 
 
 Oh, marvel not, fair lady, 
 
 When I say I am content ; 
 Shall bliss like mine be lightly prized ? 
 
 Just Heaven the thought prevent ! 
 Love, children, home, deep feelings, all 
 
 Their heartfelt int'rest join ; 
 Thou may'st for richer prospects call, 
 But leave, oh ! leave me mine !
 
 lOrt 
 
 ENDYMION AND PONT 0. 
 
 AN ACADEMIC TALE. 
 
 I'.Y THE ItEV. GEORGE AYLIFPE POOLE, M.A. 
 
 MY0O2 El<T£V1]V£KTai VkOQ 
 
 Eurip. Ion. 1339. 
 
 Perhaps it is scarce desirable to give the interest of historic 
 narrative to a jeu d'esprit, whose province is rather to amuse 
 than to move or to instruct. Yet it can do no harm to say, 
 that the following Legend of a highly gifted individual, of a 
 highly endowed race, is to this day reported and believed at 
 Cambridge, 
 
 " Where yet they tell his tricks for truth."* 
 
 In proportion, however, as his mind and his habits of 
 thought are of a high order, the reader will be indifferent to 
 the truth of the story : or perhaps he may even delight in it the 
 rather if he take it for a work of pure fiction ; remembering 
 the profound dictum of the prince of critics and philosophers, 
 <j)i\o<To<Pu)TepOv tcai anovcawrepov iroirjaiq laroplag tarlv 
 i) fiev yap iroirjenc /.iciWov TA KA0OAOY, rj ci' iQTopia 
 TA KA0' EKAITON Xt'ya.t Considered, then, as a 
 splendid myth, the story here given will not be without the 
 praise of the discerning and intellectual reader ; who will find 
 in it, if I mistake not, no very dubious or distant relation to that 
 
 I Jack the Gyant Killer. Pytto, i 
 
 t Aristotelis, dc urtc poet.
 
 107 
 
 with winch Homer opens the Iliad ; where, doubtless for ;i deeper 
 reason than appears, he makes the excited rage of Apollo 
 vent itself in the first instance on dogs and asses (or mules,) 
 OVpJ/ae fttv irpurot' eiruy^ETo, teat ftvvac ct pyovc'* 
 
 Still, however, for my own part, I cannot but repose on the 
 thought, that the legend is not only instinct with important 
 meaning, but is in fact true : for even that most gorgeous of 
 all traditionary tales, Tom Thumb, has ever seemed to me to 
 owe at least as much to the evidence which is afforded of its 
 truth by its general reception among all civilised nations, as 
 to its literary merit, its deep moral, or any other circumstance 
 whatever. 
 
 Finally, there is a grave warning very necessary for all who 
 would definitively pronounce upon the truth or falsehood of 
 this and of every such like narration. Let them not judge 
 hastily, nor without much thought, and great exertion of such 
 intellect as they may haply possess ; 
 
 For till they're understood, all tales 
 (Like nonsense) are not true nor false.f 
 
 Coldly regardless of the pain 
 
 When friendship's links are broken; 
 And cords that ne'er unite again, 
 By some rude hands are snapt in twain, 
 A Tutor thus had spoken : — 
 
 " No more an undergraduate 
 " To keep within the college gate 
 
 ". A dog will I permit : 
 " Each cur that longer stays too late 
 " Shall rue the inexorable fate 
 
 " Of poison, cord, or pit." 
 
 * Homeri Mas, A. 50. I Iludibras, iii. 1,
 
 10H 
 
 'Twas said : all heard the dread behest, 
 And anguish filled each faithful breast. 
 Oh ! nought avails the sleekest fur, 
 
 Nought the beseeching sigh : 
 And while each gownsman with a moan 
 Rears o'er his dog the funeral stone, 
 Or leaves him friendless and alone, 
 To sicken, pine, and die : 
 He oft laments, " Alas my cur!" 
 
 And echo, quite a classic grown 
 With constant sight of cap and gown, 
 As often answers " Why ?" * 
 
 Nor yet less forcibly appeal, 
 To eye, to ear, to heart, to heel, 
 The race quadrupedal. 
 
 By Ostracism barbarous, 
 Expatriate, from house to house 
 
 Their masters and their dinners seek, 
 With bark, and look, and whine, 
 (Alas ! how useless all !) 
 
 Erewhile the happy plump and sleek, 
 The ragged now and thin. 
 
 Cam heard of men the general groan, 
 
 Of dogs the general yell, 
 Thro' all her banks : nor heard alone, 
 Dogs dead and living frequent thrown, 
 With or without the appendant stone, 
 
 Upon her waters fell, 
 
 * " In the bogs of old Paddy-land too, 
 
 Certain talented echoes thcro dwell, 
 Who, on being asked " How do you do " ? 
 Politely reply, " Pretty well." " 
 
 Moore.
 
 109 
 
 Which sadly bear the corpses down 
 f Of dogs that die, and dogs that drown. 
 
 One matchless couple, dog and master, 
 Escape the general disaster : 
 
 An amiable youth, Endymion, 
 
 (Few were worse read in the belles lettres, 
 And in the " Sporting Mag." few better) 
 
 Ponto, in every one's opinion, 
 A most incomparable setter, 
 Endymion's greatest pride and joy, 
 And ever ready to employ 
 His skill vehicular to do 
 Whate'er his master told him to. 
 
 With academic dress and mien 
 
 (Not with a hat like any fellow, 
 But both in trencher and prunello,) 
 One morn across the college green 
 The Tutor passed : the tyrant he 
 Who'd just promulged the stern decree, 
 For every dog's expatriation, 
 Or death within his domination. 
 
 Endymion saw, and seeing caught 
 The nice occasion quick as thought. 
 Whistling his dog with careless air, 
 As if unconscious who was there, 
 " Ponto" said he : — (and Ponto came 
 Briskly responsive to his name): — 
 " Ponto, old boy !" with upturned phiz 
 Looking enquiringly at his, 
 
 And gently oscillating tail — 
 " What would you have, Sir ?" Ponto said, 
 As dogs, if elegantly bred, 
 
 Know how to say full well.
 
 110 
 
 " Go Ponto, fetch me : — lot me Bee ; 
 " linNESTi's Cicero, Vol. hi. 
 
 " You'll find it — but you can't mistake, 
 " The book is lettered at the back." 
 
 Off Ponto ran, meanwhile the Tutor, 
 Shocked at the Babylonish sound 
 Of dog-call in his college ground, 
 From one in pupillary state, 
 A speech severe 'gan meditate, 
 
 But when he caught with ears arrect, 
 The strange command, he thought, " Ne sutor 
 Ultra crcphlam" nor guessed 
 What wonders next he might expect, 
 Since one who scarcely seemed to know 
 His Euclid from his Cicero, 
 At least implicitly professed he, 
 Kept dogs acquainted with Ernesti. 
 
 Thus musing the grave Don addressed, 
 The lord of the sagacious beast : 
 
 " Your dog, Sir, scampers on his message, 
 
 Disturbed by no unlucky presage : 
 
 But you are certainly aware 
 
 Of my most strict determination, 
 Duly made known by proclamation : 
 
 And that there's no exception there, 
 
 In favour of such dogs as share 
 An academic education, 
 
 As well as academic air. 
 
 Yet since 'tis readily confessed, 
 
 Tliat learned dogs are not expressed 
 
 If Ponto really bring to me 
 
 Ernesti's Cicero, Vol. hi. 
 
 In admiration of a knowledge. 
 
 That casts such lustre on our college
 
 Ill 
 
 I grant him (what the learned call 
 " Fire and water") ; that is, all 
 Freedom and life within the wall, 
 And right of Commons and of Hall. 
 
 Soon to receive not empty praise, 
 
 But liberty and life beside, 
 (More worth to him than wreath of bays 
 Or bard's commendatory lays, 
 Or e'en a Laureate's Butt of Sack, 
 Or any other food for pride 
 Or stimulant of vanity,) 
 Ponto in haste comes running back, 
 And at Endymion's feet he lays — 
 Ernesti's Cicero, Vol. hi. 
 
 FAREWELL TO CAMBRIDGE. 
 BY THE REV. ROBERT RIDSDALE, M.A. 
 
 LATE FELLOW OF CLARE HALL, AND RECTOR OF TILLINGTON, NEAR PETWORTH, 
 
 SUSSEX. 
 
 Granta, farewell ! the busy dreams are fled 
 Thou once did'st foster ; and farewell thy meads 
 Where Cam its course in fond meander leads, 
 
 Silent and easy as the life I led. 
 
 For oft on me the summer's morning smiPd, 
 Breathing its incense thro' the live-long day, 
 And evening, too, would spread her purple ray,
 
 11:2 
 
 \iid hope, by i';mcy fed, my hours beguil'd. 
 
 And if a passing care this breast forlorn 
 At time should harbour, 'twas a pleasing pain, 
 Springing from thoughts of her in memory's train, 
 Whose smile was dearer than the blush of morn. 
 For her I gladly bid thy scenes farewell, 
 In hope of future blessedness to dwell. 
 
 RETURN TO OXFORD. 
 
 BY AN OLD FRIEND OF TITO AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Shall 1 again return to lead a college life, 
 
 In cloistered walls and sacred bovv'rs, free from the din of strife ? 
 No ! Let me stay in this sweet vale, 
 On Isis' streams no more to sail, 
 But lead a rural life : 
 In some neat cot I fain would dwell — 
 I'd pass my time in living well — 
 
 Bless'd by a loving wife. 
 
 It can't be so : alas! it can't, for we must soon — soon part, 
 Yet, in this still secluded vale, I leave a ling'ring heart. 
 <l Old Father Thames" I soon must see, 
 Tho' Irwell's streams have charms for me — '- 
 
 Charms of another kind : 
 
 O yes ! soon cap and gown I'll leave — 
 
 Unwed from them, I shall not grieve, 
 
 And then, I'll Laura find.
 
 113 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF " THE EXCURSION." 
 
 BY W. A. JACKSON, HEADINGLEY. 
 
 Wordsworth ! divinest name that poesy 
 
 In her long roll hath given unto men; 
 
 Who, in an age and land unworthy thee, 
 
 Hast strung the everlasting harp again 
 
 Of Him who sung of Holiness and Truth — 
 
 His song as sweet and heavenly as his theme — 
 
 And Him, still greater, on whose soul did beam 
 
 The light of Paradise and primal youth. 
 
 O long as nature, tby great tutor, reigns, 
 
 While rocks, and woods, and streams salute the sky, 
 
 Shall live thy pure and soul ennobling strains, 
 
 Embalm'd in fresh and fragrant memory ! 
 
 In future times revered, tho' now forgot, 
 
 And then a prophet, though we know thee not.
 
 114 
 
 ENIGMA 
 
 1. 
 
 BY THE LATE M. T. SADLER, ESQ,. F.R.S. 
 
 Sometimes thro' two broad eyes I stare, 
 
 Sometimes I see with one, 
 But when my face is smooth and fair, 
 
 I oftener do with none ; 
 Sometimes I measure six feet tall, 
 
 And have in battles been, 
 Sometimes I am so very small, 
 
 I, through a glass, am seen : 
 I've always hands— not always toes, 
 
 And then I have no nails ; 
 Sometimes no mouth— but teeth, in rows, 
 
 Scarce one of which e'er fails. 
 When coarse attire my limbs enfold, 
 
 My voice is loud and strong — 
 But when adorn'd in silk or gold, 
 
 I'm silent all day long. 
 When I'm thus fine, my case is hard, 
 
 Tho' still I hold my tongue, 
 Sometimes confln'd— of light debarr'd— 
 
 And sometimes I am hung. 
 I'm oftener set— but never grow, 
 
 And still I keep close by ; 
 Tho' when you lie I always go, 
 
 And when you stand I lie. 
 
 Solution— A WATCH.
 
 115 
 
 ENIGMA 
 
 2. 
 BY THE LATE M. T. SADLER, ESQ. F.R.S. 
 
 When I am heard I'm never seen, 
 
 When seen I'm never heard 
 
 Sometimes a substance I have been, 
 
 And sometimes but a word ; 
 A senseless sound — I oft express 
 
 More than the tongue dare tell : 
 I ope the eloquent address, 
 
 And aid the stammerer well. 
 Two eyes to make me I demand, 
 
 More oft are three combin'd, 
 All in the head — one in the hand- 
 One needing sight, but blind. 
 The little maidens, many a time, 
 
 Transpierce me, as they list, 
 And only in the Eastern clime, 
 
 I'm taken up and kissed. 
 Had man retain'd his innocence, 
 
 I never had been known, 
 Tho' void myself of all offence, 
 
 A thousand faults I own. 
 Oft do I humbly sweep the ground, 
 
 Oft wipe the loveliest face, 
 And day and night I circle round, 
 
 The fair in my embrace. 
 
 Solution. " HEM." 
 i 2
 
 116 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 BY GEORGE MICKLETIIWAIT STANSFELD, ESQ. LEEDS. 
 
 My first tho' strange is last of all, 
 
 Which all must e'en possess, 
 
 You'll find me both in large and small, 
 
 If not both would be less. 
 
 I'm seen in vallies, dales, and hills, 
 
 Love cannot do without me, 
 
 And yet 'tis strange in all the ills 
 
 Of life you're sure to find me. 
 
 I live in all, e'en life must fade, 
 
 Unless its chiefest stay T made. 
 
 In every zone my second's found, 
 
 Both moderate, hot and cold ; 
 
 I live in noise, exist in sound, 
 
 Am found in young and old ; 
 
 Hope would without me be but small, 
 
 And joy would joyless be, 
 
 Of pain severe I tell a tale, 
 
 Yet oft am named in glee. 
 
 I am not straight, nor do I bend, 
 
 But like old time I have no end. 
 
 Vain is the word by which you'd know 
 
 Whate'er my third can be, 
 
 You sometimes see me here below, 
 
 But Heaven containeth me. 
 
 1 form a part in every vow, 
 
 However insincere.
 
 117 
 
 I'm great in vengeance, but I know 
 I cannot make you fear. 
 Virtue and vice tho' strange to say, 
 Without me could not last a day. 
 
 Earth, ocean, and the firmament, 
 
 The viewless end of space, 
 
 Fire, water, every element, 
 
 Of me possess a trace. 
 
 Beginning of eternity, 
 
 Yet still the last of time, 
 
 I dwell in peace, serenity, 
 
 Fear, anger, and all crime. 
 
 My whole I've told thee, now adieu, 
 
 My whole I give thee firm and true. 
 
 Solution. LOVE. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 BY GRIFFITH WRIGHT, ESQ. 
 
 I am a graceful useful thing, 
 
 And serve the Peasant, Peer, and King, 
 
 Sometimes with head and tail I'm seen— 
 
 Yet, without both I oft have been. 
 
 Altho' I've neither ears nor eyes, 
 
 I'm various colours, shapes and size. 
 
 I'm sometimes rough and sometimes smooth, 
 
 I'm seen in Theatre, Church, and Booth, 
 
 But yet, so various in my dress, 
 
 You'll find my name, perhaps, hard to guess. 
 
 SOLUTION. 
 This thing, that is useful to small and to big, 
 I should guess very likely to be, what ? A WIG.
 
 118 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 DY W. H. B. STOCKER, U. A., 
 
 INCUMBENT OF HOnSFORTH. 
 
 What brightly beams in heaven above, 
 
 The attribute of faithful love, 
 
 The weary traveller's greatest joy, 
 
 A bird instructed to decoy, 
 
 The vessel's hope on stormy shore, 
 
 A tenant of the woods of yore, 
 
 An insect for its labor known, 
 
 A gay attendant on a throne, 
 
 The sacred spot where love is blest, 
 
 That whose sweet strings can lull to rest, 
 
 Places for learning far renowned, 
 
 A sign of sway where Kings are crowned. 
 
 Arrange the initials of the thing 
 Each line may to your memory bring ; 
 And a voluptuous monarch's there, 
 Who rose in fire from earth to air.
 
 119 
 
 FIRST SOLUTION. 
 
 BY ISABELLA AVARILLA STOCKER. 
 
 What orb in the heavens shines so bright as the sun ? 
 What so sure as affection twines two hearts in one ? 
 What so dear to the traveller when wearied as rest ? 
 What bird but the duck can decoy from the nest ? 
 What such hope as the anchor to vessels can give ? 
 Who but Naiads in forests delighted to live ? 
 What labors so great as the ant's can be shown ? 
 Who so gay as the Princes surrounding the throne ? 
 What charms like the arbour's, when love we disclose ? 
 What string like the lute's can invite to repose ? 
 What places for learning so justly are famed 
 As those in our land Universities named ? 
 What rod, like the sceptre of Sovereigns royal, 
 Can awe the rebellious, encourage the loyal ? 
 
 I have done as you bade me (with ideas half-frozen), 
 And, placing in order th' initials I've chosen, 
 Great Sardanapalus I surely descry, 
 Who in volumes of smoke rose from earth to the sky.
 
 120 
 
 SECOND SOLUTION. 
 
 BY MARTHA ANN STOCKER. 
 
 The sun beams brightly in the heavens above, 
 
 Affection's but another name for love, 
 
 Rest is the weary traveller's greatest joy, 
 
 Ducks are by man instructed to decoy : 
 
 An anchor is the vessel's hope, I ween, 
 
 Naiads danced lightly on the forest green, 
 
 Wisdom should man from nature's book discern, 
 
 And of th' industrious ant a lesson learn : 
 
 But should you to the courts of Kings repair, 
 
 You'll find that Pomp's a gay attendant there, 
 
 The holy altar sanctions virtuous love, 
 
 And brings down blessings from the throne above, 
 
 The Lyre's sweet strings may soothe a troubled breast, 
 
 And lull the weary aching heart to rest ; 
 
 What places are for learning more renowned 
 
 Than Universities on English ground ? 
 
 Or, as the sceptre, what so well convey, 
 
 When Kings are crowned, the sign of sovereign sway ?
 
 121 
 
 TO ISABEL. 
 
 LINES WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE GUTSSUEBA KIVEK. 
 
 BY R. H. KENNEDY, M.D., BOMBAY. 
 
 My Isabel, iny loved, my own! 
 How many a dreary day hath flown, 
 How many a solitary night 
 Hath past with unregretted flight, 
 Since heart-ache, anguish, and farewell 
 Dimmed thy bright eyes, my Isabel ! 
 
 When from thee, sweet ! my course I sped, 
 No pleasant thoughts were cherished, 
 Leagues to long leagues were adding ever, 
 And the poor heart was resting never ; 
 When will this end ? it moaned ; and seeking 
 Some shadowy hope, seemed almost breaking : 
 But now the lessened distance blesses 
 With home's delicious promises, 
 And each bewildered thought unravels 
 Some trait of thee to whom it travels, 
 Proving how sweetly thy controul 
 Directs and animates my soul. 
 
 I love thee, dearest Isabel, 
 
 Beyond earth's selfishness ; — a spell 
 
 Is in thy very name to wean 
 
 My soul from aught save thee, and glean
 
 122 
 
 The harvest oi my thoughts. I've fell 
 Thee mine, and that thy young heart dwelt 
 On me ; and I would dream of thee, 
 As tho' some magic sympathy 
 Linked us together, and for ever 
 Forbad our kindred souls to sever. 
 
 The weary way hath had its end, 
 And lo ! my homeward course I bend : 
 The northern stars no more preside, 
 As ministering lights my path to guide, 
 And now ere dawn of morn, I mark 
 The southern signs ; — the sacred ark 
 Said to have borne the Argonaut, 
 And from the realms of Colchis brought 
 The golden fleece ; — and that bright gem 
 Canopus deemed the diadem 
 Of great Osiris by the flood 
 Of venerable Nile, when stood 
 Memnon's strange statue, whose wild lyre 
 The sunbeams could alone inspire. 
 Thus fancy's play my journey cheers 
 With legends of three thousand years ; 
 Whilst Isabel with soft, sweet eye, 
 And dimpling lip, seems list'ning by. 
 
 Yet day by day rolled heavily, 
 
 And night had darker canopy 
 
 Of dingy hue ; and when its shade 
 
 Came o'er my sleepless lids, it made 
 
 No kindly visiting : — one thought 
 
 Was ever present, and it brought 
 
 Bright glimpses of my Isabel, 
 
 My loved, my beautiful ! and there fell 
 
 Her musical voice upon my ear, 
 
 In sounds so rapturously dear, 
 
 '\
 
 123 
 
 That all entranc'd with dewy eye, 
 I could gaze wild on vacancy, 
 And image my lov'd bride, and clasp 
 The nothingness which slipp'd my grasp ; 
 And half believe its fairy trace 
 Of sweetness, loveliness and grace, 
 Was bodily presence, and stood nigh, 
 To mock my hand, and bless mine eye. 
 
 Now ev'ry following sun's career 
 
 Hath brought me, dearest lov'd, more near 
 
 To our quiet home, where thou hast drest 
 
 Our bower of bliss, my sacred rest, 
 
 That sanctuary whither flies 
 
 My haunted spirit, and relies 
 
 On thy dear sainted hand to place 
 
 My follies and my weaknesses 
 
 Beneath that veil of love, which hides 
 
 Whate'er the heartless world derides ; 
 
 Craving no other earthly boon, 
 
 Than Isabel's pure love alone ; 
 
 It pines, it languishes, it dies, 
 
 Denied the sun-light of her eyes. 
 
 And, lo ! I mark the space at last 
 
 Sunk to a span, the toil is past : 
 
 When once thy meekly beaming eyes 
 
 Soft as a star's reflection lies 
 
 On a still water, have been seen, 
 
 The dreary, weary wandering 
 
 That I have borne, since, Love, they shed 
 
 Thy parting tear, when my heart bled, 
 
 As thine was bleeding— shall impress 
 
 On memory nought of bitterness ; 
 
 But love and happier hopes, and joy, 
 
 Combin'd shall ev'ry thought employ, 
 
 Dry ev'ry tear, — bid sorrow cease, 
 
 And o'er the troubl'd mind breathe peace
 
 124 
 
 O ! let me pluck each summer flow'r, 
 
 To garland thy rich hair, and show'r 
 
 Handfuls of sweetness on the sweet ; 
 
 O ! let my passioned lips repeat, 
 
 All that my heart's deep thoughts have been, 
 
 In every hour of suffering, 
 
 Since that intensest agony 
 
 Of sad farewell ; — then let there be 
 
 A pleasure in recounted pains, 
 
 When nothing of their sting remains. 
 
 IN DAPHNE'S PRAISE. 
 
 BY S. J. PARTRIDGE, ESQ,., LINCOLN** INN 
 
 Her look is genial as the sun, 
 
 That gladdens all it shines upon, 
 
 Her voice to me the grateful show'r, 
 
 That brings to life the drooping flow'r, 
 
 Her eyes are soft as Luna's beams, 
 
 When glist'ning o'er the murm'ring streams, 
 
 Her lips, all liquid nectar, vie, 
 
 To tempt a stoic's constancy ; 
 
 And when she beams her smiles on me, 
 
 Methiuks 'twould calm a raging sea, 
 
 To dwell for ever in her aims, 
 
 There solaced from Ihc world's alarm
 
 125 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM UNDER A DRAWING OF THE 
 
 BRIDGE OF SIGHS, 
 
 VENICE. 
 
 BY W. A. JACKSON, IIEADINGLEY. 
 
 The Bridge of Sighs ! an ominous dreary name, 
 
 To throw upon so fair and bright a scene ! 
 
 These waters pure and glittering, rolling on 
 
 In serene majesty, calm, undisturbed. 
 
 Or softly undulating, tremulous 
 
 Beneath the kisses of some gentle wind, 
 
 That seem as they would woo the pearly ear 
 
 Of Amphitrite, goddess of the sea, 
 
 To skim in beauty o'er their glassy brow ; 
 
 Doth sighing intermix with their sweet chime ? 
 
 And evil, like a dull, dead, gathering cloud, 
 
 Darken the gleaming mirror of their waves ? 
 
 And doth the voice of human suffering, 
 
 With all its melancholy, all its pain, 
 
 And grief and lone despair, with echoings low, 
 
 A long funereal chaunt for love and hope, 
 
 Rise even from hence ? And must the patient stars, 
 
 And the unvexed heavens, behold this scene 
 
 Of surface splendour, only to detect 
 
 Some troublous, shifting hues of chance and pain ? 
 
 And peace, sweet peace ! O is it but a name, 
 
 And do the seeds of misery spread so deep, 
 
 And sorrow and sighing enter even here ? 
 
 The name indeed is full of solemn truth ; 
 For human life is one vast Bridge of Sighs ;
 
 12(5 
 
 Whore all that pass of every station, grade, 
 
 Rank and degree, from smiling infancy 
 
 To dull and helpless age, must duly pay 
 
 The tribute of sighs and tears, and groans and death. 
 
 How trite this moralizing on our lot, 
 
 How trite to say that man is born to mourn ! 
 
 'Tis written in our hearts even from the hour 
 
 When first our consciousness doth know itself ; 
 
 We need no monitor to tell us how 
 
 We agonise on earth ; intuitive 
 
 The knowledge, and undying are the pangs, 
 
 In all humanity, of guilt and woe. 
 
 Yet, beautiful lady ! though the strain be sad, 
 
 And full of serious musing, though it suit 
 
 But little with this bright and gilded page, 
 
 And though its solemn tones may seem to fall 
 
 Unmusically on fair maiden's ear, 
 
 I know thou wilt accept it — for it is 
 
 An offering, though imperfect, yet sincere. 
 
 And I have hopes that in thy thoughtful mood 
 
 It may some response find, some answering nol< 
 
 Of fancy and feeling ; for the mind of man, 
 
 If rightly constituted, ever beats 
 
 In mystic sympathy with moral truth ; 
 
 And fair imagination, in all forms 
 
 And shapes and marks, however he may roam 
 
 Through various devious paths, i3 still the same, 
 
 And ever keeps his strong identity. 
 
 And therefore know I, that the skilful hand, 
 
 That traced this beauteous image of a scene 
 
 As beauteous as the wide-spread earth affords, 
 
 That sketched these fairy evanescent lines. 
 
 These mingling lights and shadows, and o'er all 
 
 This calm luxuriance hath thrown a spell 
 
 That tells of genius in its proudest form, 
 
 Was painted and directed by a mind 
 
 That knows its own high value, that hath looked
 
 127 
 
 Abroad into the visible universe, 
 
 And into its own more deep and wondrous self, 
 
 With something of that light which beams from heaven. 
 
 With something of that love which never dies! 
 
 And even as the tree, that proudest rears 
 
 Its head above its fellows, feels the blast 
 
 Of heaven more keenly, and is subject more 
 
 Unto the fiery conflicts of the clouds : 
 
 Even so doth genius, proudly eminent 
 
 In intellectual might, more deeply feel 
 
 The rude and boisterous shocks of time and change, 
 
 And all the bitter warfare of the world. 
 
 So is it with tbe poet in his strength ! 
 
 His spirit wanders forth through earth and sky, 
 
 Through all the loveliest scenes and richest shores 
 
 Of eastern and of western 1 ands ; he roams 
 
 Through palaces that glitter 'mong the clouds 
 
 With golden draperies and rainbow hues ; 
 
 Through halls of sun-lit beauty, — sapphire plains 
 
 And crystal towers and diamond terraces ; 
 
 And o'er the blazing sun and placid moon, 
 
 And all the eternal radiance of the stars : 
 
 He sits in fragrant bowers, perfumed with myrrh, 
 
 And musk, roses, and amber ; where sweetest birds 
 
 Make melody to soothe him, where the rills 
 
 Murmur deliciously o'er golden sands; 
 
 He walks through shadowy forests and dim glades, 
 
 Through lilied vallies and enmossed banks ; 
 
 And all of bright and beauteous, and divine, 
 
 Is present with him, and he triumphs high. 
 
 The hour is past — he falls again to earth, 
 
 Dull, dead, and spiritless earth ; the visions fly 
 
 That made him happy ; and the weight of life 
 
 Again lies heavy on him ; and once more 
 
 He finds himself enwrapped in care and pain, 
 
 His eye-balls aching and his brow on fire !
 
 123 
 
 And thus it is, that genius in all forms, 
 (And thou canst doubtless witness to this truth, 
 For unto thee are all its feelings known) 
 Doth find this world indeed a world of Sighs, 
 Of cold and harrowing misery and care ! 
 
 Yet though these agonies which mental power 
 
 In every manifestation doth entail 
 
 On its possessor, are austere and stern, 
 
 And hold a strong dominion o'er his mind, — 
 
 Still he can boast of gifts, the choicest store 
 
 Of heaven, distinguishing awards, whose force 
 
 Can bear him up 'mid sorrow's deepest gloom, 
 
 And point his vision, with sustaining might, 
 
 To brighter realms and regions, where no care 
 
 Nor pain nor agony can dare intrude ; 
 
 Can lighten up his eye with confident hope ; 
 
 Can teach him the progression of the soul 
 
 To apprehensions of eternal things ; 
 
 And prove him, 'mongst a cold and doubting world, 
 
 Pre-eminent, the favourite of the skies ! 
 
 But whither roves my strain ? ah, gentle maid, 
 
 My hour of bliss is fleeting ; and this lay, 
 
 In high ambition framed to please thy ear, 
 
 And recreate thy pure and thoughtful mind, 
 
 Must close — with solemn and slow-breathed fall, 
 
 And end where it began, in love for thee, 
 
 In blessings numberless upon thy head ! 
 
 For he who calls thee friend and calls me friend, 
 
 Hath taught me by his passionate converse sweet, 
 
 And by the various knowledge of his mind, 
 
 And by the measureless kindness of his heart, 
 
 (Conjoined, a being lovely as the spring, 
 
 And glorious as the ever-burning stars) 
 
 To love thee, though far off and yel unseen, 
 
 With kindred spirit and affection liiu.li
 
 129 
 
 A SPEECH, 
 
 PREPARED BUT NOT DELIVERED, 
 
 BY THE LA.TE ROBERT HUMPHREYS, B.A., 
 
 INCUMBENT OF BRAMLEY. 
 
 I had no intention to say a word at the present meeting. 
 My purpose was to come hither to be only a hearer. Towards 
 dark, yesterday, I received a note, expressive of a wish I 
 would utter a few sentiments ; and it was late in the evening 
 before I could pay to that wish the slightest attention. When 
 it was late, however, I put a few thoughts together. These 
 I shall now express, if the meeting will allow me to do so 
 in my own way. I can do so more tersely, compactly, 
 and compendiously in this way than in any other. I am little 
 in the habit of public speaking before assemblies like the 
 present. I am rather less in that habit now than I have been 
 heretofore. I am not like my friend, Mr. Michael Sadler, to 
 whom the thoughts and the words in which to set them off, 
 seem to advantageously offer themselves at one and the same 
 precise moment. And those who cannot fly, must, if they 
 would move at all, content themselves with either walking or 
 crawling. Here, therefore, I offer myself, a creature slowly 
 crawling, as it were on crutches, to remark on the merits, or 
 the pretensions rather, of Romanism. I am far, however, 
 from promising, after all, any thing very magnificent or 
 elaborate. The thoughts I would here exhibit have certainly 
 been to me subjects of some research. But the language in 
 
 K
 
 130 
 
 which I here depict them, is necessarily, from the post-haste 
 expedition with which I must select it, much what has first 
 come to hand on the spur of the occasion. My exordium 
 proceeds no farther. 
 
 It is customary with persons who have to discuss the present 
 suhject — the subject of Romanism — to complain that it has 
 been long since worn quite threadbare ; that it admits of no 
 novelty, and that whatever is advanced upon it, has been 
 advanced before, a thousand and a thousand times over. In 
 this opinion I am far from concurring. From such an opinion, 
 I beg leave to differ well nigh toto cozlo. The very exterior 
 of Romanism is hitherto little, very little, developed or under- 
 stood. Its interior nature is to the public terra Australis 
 incognita. No detailed or minute accurate analysis and 
 examination, that I am aware of, of its constituent members 
 and component parts, has hitherto suggested any very 
 general suspicion even, whence it has really been borrowed or 
 purloined. Imagine we now a certain oblong substance called 
 an egg. Suppose I have before me a given egg, and happen 
 to be assured it was laid by a hen. Suppose now I see another 
 such a substance, of which I know not the origin. I perceive, 
 however, that it, as far as I can ascertain, exactly resembles 
 the former. Have I not in this resemblance a very strong 
 presumptive evidence that this egg also was laid by the same 
 hen, or at least by a fowl of her species ? Now, I think, 
 paganism was the physical phenomenon of the universe drama- 
 tised and deified. That its deities were heroes, dead or living, 
 I do not believe. It seems to me there is evidence enough of 
 the contrary. In an Epistle, attributed, at all events, to 
 Ancbo, an Egyptian pagan priest, as if sent by him to the 
 celebrated and philosophical Porphyry, we are assured the 
 old Egyptians acknowledged no other gods than the sun, 
 moon, and stars, and such other physical phenomena as I 
 have mentioned. But all paganism was the child of human 
 collusion and fraudulent preconcert. It was the villainous 
 result of a deep-laid scheme of damnable cunning craftiness. 
 Bui Romanian!, in all its leading features, is as like paganism
 
 131 
 
 as one egg is like another. Are we not justified then in affirm- 
 ing that Romanism also is the child of human collusion and 
 fraudulent preconcert ? and is equally the villainous result of 
 a similar deep-laid scheme of damnable cunning craftiness ? 
 I will go still farther. I maintain that in instances numberless, 
 Romanism actually identifies itself with that same infernal 
 paganism. What shall we think of the Pope himself ? I shall 
 briefly assign a few reasons for concluding that bis whole 
 character has been sketched from paganism. History re- 
 cords that the Romans on taking Falisci, discovered an image 
 of Janus with four heads. It is usually pretended, the triple 
 crown represents the papal sovereignty over Rome, Lom- 
 bardy, and Ravenna. I am of another opinion. I take the 
 Pope to be the Janus, and even the Janus four-heads, of 
 corrupted Christianity : the triple crown representing three of 
 those heads, and the head that wears it, and completes the 
 sketch, then supplying the fourth. 
 
 Come we to other analogies. We learn from Ovid and 
 others, the image of Janus held in one hand a staff, in 
 the other a hey : the pseudo Berosus gives him a couple of 
 heys. Here see shadowed forth the Pope's pretended power 
 of the keys. And what a host of innocents has this old 
 man of the seven mountains, as a French writer styles 
 him, caused to be most cruelly murdered, aye, to be 
 atrociously burnt alive to ashes for denying, forsooth, his 
 pagan clavicular potency. In his holy hands, the staff of his 
 prototype changes at one time into a crosier or a sceptre, 
 at another into a sword, or even two swords, typical of his 
 temporal and spiritual authority; Janus was called God of 
 Gods. And so has been his Holiness. The star of Janus is a 
 Virginal star : it belongs to the zodiacal asterism Virgo. And 
 it rose of old about the year's close and commencement. 
 Hence Janus was heaven's door-keeper, opening its gates with 
 his keys for the old year to depart and the new to enter. At 
 this post, his Holiness has usurped his office, having first pur- 
 loined his keys. Ovid is to blame for making rather too free 
 with Janus. He demands of him, why he should make him 
 
 K 2
 
 132 
 
 sacrifice to him ftrsl of all t lie gods. " Because," he answers, 
 
 "ft is through me only thou canst liave tmy access to the 
 others." What now of the Virgin ? The Virgin of Romanism 
 is not Mary, the mother of our blessed Saviour. The 
 Romanists have dressed off this. pious modest Virgin, so 
 highly favoured of the Lord, in the tawdry attributes of the 
 Pagan Isis of Egypt, the pretended wife of Osiris, and Virgin 
 mother of the sun. That such is the case, clearly appears 
 from certain verses of an old popish impostor, calling himself 
 Ovidius de Vetula. Mary signifies Lady. Hence we have 
 Lady-day, asunder just nine months from Christinas ; when 
 the asterisrn Virgo rose about midnight, and gave birth, as 
 was then feigned, meanwhile, to the new sun,orthe sun of the 
 new year. That such a strange notion was, of old, certainly 
 entertained, is evident from a Christmas-day sermon of Pope 
 St. Leo I. Macrobius also will afford proof. The Virgin and 
 Child were worshipped almost all the world over. Pending the 
 prevalence of paganism, Sir George Staunton will afford 
 proof of the worship among pagans in the very heart of China. 
 It prevailed in pagan Egypt long before the glorious rise of 
 Christianity. I could appeal for my proof to a passage in the 
 Alexandrian Chronicle. The cross was worshipped long before 
 our blessed Lord was crucified : I might, I think, say with 
 truth, many ages before. When I lie Christians began to purify 
 the Mithraion at Alexandria, to fit it for being a Christian 
 Church, they brought out the statue of Serapis, and were 
 shocked at observing on the very breast of the idol the sign of 
 the cross, notwithstanding St. Athanasius himself declares it of 
 such huge demonifuge potency. A contest ensued between 
 the Christians and Pagans, when it was pacified by an admis- 
 sion on all hands, that it was a hieroglyphic, signifying — the 
 fit hue life. The two ancient historians of the Church, Sozo- 
 men and Ruffinus, give an account, of the transaction. In 
 my judgment, the hieroglyphic simply signified life. I think 
 I could adduce many other proofs it was venerated before 
 Christ was born among pagans. Bu( the Romanist, in Df 
 Middleton, challenges his adversary to bring proof of the
 
 133 
 
 pagan origin of the mass. I would not advise any Romanist 
 now to repeat the challenge. He might still hud himself 
 hampered ; though the worthy Doctor gave in, touching hoth 
 mass and transubstantiation. I conceive that proof positive 
 could easily be exhibited of the original paganism of almost 
 every atom of Romanism ; and of the gross, flagrant, and 
 most criminal idolatry that necessarily and inevitably mixes 
 itself with all its rites, customs, practices, devotions, and 
 superstitions. I have here introduced only a few specimens. 
 I have not entered much into details. But if I have not, yet 
 the thing easily could be done. The most ferocious of the 
 qualities Romanism has inherited from paganism is its diabo- 
 lical, merciless, and blood-thirsty cruelty, and inextinguishable 
 intolerance. Its essential, uncompromising maxim is, — Aut 
 Ccesar aut nullus. It must rule, and rule despotically, all 
 within its hideous reach — or utterly perish. It cannot sub- 
 mit : it cannot obey : it must always tyrannise : or it must soon 
 cease to exist. If you mean to invite this reptile again to 
 your embrace, to cherish this adder in your bosom, to put 
 your trust in the tenderness of this tiger, prepare to suffer 
 for your folly all that ever sting and fangs, teeth and talons, 
 can inflict on the objects of the savage displeasure of the 
 ruthless monster. If you are growing weary of liberty, and 
 fond of servitude ; if you desire some guide who will take the 
 trouble off your hands of guiding yourself ; if you covet the 
 temporal or spiritual kingship of Romanism ; begin to pre- 
 pare for the bliss you should anticipate enjoying under it, by 
 plucking out your own eyes, and renouncing the testimony of 
 your own senses ; then give up yourself to its guidance, 
 blinded and helpless, to be led by the nose by it, whither- 
 soever its interests, or its passions, or its pleasures, want you 
 to follow. To say that it has changed, and would now be 
 mild, though it formerly shewed itself truly savage, were it 
 only trusted ; also would now be good-natured and forbearing, 
 would you only bestow upon it the powers of destruction once 
 more ; then come within its gripe, after offending it, candidly 
 and liberally forgetting the fires of Smithfield, the massacres
 
 134 
 
 of St. Bartholomew's eve, the crusade of Toulouse, the 
 butcheries of the Duke of Alva, the wholesome severities of 
 the several Inquisitions of Rome and Milan, and Spain and 
 Portugal : to say so and so to act would betray an utter igno- 
 rance of the monster's nature. To say or hope that it will 
 change or can change for the better at any time future* would 
 only demonstrate the utter hopelessness of such ignorance or 
 infatuation, since the lessons of experience and the lessons 
 of history are equally thrown away upon it — nullis medicabilis 
 herbis. I intimated, the cross of paganism was a hieroglyphic 
 significant of life. Why should it so signify ? Observe we 
 the two great circles, the equator and the equinoctial 
 colure, intersect, that is, cross each other at right angles in 
 two points ; in one of which the sun is when, at the vernal 
 equinox. When there, he begins to vivify afresh, to infuse 
 new life into drooping nature, — drooping through the ravages 
 of the previous winter. Take there off each of the two circles, 
 unequal segments, which will not materially differ from 
 straight lines, and you have a cross. The Druids of Gaul, and 
 probably of Britain, used to give to a tree the form of a cross, 
 and upon this, as a basis, to construct, every fourth year, a 
 human wicker image of colossal stature; in which, and with 
 which, they burnt alive to ashes a vast number of men and 
 brutes in sacrifice to Hee or Heus. I translate Hee, the life- 
 giving sun. But in the horrible burning places of Romanism, 
 during an act of faith, or heretic burning alive, a colossal 
 cross was a conspicuous object. Was not the Romish as well 
 as the pagan burning considered as a sacrifice? Was not the 
 Romish atrocity borrowed even from the pagan? In each, 
 the cross, the symbol of life, was made an accompaniment of 
 death. Here observe the blood-thirsty faith of Rome. But, 
 say you, it will never so exhibit itself again. Certainly not — 
 if you never grant it the power, or afford it the oppor- 
 tunity. If you do, I think it certainly will. You may 
 learn its character from Platinas himself, a Papal secre- 
 tary. You may deny, Rome holds no faith is to be 
 kept with heretics. I maintain she does. What else mean
 
 135 
 
 the treacherous directions, which are still in such high 
 repute at Rome, of Eymeric, promoted by the Pope to a 
 Cardinal's hat for his long inquisitorial services ; directions, 
 namely, how to entrap a person accused into incautious 
 admissions, that may furnish a pretext for burning him alive ? 
 Does not Bishop Spondanus expressly vindicate the Council 
 of Constance for treacherously burning poor John Huss alive 
 to ashes, in gross and open violation of the Emperor's safe 
 conduct, on the shuffling and shameful pretence that lay 
 authority cannot bind ecclesiastical ? How will you bind this 
 Proteus, that, namely, of Romanism ? Will you here allege 
 the spread of knowledge and politeness ? Were not the detes- 
 table perpetrators of the atrocities mentioned, men of great 
 learning and accomplishments ? In vain would you here 
 quote Ovid per contra: 
 
 Ingenuas didicisse fldeliter artes 
 Emollit mores, nee sinit esse feros. 
 
 I may be wrong ; my quotations and references being all 
 memoriter. It may be taken in dudgeon I charge Romanism 
 with paganising. But have not many learned Romanists 
 expressly admitted the fact ? Witness among others Aringhus 
 and De Choul. Nay, does not Pope St. Gregory I. the Great, 
 expressly authorise Austin to compromise with Saxon pagans 
 in this country, so to paganise? Read the seventy-first, I 
 think, of his Epistles. How come our Dissenting friends to 
 be now such patrons and apologists of Romanism ? What a 
 row have their ancestors kicked up in the country of old, and 
 chiefly because the government was unwilling to execute the 
 laws against them with sufficient rigour ? See Clarendon's 
 history. Have they detected their predecessors in error? 
 Another generation may possibly detect them to be now in 
 error themselves. For my part, I approve of Brunswick 
 
 Associations. 
 
 Si quid novisti rectius istis, 
 Candidus irnperti, si non his utere mecum. 
 
 I approve of them as guards to the constitution in Church 
 and State — especially against a storm, an attack by surprise.
 
 130 
 
 Let us not be betrayed at unawares into the bands of our 
 bloody-minded fellow-subjects. Let us be prepared for stra- 
 tagem as well as for violence. Look how these lambs raved 
 and blustered and put out their horns in Ireland. Look also 
 how they pull them in again, on being met with spirit and 
 resolution. They thought the victory their own without fight- 
 ing the battles; on discovering they must fight before they 
 conquer, they bravely quit the field. The ass made a tremen- 
 dous noise while he could hope to be mistaken for the lion : 
 but when he found preparation making to give a right Royal 
 salute from patriotic batteries, the pseudo-king of the forest 
 was happy to confess he had nought of the lion about him but 
 the skin. Let Protestants unite, and they may still defy, 
 as did their forefathers, the Vatican and all its thunders, 
 and all its thundering legions. 
 
 Whoever was acquainted with Mr. Humphreys will immediately 
 recognise him in this production. Ilis peculiarity of style was well known 
 to bis friends, and may probably be accounted for by the circumstanco 
 of his having been a native of Wales, and not having learnt the English 
 language in early life. Ilis extensive reading, his deep research, his close 
 application to study, furnished him with a fund of information, which, 
 combined with kindness of disposition and urbanity of manners, caused 
 him to bo generally respected and esteemed. Yet, though he read much, 
 ho was not distinguished as an author. His writings were of a fugitive 
 kind — for the most part in Welch, and suggested by the passing events 
 of the day ; and I am not aware that any thing worthy of notice issued 
 from his pen, except, porhaps, a Sermon preached at the Parish Church 
 of Huddcrsfield, in 1809 (of which he was then Curate), on the occasion 
 of the Jubilee celebrated in honor of tho fiftieth Anniversary of tho Accession 
 of Gcorgo the Third to tho Throne. 
 
 A Tablet, erected to his memory in Bramley Church bears the following 
 Inscription : — 
 
 1\ Memory ok thk Rev. Robert Humphreys, B.A. ok Queen's College, 
 Cambridge. He was a native or Caernarvon, and died July 28th, 
 1830, IN the 53rd year of his age, having been nearly nine years 
 1m < mrent ok this Church 
 
 Viv omni lilerarutn generi truditutimus. 
 
 T. F.
 
 137 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED AT MUNCASTER CASTLE, THE 23ED JULY, 1832. 
 
 BY THE LATE REV. CHARLES ISHERWOOD, 
 
 OF BROTHERTON. 
 
 Calm is the silence of this solemn scene, 
 
 Where not a breath disturbs the deep serene ; 
 
 The rustling- wing of some benighted bird, 
 
 Or evening insect's hum alone is heard ; 
 
 Slow rolls the ling'ring wave along the shore, 
 
 As if old ocean slept to wake no more ; 
 
 At such a time the spirit roams abroad, 
 
 And finds her sacred hour to walk with God. 
 
 For not the gath'ring tempest's gloomy scowl, 
 
 The rocking earthquake, or the whirlwind's howl, 
 
 The lightning's glance, quick darting from the cloud, 
 
 Can his immortal mandate speak so loud, 
 
 As when, on all things, sober evening throws 
 
 Her sable-vested mantle of repose ! 
 
 There's not an object that the moon surveys, 
 
 As from her cloud she sheds her softest rays, 
 
 Or twinkling star, that mounts the vault of Heav'n, 
 
 Whose moving image on the wave is giv'n, 
 
 That speaks not, to the reason's list'ning ear, 
 
 Thoughts that ascend to Heav'n, and harbour there ! 
 
 So found Elijah, when the Arab's land 
 
 lie fled, mistaking the divine command ;
 
 138 
 
 Wearied and faint, o'er many a clime he trod, 
 
 Till Horeb's mount received the man of God. 
 
 Arriv'd, he humbly sought the will divine, 
 
 And in the rolling thunder ask'd the sign. 
 
 The rolling thunder came, no sign was there, 
 
 Tho' loud its echoes smote the startled ear ; 
 
 He sought it in the storms that levell'd all, 
 
 But found it in the whisper's gentlest fall. 
 
 Come, then, Religion, fairest grace of Heav'n, 
 
 To thee my future thoughts and hopes be giv'n, 
 
 For while along these fern-clad wilds I stray, 
 
 Can I forget thine all-directing sway ? 
 
 How would each tree that frowns o'er yonder glen, 
 
 And own its first great cause, reproach me then ? 
 
 Can aught but goodness find its dwelling here, 
 
 Where on each object stamp'd thy words appear, 
 
 While all inspires around the noblest thought, 
 
 And health's first blessing on each gale is brought ? 
 
 Instructive groves, I thank ye ! 'Tis with pain 
 
 I leave ye : but shall go a better man. 
 
 Long may your bowers fair Innocence protect ; 
 
 And long her parents live to hail th' effect. 
 
 And when away to other scenes I go, 
 
 To join the cares that meet us here below, 
 
 Pleased shall remembrance tell, how here I stray'd, 
 
 And woo'd fair wisdom in her loveliest shade, 
 
 While health and peace on every breeze was giv'n, 
 
 With that far nobler health whose aim is heav'n. 
 
 So be my days thro' life's lone valley trod, 
 
 And be my latest rise to meet my God !
 
 139 
 
 TO SOLITUDE. 
 
 BY MRS. PERRING, LEEDS. 
 
 My Muse, stretch not too high thy airy night, 
 
 Nor strike too load a string ; 
 Lest, haply, when the morning sun shall rise, 
 
 And Day, with dappled wing, 
 O'er the blue mountains lifts her peerless form, 
 
 Thou, dazzled by the all too glorious sight, 
 Should sink, to rise no more, 
 
 In the dark ocean of eternal night. 
 
 Fitter for thee in quietness to rest 
 
 On the green bosom of the verdant earth 
 
 Where gently-breathing zephyrs round thee wake 
 
 The infant flowers to mirth. 
 
 Fitter for thee to listen to the song 
 
 Of the sweet nightingale in grassy dell, 
 
 Or, where the lonely stock-dove builds her nest 
 
 In some deep-shelter'd wood, content to dwell, 
 
 With nature's children holding converse sweet, 
 
 Pleased with each silver sound that on the ear 
 
 In dying cadence falls. — 
 
 Not thine the lot Parnassus' hill to climb, 
 
 And on the summit of that height sublime 
 
 Tune the immortal lyre of fame to tell 
 
 Of deeds of high renown — who bravely fell 
 
 Upon the battle-field in freedom's cause, — 
 
 Who gain'd proud victory's wreath and th' applause
 
 ] 10 
 
 That noble acts deserve. Not thine to sing 
 
 The talc- of bright romance — how in the ring 
 
 Knights for their lady-loves would wield the lauco 
 
 Or hreak the shining spear ; then, in the dance, 
 
 When music lends her sweet enchanting thrill 
 
 To rouse the passions and subdue the will, 
 
 Would woo and win the melting fair to leave 
 
 Her father's stately hall, nor even breathe 
 
 One sighing farewell on a sister's ear. — 
 
 These are not themes for thee : but haply now 
 
 When hand in hand with solitude whom thou 
 
 Dost love to walk with in the quiet shade 
 
 By the thick foliage of the elm tree made, 
 
 Whose roots are watered by a murmuring stream — 
 
 Here, for a while at least, may'st sit and dream, 
 
 Catching each harmony and plaintive tone 
 
 And making nature's symphonies thine own. 
 
 Handmaid of reason and divinest things, 
 
 From thee, blest Solitude, what profit springs ; 
 
 What calm and holy wisdom from thee flows, 
 
 What gentle breathings of the soul's repose ! 
 
 And thou hast music in thine own pure sphere 
 
 That angel forms might fold their wings to hear. 
 
 Glad hymns of praise, when morning first unfolds 
 
 Her rays of light and from the mountain rolls 
 
 The shadows down. Then first the lark's shrill voice 
 
 Bids the young warblers of the grove rejoice, 
 
 And gladly carols every little throat 
 
 From bower and brake, the loud or plaintive note — 
 
 Only the melancholy nightingale 
 
 Restrains her song till evening shades prevail, 
 
 That to the silver silent moon and thee 
 
 Alone her low and sorrowing minstrelsy 
 
 Might tell her tale of woe. But day, bright day, 
 
 Hath happier sounds than these, the babbling play 
 
 Of mountain Btreamlet, and the light cascade 
 
 Willi >•• irgling brook, and in the glade 

 
 141 
 
 Where the white May sends out her fragrant breath, 
 Or on the moor where blooms the purple heath, 
 The low soft murmur of th' industrious bee, 
 As gathering quick the honied store to flee 
 Home to his straw-built shed, he lightly bounds 
 From flower to flower, and with his own sweet sounds 
 Beguiles the time — 
 These are the pleasures thai to thee belong, 
 
 sacred Solitude ! But in a song 
 
 So rude as mine thy worth may not be told. 
 Dear shades adieu ! 
 
 1 bid farewell awhile to peace and you. 
 
 But when the Summer sun ascends his throne, 
 If I can call one little month mine own, 
 'Twill all be spent with thee and one lov'd friend 
 Whom I shall bring into thy blest retreat 
 To tell him Solitude is sweet — most sweet. 
 
 THE HEART'S-EASE. 
 BY THE REV. E. K. HADDOCK, M.A. 
 
 INCUMBENT OF LINDLEY, NEAR HUDDERSFIELD. 
 
 Where Flora on the gay parterre 
 Had strewn her choicest gem, 
 
 One little flower alone I sought, 
 And pluck'd it from the stem. 
 
 That little flower shall bear to thee 
 
 This truest wish of mine — 
 In summer's noon, and winter's night, 
 May Heart'-ease e'er be thine !
 
 I 12 
 
 TOE LARK. 
 BY THE REV. W. IT. TEALE, Mi. LEEDS 
 
 Up ! up ! gay minstrel of the morn ; 
 
 I love to hear thee sing 
 Thy welcome to the breezy dawn, 
 
 With dew-drops on thy wing. 
 Though sweet be Philomela's song 
 
 When round the moon-beams shine, 
 Yet to her soothest strain belong 
 
 No notes so sweet as thine. 
 
 Thine is the song of one whose heart 
 
 Is all untried and gay, 
 Ere sorrow points her certain dart 
 
 And tears young hopes away. 
 Heaven's azure deepens at thy glee, 
 
 More balmy breathes each flower ; 
 All nature seems to joy with thee 
 
 And share thy lightsome power. 
 
 How oft, when all is huslit and still, 
 
 I listen to thy lay, 
 As echoing far from hill to hill 
 
 It wakes the drowsy day. 
 Oh ! could my heart, like thee, meek bird) 
 
 With freshest dawn arise, 
 And give, ere day its calmness stirred, 
 
 Each morning sacrifice ?
 
 143 
 
 THE TWO LILIES. 
 
 A TALE. 
 BY MRS. CURTIES, READING. 
 
 Fair Blanchadine and Agatha, 
 
 Twin maidens of high birth, 
 Lived with their sire, his only pride, 
 
 And all his joy on earth. 
 
 He watched their opening minds with care 
 
 To pour instruction in, 
 And plant each generous principle, 
 
 Their glowing hearts within. 
 
 Their infant gambols charmed his eye, 
 He marked them as they played, 
 
 How Blanchadine gave forth command 
 And Agatha obeyed. 
 
 Delighted, as they grew, he saw 
 Their growth with beauty crowned, 
 
 For Blanchadine was fairest still, 
 Though all were fair around. 
 
 But on her polished brow there sat 
 
 An air of haughtiness, 
 Whilst Agatha's quick blushes spoke 
 
 Her mental loveliness.
 
 144 
 
 One morn their cousin came, whose pi.'t^ 
 In childhood they had been, 
 
 The one he called hi3 cottage maid, 
 The other his bright queen. 
 
 Walking where stately lilies grew, 
 Along the gay parterre, 
 
 He crops the tallest from its root, 
 And thus accosts the fair. 
 
 " On bended knee, queen Blanchadine, 
 
 " I offer thee this flower, 
 " In homage of thy 6 tately mien, 
 
 " And thy bright beauty's power." 
 
 " For thee, beloved Agatha, 
 
 " Allow my hand to place 
 " On thy dear bosom this meek flower, 
 
 " Fit emblem of thy grace. 
 
 " And all who see it there, will think 
 " It chose that sacred home, 
 
 " To breathe its fragrant soul away 
 " 'Mid sweetness like its own." 
 
 Fair Blanchadine was inly moved, 
 
 Yet kept her self-control, 
 But still the lesson had its weight, 
 
 It sank into her soul. 
 
 And never did she pass a glass 
 
 Reflecting her fair form, 
 But the two lilies rose to view 
 
 And aided her reform.
 
 145 
 
 LINES 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS, 
 
 BY THE LATE EDWARD LEE, ESQ. 
 
 A year ago, and thou wert mourned 
 By anxious friends and sorrowing lover ; 
 
 When sickness every eye had turn'd 
 To watch thy last short struggle over ! 
 
 We deem'd thee dead, — but still to mock 
 Man's foresight, (ah, how frail and vain !) 
 
 O'erruling power averts the shock, 
 And bids thee rise to health again. 
 
 Again with mirth thou gladd'st our sight, 
 (Redressing late joy's long arrear,) 
 
 While love is wrapt in mute delight, 
 And friendship smiles through many a tear ! 
 
 And thou art by thy lover's side, 
 And he and thou, a faithful pair, 
 
 Become one heart ! May joy betide, 
 The nuptials of the true and fair ! 
 
 True love's the growth of nurtured hope 
 And holiest feelings cherish'd long ; 
 
 Nor vents itself in glowing trope, 
 Nor breathes it in exciting song. 
 L
 
 146 
 
 And O ! how blessed is the thought, 
 That here we hut commence the love, 
 
 That, through its earthly trials brought, 
 Will find its lasting home above ! 
 
 Such love is yours ; in truth its birth, 
 So cherish'd with the noblest aim ; — 
 
 Such be its happy course on earth, 
 Its high wrought destiny the same ! 
 
 THE HOME OF MY CHILDHOOD. 
 BY THOMAS ROGERSON, ESQ., BRAMLEY. 
 
 Sweet home of my childhood, my home in past years, 
 
 How oft have I hail'd thee with sorrow and tears! 
 
 The trees that I nurtured, the ivy I set, 
 
 By the home of my childhood, I ne'er can forget; 
 
 The place where I met with affection's first glance, 
 
 Then often enliven'd by gala and dance ; 
 
 The place whence a parent that lov'd me was riv'n, 
 
 A gem upon earth, now an angel in heaven : 
 
 As I lov'd thee in youth, I love thee so yet — 
 
 Sweet home of my childhood, 1 ne'er can forget.
 
 H7 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON THE WEATHER. 
 
 BY MATTHEW MOLECATCIIER. 
 
 In every local district there are persons who attain to great 
 skill in foretelling rain and sunshine, but who are yet igno- 
 rant in general knowledge, and sometimes below par in 
 natural abilities. Do these men obtain this knowledge from 
 Almanacks ? No, they are more weather-wise than the 
 Almanack-Makers. Do they gather it from books of philo- 
 sophy or astronomy ? No, indeed ; they are wiser — they study 
 no books. Observation is the only source from which they 
 gather a correct knowledge of the weather : they are in 
 the daily habit of studying and observing the face of the 
 sky and the clouds, and L noting local signs, in their own 
 neighbourhood. 
 
 We may suppose the Jews to have been skilled in the 
 weather. By thus observing the face of the sky, a ruddy 
 evening, to them, portended fine weather; but a red and 
 lowering morning foul weather: a cloud from the east, a 
 shower ; a south wind, heat ; and so it came to pass. 
 
 Although these signs were certain in the land of Judea, 
 they will not answer with us. The same signs will seldom 
 answer for any two districts. This shows the folly of depend- 
 ing on dooA-knowledge about the weather. But most men 
 are too indolent, or too engaged, thus to consider the element 
 above them. 
 
 L 2
 
 148 
 
 When hay-time approaches, some look " what the Almanack 
 says?" Some augur a change at the new moon ; others at the 
 full moon, and others again think that the weather more often 
 takes up at the entering of the quarters ; bat the hour of the 
 day at which these changes happen has now become the 
 popular ruler of the weather. But this oracle, having led some 
 of its worshippers into the dirt with their hay, perhaps they 
 will lean upon their scythes a little and listen to Old Matthew 
 Molecatcher's opinion on book-learned weatherwise mortals. 
 Well, neighbours, if you would learn in my school, says 
 Matthew, break your iceather-glasses, burn your books about 
 the weather, and away with your nonsensical tables about the 
 moon. Does it not often rain for weeks together in West- 
 moreland, whilst it is fair weather in Lincolnshire ? Is not the 
 north of our island drenched with rain, whilst the pastures in 
 the south are burnt up for want of it ? Does it not often 
 happen that they have many rainy days successively in Man- 
 chester, whilst not a drop falls at Leeds ? How, then, can 
 any man's tables about the moon, or rules for the weather, 
 answer for both the hilly and level districts? Have the 
 Cheshire men never told you how their rugged-topt hills knock 
 at the bottom of the clouds, and leave them as leaky as a 
 sieve while passing over Manchester? Have you never taken 
 notice that, after a long rainy season, there mostly comes a 
 long dry one ? Have you not observed that these wet and dry 
 seasons have each their crisis, as Doctors call it. Like fevers, 
 they begin gradually, increase till the height ; then gradually 
 subside. Therefore, never begin your mowing till the crisis is 
 past, and the clouds have gathered their skirts, and girt up 
 their loins like a way-faring man on a journey. 
 
 There are few summers without a good hay -time, sooner or 
 later, if you will hut catch it ; only look at the clouds more 
 and your books less, and you may, mostly, save your hay at 
 a little cost. 
 
 Well, neighbours, I trow you now see that Weather-Wisdom 
 fetched directly from the clouds, with your own eyes, is more 
 fresh, more pure, and more to be trusted for daily use, than
 
 149 
 
 any that has been bundled up in musty books. Seek her dili- 
 gently, rely on her in all seasons, and most surely she will 
 make you weather-wise or other-wise. 
 
 Let no one despise these rustic hints of Matthew Mole- 
 catcher, or set him down as a mere novice in the business ; 
 for be it known to all men that honest Matthew has been a 
 prognosticator of frost and snow, rain and sunshine, for the 
 space of forty years, and prides himself not a little for having 
 at least made one important discovery, and that at the cost 
 of many a wet jacket, viz. 
 
 That the weather is uncertain, and the wind variable ! 
 
 Summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, are covenanted 
 to return to us at their appointed seasons, but an all-wise 
 and all-bountiful Creator retains in his own hands the 
 balancing of the clouds, and the bottles of heaven — the dis- 
 tribution of rain and sunshine, so necessary to the production 
 of every article of our food, our clothing, our every comfort, 
 and our very existence. These he dispenses to us by such 
 laws, at such times, and in such varied portions, as are most 
 calculated constantly to remind us of our daily dependence on 
 HIM "in whom we live, and move, and have our 
 Being !"
 
 150 
 
 " NATURE'S FIRST AND SECOND BIRTH." 
 
 BY THE REV. JOHN HAIGII, B. A. 
 
 Bright was the melody through every sphere 
 Which hurst entrancing on angelic ear, 
 When nature first was born, and infant time 
 Through hymning orbs began his march sublime.* 
 But holier music, too sublime for earth, 
 Seraphic, heralds nature's second birth ; 
 Celestial glory on the wondering sight 
 Of Bethlehem's shepherds pours unclouded light, 
 And mid that blaze of glory, thrills along 
 The heaven-born music of salvation's song, 
 Smoothing the brow of night, while, calm and still, 
 The gleamy shadows sleep on Zion's hill. 
 Blest minstrelsy ! which through the midnight air 
 Chaunts mercy and glad-tidings to despair, 
 Glory to God in highest Heaven above, 
 Peace upon earth and mercy's pardoning love ! 
 
 In Bethlehem's manger lay the Holy Child, 
 
 The light of Godhead in His features smil'd, 
 
 The lowly shepherds at His feet adore, 
 
 And bending Magi spread their costly store; 
 
 Led by a light celestial from afar, 
 
 They hail their infant King and Judah's Morning-Sfar.t 
 
 * " The morning stars sang together." Job. xxxviii 
 
 j " T nni the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning 
 star." Rev. xxii. 1*;.
 
 151 
 
 And thou, our Saviour, Prophet, Priest, and King ! 
 What offerings shall Thy worthless creatures bring ? 
 Poor, we have nothing — all the world is Thine, 
 Ocean's abyss and earth's deep treasur'd mine — 
 Thy Holy Church exhorts us—" Go and dwell 
 With pious love in Bethlehem's lowly cell'' ! — 
 Thither, O thither shall the heart repair, 
 Lay all its sins, pour all its sorrows there — 
 Pleas'd shalt Thou listen to its broken sighs, 
 Thy Holy Spirit's gift— the heart's best sacrifice. 
 
 THE THREE CHRISTIAN GRACES. 
 BY THE REV. JOHN CLARK, HDNSLET. 
 
 Faith upward soars on eagle's wings, 
 
 To seek Jehovah's face ; 
 Salvation is the boon it brings, 
 
 Through Christ's redeeming grace. 
 
 Hope, ever bright, serene and pure, 
 
 To all its comfort gives, 
 Still hopes its object to secure; 
 
 Still feeds itself and lives. 
 
 Charity, greatest of the three, 
 Descend into my heart ; 
 
 Thy many graces give to me, 
 Thy blessings to impart!
 
 152 
 
 THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION. 
 
 BY OfJLlKpOV. 
 
 The past, the past, yes ! one by one 
 
 The objects that I loved are gone — 
 
 The woodland haunt, the summer shade, 
 
 Where rippling streams soft murmurings made, 
 
 Where childhood loved to stroll along 
 
 And list the black-bird's artless song — 
 
 Are as a dream — my friends are gone 
 
 And I am left to weep alone. 
 
 Give me a strain of music wild, 
 
 'Twill make me gentle as a child : 
 
 That strain again — its dying note 
 
 Seemed on the evening breeze to float. 
 
 O, would I were the gentle air, 
 
 JJurden so sweet and soft to bear, 
 
 Music should roll across my soul 
 
 And all its raging storms control. 
 
 No more ! no more ! in vain I try 
 
 The charms of earthly minstrelsy : 
 
 No joys of earth can e'er impart 
 
 A lasting pleasure to the heart; 
 
 Religion, O, religion, come, 
 
 Within this bosom make thy home —
 
 153 
 
 Descend, descend, thou heavenly dove, 
 Come with thy sweet subduing love; 
 O, chase the darkling gloom away, 
 And point to realms of endless day : 
 For winged by thee my hopes shall rise, 
 Faith's eagle view shall pierce the skies. 
 
 THE MISSIONARY. 
 
 BY W. J. 
 
 O'er Greenland's snows, or Afric's sands, 
 Heaven speed thee, Herald, on thy way ! 
 
 Thou go'st to pour o'er darken'd lands 
 The merciful, the mighty day. 
 
 Thine arms, the sword thy Saviour gave, 
 The weapon which but wounds to heal, 
 
 Thy buckler, ever strong to save, 
 Is truth that laughs at triple steel. 
 
 And thy reward for labours long, 
 To know thy master on thee smiled, 
 
 To hear the desert shout the song, 
 
 " I, too, am God's remember'd child."
 
 154 
 
 THE FOUNTAIN PILGRIM. 
 
 BY A DECEASED CLERGYMAN. 
 
 A western glow bad ting'd the highest hill, 
 
 And silence brooded on the vale below, 
 Save where, in deepest shade, a fountain gush'd, 
 
 And bade a stream, with gentle murmur, flow ; — 
 The clasping ivy lov'd its mossy side, 
 
 Nor dar'd a sunbeam look on scene so fair, 
 But drooping willows long had learn'd to weep, 
 
 And every flowering shrub to blossom, there. 
 
 To this lone spot a Pilgrim once was seen 
 
 With slow and tottering step to wend his way, 
 The fount of shadows caught his eagle eye 
 
 And claim'd a tear — a tribute he could pay — 
 And sweet the thought, as Zephyr-gale of eve, 
 
 The day was o'er — a solace to his breast — 
 And sweet the draught which cool'd his parching lip, 
 
 And slak'd his thirst, and bid the weary rest — 
 
 But sweeter far the joy that swelh the heart 
 
 When — just as life's sad day is darkening fast, 
 When of the desert naught remains to tread, 
 
 And ev'ry toil and ev'ry woe is past — 
 Some mystic voice of more than mortal sound 
 
 Speaks words of peace, and tells of realms above — 
 Smni' mystic hand is pointing far away 
 
 And guides the pilgrim to the fount of love : —
 
 155 
 
 There shall he sit, and drink oblivion deep, 
 
 And strike his lyre, and wake an angel-song, 
 Nor sun at noon shall shed a sickly ray, 
 
 Nor moon by night forbid the strain prolong. 
 But. round his feet each Eden-flower shall wave, 
 
 And in the streamlet see its image fair, 
 And o'er his head the tree of life shall bend, 
 
 And bloom for ever and for ever there. 
 
 TO 
 
 BY * * M. 
 
 Though deep thy draught of the chalice of woe, 
 
 And darken'd the hopes once lighting thine eye, 
 Though reft thy chain of affection below, 
 
 The links may be safe in the haven on high. 
 The wind and the storm a mission fulfil, 
 
 From Him who is mercy, wisdom, and love ; 
 Then wouldst thou one blast of the tempest remove, 
 
 Since each that descends will work out his will ? 
 And has He not said, as the storm passes by, 
 
 The bow of His love shall be seen in the sky ? 
 Oh ! say not " no rose e'er blossoms for you," 
 
 For has not a Sharon's solaced your woe, 
 Imparted ajoy so thornless and true, 
 
 As the heart of the worldling never can know ?
 
 156 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON VISITING KIRKSTALL ABBEY. 
 
 BY S. S. OF HULL. 
 
 How closely clings the ivy firm, 
 Its leaves how bright they shine, 
 
 Giving sad beauty to thy stern 
 
 Majestic walls ; and mouldering time, 
 
 To gateway, buttress, arch, has lent 
 
 Its grey and mossy ornament. 
 
 Roofless, untenanted, and grey, 
 Thy music, the wild wandering breeze, 
 
 And for thy dead, a mystery 
 
 Their deeds, their names, their memories, 
 
 Sunk in the sea of ages gone, 
 
 Unrecorded, lost, unknown. 
 
 Wild flowers round thee sweetly bloom, 
 
 Speedwell with its merry eye, 
 Violets with rich perfume, 
 
 Celandine of golden dye, 
 And on thy tottering moss-grown steps, 
 The pcllitory clinging creeps.
 
 157 
 
 Thus e'en with gloomiest, saddest things, 
 A something makes the heart less sad, 
 
 Sunset a glorious radiance flings, 
 After his beams have made day glad ; 
 
 The darkest day, of light has hours, 
 
 Thou hast thy ivy, and thy flowers. 
 
 A HYMN OF CHARITY. 
 
 BY JOHN CAWOOD, ESQ,., LEEDS. 
 
 Hark ! the sound of approbation 
 
 Issuing from the op'ning skies, 
 Angels view with admiration, 
 
 Mercy man to man supplies. 
 Soon the cheerless habitation, 
 
 Where pale misery droops her head, 
 Shall dilate with exultation, 
 
 Rescued by our timely aid. 
 
 Thus the great Redeemer acted, 
 
 When in human veil attired, 
 Daily deeds of love transacted, 
 
 And for these at length expired. 
 Then, O ! then, shall our oblation 
 
 As rejected incense rise ? 
 No — O ! God — thy approbation 
 
 Crowns our evening sacrifice.
 
 158 
 
 AN IMPROMPTU 
 
 ON APPROACHING KIRKELLA CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 BY HENRY ROGERSON, ESQ. BRAMLEY. 
 
 Seest thou that road, which winds among 
 Those aged trees, where oft a long 
 And sorrowing train of men have pass'd 
 To bear a comrade to his last 
 Sepulchral home, from which no path 
 The sinner finds to fly from wrath ? 
 
 Onward proceed ! — the church is seen — 
 An ancient one which time with green 
 Has tinted, so that all admire 
 Their father's Church with tapering spire ; 
 For, where's the man with heart so cold 
 That dare to slight this pile of old ? 
 
 The grass around luxuriant grows 
 O'er some beloved-ones last repose : 
 Here let us pause. — We too must die, 
 And mouldering 'neath the greensward lie ; 
 May then our spirit find a rest 
 Among the mansions of the blest !
 
 159 
 
 WRITTEN UPON THE GRAVE OF A FRIEND. 
 
 BY W. A. JACKSON, HEADINGLEY. 
 
 Let no vain, heartless footstep tread 
 
 Upon this humble stone, 
 But ye who reverence the dead, 
 
 Approach and read alone. 
 
 For 'tis the grave of one who owned 
 No earthly wealth or power, 
 
 No laurels his pale temples crowned, 
 And fame gave him no dower. 
 
 Yet was he amply rich — for he 
 
 Possessed an ample mind, 
 And all he wished of joy and glee, 
 In nature did he find. 
 
 The music of the running streams, 
 
 The humming of the bee, 
 And evening's soft and purple gleams, 
 
 To him were extasy. 
 
 Tbe joyous earth, the clouds, the air, 
 
 And the enduring sky, 
 To him did influences bear 
 
 Of power and majesty.
 
 100 
 
 And with the depths of his own soul, 
 He held communings high, 
 
 And thought would oft to him unroll 
 The secrets of infinity. 
 
 With fervent love his spirit yearned 
 
 For every living thing, 
 And aye with fervent rapture turned 
 
 To love's eternal spring. 
 
 What need had he of worldly forms, 
 
 Of splendid vanities? 
 He dwelt apart from moral storms, 
 
 And woes and agonies. 
 
 Yet deeply did he feel and mourn 
 
 For human misery, 
 And 'twas his dearest joy to learn, 
 
 Of heavenly charity. 
 
 i 
 
 And though no stranger on the stage 
 Of learning's varied court, 
 
 Yet nature was his favourite page, 
 Man's heart his chief resort. 
 
 And thus in joy and innocence, 
 He walked this mortal life, 
 
 Yet free from mortal turbulence, 
 Satiety and strife. 
 
 And ere his fresh and lovely mind 
 Was tainted by earth's leaven 
 
 By care or converse with his kind, 
 God took him up to heaven.
 
 101 
 
 SONNET 
 
 ON THE RE-BTTIDLIVG OF THE PARISH CHURCH OF LEEDS, 
 
 BY W. A. JACKSON, IIEADINGLEY. 
 
 Long had we mark'd with silent grief, though deep, 
 
 Our temple's grim decrepitude, — not hoar ; — 
 No charm of picturesque did o'er it creep, — 
 
 Nor sculptures nor rich tracery it wore. 
 Old was it, yet there came no evening gray, 
 
 No mellowing tints of setting suns were there, 
 But sudden night instead ;— and so it lay, 
 
 Ungainly pile ! even in decay not fair. 
 The pastor mourn'd and spake, — nor spake in vain ;- 
 
 Hark how the hammer, and the chisel ring ! 
 Hundreds in this glad work a share to gain, 
 
 Like home-led Israel, votive off'rings bring : 
 — Nor long ere such high aims their goal obtain, — 
 
 A temple fitting Heaven's eternal King ! 
 
 * This excellent work, which has now been in progress upwards of a 
 
 twelvemonth, was agreed upon at " a meeting of the Vicar and Patrons of 
 
 the Vicarage, and the friends of the church generally," held at Leeds on 
 
 the 8th November, 1837. The meeting was called by Dr. Hook, to take into 
 
 consideration the propriety of increasing the accommodation in the Parish 
 
 Church, in consequence of a requisition presented to him by above six 
 
 hundred parishioners. 
 
 T. F. 
 
 M
 
 102 
 
 AN EXTRACT 
 
 FROM A MANUSCRIPT PREPARING FOR PUBLICATION ON THE DISCOVERIES MADE 
 IN TAKING DOWN THE 
 
 PARISH CHURCH OF LEEDS. 
 BY ROBERT DENNIS CIIANTRELL, ESQ. LEEDS, 
 
 FBLLOW OF THE ROVAI. INSTITUTE OF BRITISH ARCHITECTS. 
 
 The Old Church, described by Thoresby, the Antiquary, as 
 " black but comely," must have been materially altered since 
 he wrote (A.D. 1725), for the only portion possessing character 
 was one window at the north-east corner, of the time of 
 Henry the Seventh, with its depressed arch, and cusped 
 tracery ; some water spouts carved into grotesque figures, and 
 some fragments of pinnacles on the north front ; so that, shorn 
 of its comely features, the blackness alone remained • 
 
 In taking down the tower, many fragments of sculptured 
 stones were found, which had been used as wall stones, and 
 also fillings: of these, some of a curious description belonged to 
 five several pillars. The most important, at least as far as can 
 be judged fiom the greater number of fragments, was a pillar 
 carved on the four sides and terminated by a cross, or cruciform 
 stone, having the arms connected by a segmental band. The 
 centre of each face had a hemisphere, and the wedge-formed 
 arras have margins and interlaced work round them ; one 
 hemisphere and an arm of the cross are broken off.
 
 1G3 
 
 The entire height of this pillar is about eleven feet ; for thi3 
 point admits of being accurately determined (although the top- 
 stone immediately under the cross is not found,) from the cir- 
 cumstance of the base on one side, and a complicated inter- 
 laced figure near the top bearing traces of a similar figure 
 above it, being perfect. The four sides vary in design : the plan 
 is an oblong square, twenty inches broad at the base and twelve 
 inches thick, diminishing proportionately to the summit, 
 which measures about one half of the base. One face con- 
 tains a winged figure with a sword in the hand, and a mystic 
 band below it ; and on the left shoulder a hawk. Above this 
 figure is a cartouche containing an interlaced figure in four 
 divisions, which are each subdivided into three. Above this 
 is a second winged figure, and over it an interlaced serpentine 
 figure passing through a double circle, which is connected 
 with a similar figure still higher, but the upper portion has not 
 been found. On the opposite face at the base is a male figure 
 surrounded by implements of trade, holding a female figure 
 over the head. In a cartouche above is a male figure holding 
 a scroll, and the portion of the head has a serpent over the 
 scroll, and apparently passing over the head. The uppermost 
 figure, (the third of the series,) has an eastern cap on the 
 head, and the portion of the sculpture above it appears 
 to be similar to the Egyptian globe wings and serpents ; 
 one edge is covered with rich foliage, and the opposite 
 edge has a cartouche containing an interlaced figure of twenty 
 four links. A cartouche above this contains an interlaced 
 figure with seven links, the uppermost portion having rich 
 foliage similar to that on the opposite edge. All these 
 are evidently hieroglyphics, emblematic of the creation and 
 advancement of man, of the ancient Asiatic system of astrono- 
 my, and of the division of the year into seasons, months, 
 weeks, and days. The sculptures are characteristic and are 
 equal to those of the Egyptian hieroglyphics. In Ireland, 
 Scotland, and the North of England, as well as in Norway, 
 Sweden, and Denmark, these pillars abound, and, according 
 to our early christian writers, they were in their day considered 
 
 M 2
 
 KM 
 
 antiquities; and I am quite a convert to the opinion that they 
 were placed where now found by the worshippers of the Sun ; 
 that they arc at least as old as our Druidical temples, and 
 were erected like the Christian kills, cells, or churches in 
 Ireland, on the plans held sacred by the Pagans, and that these 
 cruciform pillars were retained as applicable to the New 
 Religion, and as a means of converting the Idolators. The 
 other fragments are of interlaced pillars, one only containing a 
 portion of a figure ; and one single stone has nine Runic 
 characters upon it, which are described in the 20th vol. of the 
 ArchEcologia. After this curious relic, the most ancient frag- 
 ments discovered are of the Norman church of Leeds ; not 
 the one mentioned in the Doomsday Survey, but the Church 
 renewed about the latter end of the eleventh or commencement 
 of the twelfth century, to which Ranulphus Paganel con- 
 tributed. They cousist of three column capitals, a fragment 
 of an arch of a doorway, and two fragments of interlaced arches 
 with plain mouldings ; also a portion of a square sculptured 
 font. The lower part of the tower, the pillars and arches of 
 the nave, and one arch of the South transept, and the stairs 
 into the rood loft, were of the middle of the fourteenth century 
 (Edward the Third.) as also some fragments of cyma or ogee 
 formed tracery ; and the pinnacles, pediment, and crockets of 
 the arch over the sacrarium, or recess wherein was the drain 
 for carrying off the holy water (according to Ledwick) when 
 defiled by " a fly, a loppe, or other venemouse beeste" ; also 
 the recesses or depositaries forthepix, ampulla?, &c. All this is 
 in a very perfect state. In the arches of the choir or chancel, 
 between the joints, a quantity of painted and stained glass had 
 been used, for what the workmen call packing, or rather to 
 prevent the lime from running, when the arches were built : 
 this glass was of the same date, (Edward the Third,) or earlier, 
 as upon it were drawings of tracery of this sera, and some of the 
 architecture of the 13th century, commonly termed lancet 
 gothic : this had been taken from an earlier building, which 
 had been destroyed by fire, some of the fragments being much 
 bent Many of the stones bear marks of fire. Under the
 
 165 
 
 eastern wall much charcoal was found, and in the part near 
 the tower, melted lead attached to stone, burnt wood and 
 earth. Now as this part of the church was rebuilt at the latter 
 end of the 15th century, I conceive the fire to have taken place 
 probably between A.D. 1450 and 1470, as the later portion of 
 the building alone contains these burnt fragments, and from a 
 view of the south front given in Thoresby, the west end of the 
 south aisle of the nave appears to be of the same date as the 
 nave pillars, which would indicate that the fire had not 
 extended west of the tower. 
 
 The Clerestories appsar to have been altered since the 
 Reformation : the north front was of the worst class of debased 
 architecture of the time of Henry the Eighth, or at any rate 
 not much before the close of Henry the Seventh's reign. The 
 pillars had all been painted in size or water colour a deep 
 crimson, and the whole of the walls in various colours. I 
 have traced three series of painting : the first in figures and 
 foliage of the fifteenth century ; the second with panels and 
 texts of the time of Elizabeth ; and the last of Charles the 
 First. There were a few old monumental inscriptions visible— 
 the two most important being in Latin, one to the memory of 
 John and Eufemia Langton, 1459 ; the other of John Langton, 
 son and heir of the former, and his wife Agnes, who died of 
 some pestilential disorder on the " feast of Saint Lambert, 
 Bishop and Martyr, A.D. 1464." Behind the altar piece was 
 a Mural monument to the memory of a family named Harde- 
 wycke, of the lGth century, and on taking up the floor under 
 the communion table, a tablet, in excellent preservation, con- 
 tained a brass plate inscribed to the memory of Thomas 
 Clarell, Vicar of Leeds, who was a benefactor to the church, 
 and who died in 14G9. The Langtons' inscriptions are also on 
 brass plates, and have fiat brass effigies let into the stone. On 
 taking up the floor of the choir, a fine effigy was discovered, in 
 chain mail, with plate kneecaps, sword, and shield, beautifully 
 carved in limestone : the coat of arms, or quartering^ of the 
 shield, denoting the knight to be of the family'of Stainton or 
 Steynton. The legs have been broken off close under the
 
 166 
 
 knee. This effigy is cross-legged, and cannot be later than 
 Edward the Second's time, or about A.D. 1300. In the 
 succeeding reign Elizabeth Steynton was prioress of Kirklees, 
 and probably of the same family. Many more recent monu- 
 ments decorated the walls and pillars, and there was some very 
 good carved oak screen work about two centuries old, all 
 which relics will be preserved and replaced in the new church. 
 In the church walls many crosses of priests, templars, and 
 hospitallers were found ; some had covered graves and others 
 had stood erect as head stones in the church-yard, but they 
 had mostly been broken up to use as wall stones in the lining 
 or filling of the walls. Four drains, or sacraria, had also been 
 used for the same purpose; and this appears to have been a 
 common practice, as in many of our churches fragments are 
 frequently to be seen in the walls, and more particularly in 
 those erected since the decline and fall of this very beautiful, 
 interesting, and scientific style of architecture.
 
 1(57 
 
 LINES 
 ON THE REV. JOHN KILLINGBECK, B.D. 
 
 VICAR OF LEEDS. 
 
 True to the charge committed to his trust- 
 To mankind faithful— to his Master just: 
 God and religion did his hours employ, 
 Goodness his choice, and charity his joy ! 
 Cheerful thro' life, in every healthy scene— 
 In sickness patient, and in death serene ; 
 Translated hence, of man and God approv'd- 
 He lives and triumphs in the world he lov'd. 
 
 These Lines were forwarded to me by a much-valued friend, one of the 
 patrons of the Parish Church, and are particularly seasonable at a time 
 when its rebuilding is in progress, inasmuch as the subject of their 
 panegyric was one of its most zealous guardians and supporters. In 
 the sermon preached on the occasion of Mr. Killingbeck's death by Mr. 
 Cookson, his successor in the Vicarage, the preacher observed, with refer- 
 ence to this point, concerning the deceased : 
 
 "What he hath done for the House of God we are witnesses, and the 
 beauty and order of this place is sufficient evidence." 
 
 Another quotation from this sermon will fully bear testimony to the 
 correctness *of the portrait which the poet has drawn : 
 
 " He lived like one of the primitive fathers, and preached like one of the 
 present. In brief, there was so perfect an harmony between his life and 
 doctrine, and both so very amiable, that several persons of distinction 
 were brought over from the Dissenters to the Established Church ; not by 
 set discourses against them, and passionate ill-natured reflections, which 
 tend too much to extinguish the life of religion and the power of godliness, 
 and never win upon ingenuous tempers, but by preaching the substantials 
 of the Christian religion. His severer animadversions were generally and 
 chiefly against the Deists, Unitarians, and modern Arians, who endanger 
 the foundations of revealed religion and the Christian faith." 
 
 I will only add that Mr. Killingbeck was born at Headingley Hall, in this 
 
 Parish, February 15th, 1G4<), and that he died on the 12th February, 1715, 
 
 having been Vicar about 29 years. 
 
 T. F.
 
 168 
 
 TO MY DEAR FRIEND MRS. S- 
 
 AT CARLISLE. 
 
 My dear Mrs. S ; I can never, no never, 
 
 Believe that a spirit so gentle as your's, 
 
 Can retain, if offended, its anger for ever, 
 
 But forgive when a friend that forgiveness implores. 
 
 Aye ! I see by the smile that your cheek dimples over, 
 By the kindness that fills your benevolent eye, 
 Your friendship ere long I may hope to recover, 
 If I learn for the future my errors to fly. 
 
 But what have I done ? They are not of commission 
 The faults and the follies I have to confess ; 
 Though I frankly acknowledge that those of omission, 
 Your censure deserves than the others no less. 
 
 I have done what I think never woman before did, 
 Kept silence at least for a twelvemonth, but then 
 I must not omit, you will say, to be candid, 
 That the silence was not of the tongue, but the pen. 
 
 I might, were I anxious my lapses to cover, 
 
 Tell of others as negligent quite as myself, 
 
 Yet, as I hate scandal, I'd rather pass over 
 
 Their faults, and lay them, with my own, on the shelf. 
 
 But, now, let me tell you, before I begin 
 
 To inquire for my friends, — though I own 'tis a sin 
 
 We are all prone to fall on to speak of ourselves, 
 
 Our Husbands, our Homes, and our Children, sweet elves » 
 
 And first, dearest Lady, my Master and Lord, 
 Is well, very well; and I think., on my word, 
 
 lie ne'er look'd nunc pleasant or spruce in his life 
 
 Now pray does not that Bay great things l'«r a wife ?
 
 109 
 
 Then the girls are as buxom, and ruddy, and gay, 
 As the rosebud of summer, or flow'r of the May, 
 And oft wish a drive, in a stage coach and four, 
 To visit old friends and dear Carlisle once more. 
 
 Master Robert, the steady, who knows every turning 
 And attends to each thing that is done in the house, 
 (Much more, by the bye, than he does to his learning,) 
 Is as fat and as sleek as a London-fed mouse ! 
 
 And Harry, the active, as sharp as a needle, 
 
 Is noisy and brisk, a9 a spaniel at play, 
 
 But Fred'rick, the darling, has been for some time ill, 
 
 Though now he's much better, I'm happy to say. 
 
 Then my sweet little Yorkshireman ; what is his name 
 Did you ask me ? Oh don't, dearest lady ! I'd rather 
 Not tell you at all, for I feel so much shame 
 To say, tie not Edward, nor Edwin, nor Arthur.* 
 
 His are names, (at least one of them is,)f that in story 
 Have been claim'd by the valiant, the wise, and the good ; 
 You will find, if you seek in the days of her glory 
 In the annals of Sweden, how brightly one stood. 
 
 The other is Roman, and therefore I'm sure must 
 Command admiration, at least, if not love ;t 
 Do you wish to know, then, if 'tis Ccesar Augustus ?— 
 Oh no ! yet your next guess more lucky may prove. 
 
 But enough ! — 'tis a pity to waste so much time, 
 In making and writing ridiculous rhyme, 
 My nursery nonsense I'll leave for a while, 
 To inquire for the welfare of friends at Carlisle. 
 
 Pray is Mr. S— well ? Is he quiet, and good ? 
 Does he meekly submit, as all Gentlemen should ? 
 Does he never presume to declare that you're wrong ? 
 Nor give hints to the Ladies by speaking of " tongue" ? 
 
 * I promised my friend it should bo one of these. 
 1 Charles Augustus. $ My friend is an Antiquary.
 
 170 
 
 If that be the case, you may tell him from me, 
 He is better than somebody else I could name ; 
 Who thinks that all women obedient should be, — 
 Perhaps that's because / am so humble and tame. 
 
 Doctor A ! — oh my dear Mrs. S. ! I'm afraid 
 He will think, that old Time has with memory fled ; 
 That new pleasures and faces the heart has betrayed, 
 To turn out old friends, and take them in instead. 
 
 But, believe me, tis not so : If ever I knew 
 One spark of ingratitude lodge, in my breast, — 
 If those whom I value should think me untrue, 
 Unkind, and forgetful, t'would rob me of rest. 
 
 No ; these are not times for old friends to be slighted, 
 When sordid self-interest all round us we see ; 
 And tell him, dear lady, our hopes were not blighted 
 When seeking we found one so faithful as he. 
 
 May plenty and peace crown his days as they run, 
 Unattended by sorrow, unclouded by strife ; 
 And, to wish him all blessings concenter'd in one, 
 May he soon be possess'd of an excellent wife ! 
 
 There are, my dear lady, a great many more, 
 Whose names in my sing-song I cannot include ; 
 Remember me to them a hundred times o'er, 
 And tell them I'll write when I feel in the mood — 
 
 For prosing, I mean ; I would not have them think 
 That I want inclination ; but strange 'tis to say, 
 Whenever I venture to take pen and ink, 
 There's nothing but rhyming will come in my way. 
 
 By the bye have you heard, oh my dear Mrs. S — ; 
 
 Have you read, I should say, what a lashing I've got 
 In the Atlas ! Ah, should it not make me declare 
 I would give up all rhyme and the muses forswear?
 
 171 
 
 Now pray do not laugh ! — it is really quite shocking ! 
 Though I can't for the life of me squeeze out a tear ; 
 I'm sure I don't wish to be thought a blue-stocking, 
 Nor to shine in the company of " Aubrey de Vere."* 
 
 Yet they couple me with him, and tell us to try 
 Our hand — it is very insulting — in turning 
 Dull prose into rhyme, that poor Babes may not cry, 
 And spoil their sweet faces when put to their learning. 
 
 Now, pray, do you think that the brave William Tell, 
 Whose deeds in the pages of history shine, 
 Needs the workings of fancy his praises to swell, 
 Or poetical fict ion his name to enshrine? 
 
 Well ! there's Mr, S ., in his easy arm-chair. 
 I really believe he is nodding. No more ! 
 Dear Lady, my patience no longer will bear- 
 When Friends go to sleep it is time to give o'er. 
 
 Yet I have not said half I could say. Were I near you 
 Oh what a great license my tongue would require ! — 
 'Tis best as it is, for I very much fear you, 
 As well as your Lord, with my nonsense would tire. 
 
 Adieu for a while, then, and blessings attend you, 
 May peace and content be your portions through life ; 
 May the shades of antiquity always befriend you, 
 And make fossils and coins in your cabinet rife ! 
 
 Farewell ! till the Spring, in her beauty and gladness, 
 Walks forth to enamel the meadows with flowers, 
 And the warblers, forgetting their winter of sadness, 
 Are singing sweet songs in their newly trim'd bowers ! 
 
 When I shall expect you to add to the season 
 New graces and pleasures, and kindly to shed 
 Round our dear little circle the bright glow of reason, 
 And talk (not with sorrow) of days that are fled. 
 
 * A critic in the Atlas, speaking of a small poem, entitled " William 
 Tell," in one of the Annuals, classed the Author with Sir Aubrey de Vcrc, 
 and recommended them to write jointly a History of England in verse for 
 the use of the rising generation !
 
 172 
 
 You must not refuse ! Even now while I'm writing, 
 Unbidden, the tear from my eyelids will start, 
 As I fondly remember the hours when delighting 
 To listen I sat with the friend of my heart. 
 
 Farewell! I have friends who are kind and attentive, 
 Frank, sensible, clever, obliging, but not 
 (I hope they'll forgive) holding out an incentive, 
 To love them as well as my dear Mrs. S 
 
 Leeds. E. P. 
 
 A SPIRIT OF AIR. 
 
 BY TIIOMAS ROGERSON, ESQ., BRAMLEY. 
 
 Ah ! who would not be a bright spirit free, 
 
 To wander at will through eternity; 
 
 To dance on a sun ray, to follow the moon, 
 
 Or gorgeously ride on the wild Simoon, 
 
 And to travel as far as the pale morning star, 
 
 Or to girdle the earth in Apollo's bright car ! 
 
 Ah ! who would not die, as a spirit to fly 
 
 Through regions of air to the stars on high, 
 
 As the meteors prance, as the lightnings dance, 
 
 Pass through myriads of miles at a glance. 
 
 Oh ! the dull huge earth that gave me birth 
 
 In the mighty blank scarce a thought is worth. 
 
 In the morn I'd come to the wild wind's home, 
 
 To career with the wildest and onward to roam ; 
 
 I would wreath a cloud a spirit to shroud 
 
 If the glittering sun ever shone too proud. 
 
 When the sun was high in the azure sky, 
 
 To the moonbeams cool away I'd fly ; 
 
 And the heavens Bhould ring with the song I'd sing, 
 
 Ami echo n -pond t<> the music I'd bring.
 
 173 
 
 WHAT IS POETRY ? 
 
 BY GEORGE WILSON, ESQ , LEEDS. 
 
 'Tis the prism of the spirit, wherewith it can shew 
 The bright hues-which are blent in this twilight of woe : 
 'Tis the wand of the fairies, whose pow'r is not fled, 
 But awakes in the bard its old magic to shed ! 
 
 'Tis the low voice of solitude, gentle though wild, 
 As she whispers strange truths to her favourite child ; 
 'Tis the music of nature, which sweetens each tone 
 Of the bard as he wanders with solitude lone! 
 
 'Tis the strife and the struggle — the groan and the tear, 
 For justice witholden — o'er liberty's bier ; 
 'Tis the warning for battle when wrongs are o'erthrown, 
 'Tis the paean, the triumph, where freedom hath grown ! 
 
 'Tis the dream of all goodness, the life of the soul, 
 'Tis an essence which owns not dull custom's control : 
 'Tis the love which decays not, but lives on the past, 
 'Tis the broken heart constant and warm to the last !
 
 174 
 
 'Tis the hush of devotion — the holiness shed 
 On our hearts as we hrood o'er the lov'd and the dead ; 
 'Tis the halo which circles the patriot's high name, 
 'Tis the angel whose record hath publish'd his fame ! 
 
 'Tis all these ! — and wherever young beauty doth dwell, 
 With the breeze on the mountain — the flow'r in the dell ; 
 With whatever is holy, and noble, and fair, 
 The bard hath his temple, and worshippeth there ! 
 
 GOOD BYE. 
 BY J. W. PARTRIDGE, ESQ., IIORSFORTIT. 
 
 Why do we build an altar here, 
 
 Why intertwine with earth, 
 Th' enchanting piles of friendship rear, 
 
 Or sacrifice to mirth ? 
 Touched by stern fate the fabrics fall, 
 
 Mirth's joyous minutes fly, 
 Dissolved as tho' at magic call, 
 
 At the drear sound " Good bye." 
 " Good bye" re-echoed from the heart 
 
 We've fondly pressed to ours, 
 Reciprocated as we part, 
 
 By all affection's powers, 
 Must teach us not to build below, 
 
 Must point beyond the skies, 
 Where hallowed love blest spirits know, 
 
 And friendship uever dies.
 
 175 
 
 HYMN 
 
 ON LAVING THE F0UNDAT1ON-ST0NK OF A CHURCH. 
 
 BY JAMES MONTGOMERY, ESQ. 
 
 Thus saith the high and lofty One, 
 Inhabiting eternity ; 
 
 " Earth is my footstool, heaven my throne, 
 What temple will ye build for Me ' 
 
 .7" 
 
 Yet mortals, bound by time and space, 
 May plead thy faithful promise, Lord, 
 To bless and hallow every place, 
 Where they thy holy Name record. 
 
 Here, then, where none hath stood before, 
 To thee a House of prayer we build ; 
 May it, till seasons change no more, 
 Be with thy grace and glory fill'd. 
 
 From age to age, the gospel here, 
 Its life, its health, its power impart 
 Be preach'd to every listeuing ear, 
 And sown in every fruitful heart. 
 
 So, in the heavenly Church above, 
 When Saints their course on earth review, 
 Thousands may tell, with joy and love, 
 That here their souls were born anew.
 
 170 
 
 CONCLUDING ADDRESS TO THE READER. 
 BY THE REV. MATTHEW WILKINSON, M.A. 
 
 PRINCIPAL OF THE COLLEGIATE SCHOOL, HUDDERSFIELD. 
 
 'Twas wished by those the power of God that feared, 
 And loved the Saviour, who first loved and died, 
 A House of Prayer should to our Lord be reared, 
 Where young and old in pious thought might 'bide : 
 And to invite your alms one way they took, 
 Was to prepare for sale this little book. 
 
 Then do not, gentle reader, look for here 
 A pompous style, or stately-sounding songs ; 
 No critic's bile, this little work should fear, 
 For that to more pretending things belong3. 
 With other aim our humble task is done, 
 Nor do we seek to win what they have won. 
 
 We seek by guiltless act a fund to raise, 
 God's treasury to increase in days of want ; 
 To teach our people how to duly praise 
 Their fathers' God in days of knowledge scant : 
 Aid for the altar is the aid you give- 
 Teaching poor souls to die as well as live. 
 
 [it. PRRRLNG, PRINTER, LEEDS.]
 
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