loveliness of nature ever feed the stirring flame, ever increase the intense thirst. We gaze on some quiet landscape, mellowed into golden beauty by the sun, its waters glancing beneath the light, its forests irradiated with brightness, its distant steeple shining like some silver streak of coming day, its sheep reclining beneath the shade of tree and hedge, its butterflies alighting on the wild-rose and woodbine, and immediately we feel the burnings within-the longings after immortality; or we stand before the blue mountains with their crests of snow, and our pantings become more sublime and ethereal; their gigantic forms seem part of another world; with every-day life they have nothing to do; they are the emblems of some eternal existence; they contrast themselves strangely with the turmoil of cities; whilst looking on them, we are divested of self, we merge into the one mighty spirit; an everlastingness comes over us; the noise and tumult of man cease here; the larch and fir which skirt their sides give a melancholy tone to the mind; the mortal is lost in the immortal; the corruptible, in the incorruptible; the transitory becomes firm, fixed, immovable; our fickleness changes itself into a deep and imperishable constancy; our thoughts take the hue of heaven-they are vast and infinite; our aspirations quicken; our feelings are spiritualized :

bliss arise! And yet we feel a sadness mingling its low music with our better hopes; it clings, it cleaves to us; we are bound down to this estranged orb; we cannot get free; we are in the midst of decay; we long to be where change is unknown; nothing satisfieth but perfect glory; music and eloquence, architecture, painting, sculpture, poetry, do but increase and quicken these pantings after immortal, incorruptible, inextinguishable beauty; they are glimpses of the unseen good, gleams of the radiant loveliness; they stir, move, dilate our being; they are part of that exquisite happiness we lost when Adam fell: all faded not then; we still possess something divine, something of the original brightness.

These are periods when realities dawn upon us; we behold our condition; we long after freedom; the vanities of this passing, wo-begone scene appear in their proper light; they belong not to immortals hastening heavenward. But the world turns on us again; we are seduced by its alluring pomps and pleasures; we forget our mightier existence; time flies onwards, and they return with fresh vigour and glory; we gaze on revelation's page, and read that man can never die; we are cheered; we lay hold of the soothing fact; it lighteth up the being, it radiates the inner shrine; the falling leaves, and the moaning winds, and the dim earth, and the pale moon, and the twinkling stars, become then the echo of this great and sublime verity; we feel that we have sinned; that we have wandered far from the fold: we look up for pardon; we have it in the blood of the Holiest; on him we henceforth lean, on him for ever repose; death and the grave are stripped of their terrors; the tomb closes; its overhanging willows, as the breeze rustles by, breathe out the music of immortality; Paradise visions itself in tints of everlasting beauty; we think of Eden, faded, but weep not; there is a sweeter land above, without change, and without decay.

Witness this one fair lake, upon whose side So oft at even 'tis my joy to roamGazing upon a thousand things that hide Their beauties, till the heart doth feel at home With nature's self beneath her open domeThat I do love the waters, and the woods, And simple flowers that bloom in solitudes, And the green meadows, and the soft blue skies, And mountains with their ever-changeful dyes; And that I praise with no feigned melodies: Yet did the fairest scene that ever beamed On my rapt gaze-the loveliest morn or even, Beneath whose spell I ever stood and dreamed, Leave but a deeper thirst-this spirit needs a heaven! There is something within us all which speaks of everlasting life and beauty: those seasons are far from few in which overwhelming thoughts Why have we this love for the unseen and rush on the soul; we pant after eternal reali- eternal?-whence this longing after invisible ties; we weep because all around us is transi-things-why this fondness for something betory; we sorrow because all is given to decay. yond the barrier of our present existence, if Man thus ever thinks: he gazes on the once there is nought but annihilation there, if noblossoming rose, it is now shrivelled, and dried, thing but profound nonentity, why this desire and without loveliness; he looks on the pale, for spiritual knowledge? why this casting formarble features of his own little one ere it is ward the inextinguishable thought into the laid in the tomb, and he meditates on the insta- unknown, if being is not there?-why these bility of all things here below; but in the midst aspirations, which are in the bosom of every of sadness there is hope; he feels within him- man, after a more ethereal and perfect nature? self an imperishable essence. Man is the child-why does imagination so often kindle its fires of anticipation; in his happiest hours he dreams in the world beyond, if we are not allied to of something more lasting and exquisite still; something infinitely greater than anything on he creates something purer, and holier, and earth--why these pantings after some lasting better. good, if we have no tie and no bond which unite us to the Holiest?-why these golden glimpses of the coming heaven?-why these refulgent gleams of beauty?-why these liquid hymnings of praise ?-why these shadowings of the lovely and the true?-why, oh why, the dawn streaking so often the horizon of man's soul and illumining its mysterious abysses with glory, if we are not the sons of the universal King and the universal Lord?

And oh, how sweet when the pale moon and the silver stars glimmer in the evening sky, when the leaves fall rustling to the earth, when the low winds come moaning by, to let loose the soul to revel in its imaginings! The aspect of nature, so calm, yet so melancholy, throws the mind into musings on its future destiny; there is a solemnity in the twilight heavens, and the dim world; there is, too, a deep, hushed stillness on the thoughts of the heart. In such an hour, what scenes of quiet

The poem on Heavenly Rest, for beauty and elegance, is exquisite: we deem it the sweetest

flower in the bouquet, the brightest gem in the glance brings Eden in all its unfading beauty

casket.

Man in the morning to his work goes forth,
And rests at even:

Christian, remember, labour is for earth,
Repose for heaven.

Who now sows precious seed, though it may be
Too oft with weeping,

Shall, if he patiently await it, see

A joyous reaping.

Fruit shall be gathered, whose abundant store Shall never perish;

But blissful love, where weeping shall be o'er,

For ever cherish.

Then scatter freely, nor withhold thy hand
Till close of even:

Earth is the place of toil-the better land
Of rest is heaven.

before us, their very talk is more than sweetest melody; their eye is undimmed, their countenance unclouded. Bursts of glorious sunshine seem ever and anon to break from their free and lovely faces: we deem again that earth is without a sorrow, earth without a thorn. It is true they sometimes quarrel, but it is a quarrel quickly ending in love and tenderness; some passing shadow, soon to be lost in the brightness of a clear blue firmament.

day by the sun of love; they are breathed on
by the breath of love: morning, noon, and
night, they are carried to the throne, and bles-
sings sought: they learn "the truth as it is
in Jesus"; it refines, expands, exalts them;
they become more divinely bright, more di-
vinely beautiful: "Of such is the kingdom of
heaven":-

What were the grove without the wild
And merry warbler in the trees?
What were the home without the child,
Whose laughter speaks his ecstasies?

Their domain is home; they are the pledges of a true and holy faith; the cup of labour becomes then the cup of blessing; the curse of sin falls less heavily, the bitterness of our rebellion sinks less deeply; mercy is mixed with Our poet is a domestic man. Amid the judgment; the domestic hearth is Paradise resanctities of a hallowed home he gathers his gained, is Eden restored: children are its lovechoicest mercies. Somehow or other, we haveliest, fairest flowers. They are smiled on each been too much accustomed to look for beauty out of this blessed retreat; in this we have greatly erred: the centre of all real beauty is home, it is the concentration of loveliness; earth possesses no other spot more truly fascinating. In vain do we look elsewhere; all the affections that perfume this hallowed recess are highly poetical, each is pre-eminently beautiful: the eye of childhood, its rainbow hopes, its courageous daring, its deep gushes of tenderness, its full confiding trust, its sweet simplicity, its firm reliance, are all glowing with the divinest poetry; the throbbing feelings, the watchful care, the thousand sacrifices of parental love are equally imbued with the spirit of ethereal grace; the endearments of an affianced pair, their devoted and clinging attachment, their resolve never to part from each other; their cherishing regard, their innumerable acts of fondness, their chiding the anticipation, their readings, their twilight hours, their evening vespers, are each and all charactered with the purest light all that is homeborn is unutterably fair and good; the open-hearted child, the yearning mother, the kind father, the young wife, the tender husband, are all poetical objects. Oh! how much beauty, loveliness, and glory circle the domestic abode; and thus it is that we delight to see the expression of this truth embodying itself in the description of poet and the work of painter, for the soul that never thought before may be led to prize it now, and the heart that never throbbed when gazing on such holy scenes, may be bound once and for ever by the pure and powerful influence stealing from those exquisite works of art.

66

Children," says the Scottish poet, "are as dew-drops at day-spring on a seraph's locks, roses that bathe about the well of life;" and the Oracle, using another simile, has proclaimed in the deep intonation of its music, "happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them." And indeed, no one can look upon children without an emotion of inexpressible joy: they are comparatively innocent and untainted by sin; they exhibit so much openness and confiding attachment. If they love, they will come and throw their little arms around your neck, and kiss again and again; they act from feeling; hence they so often judge correctly. They are bound by no fashion, but the fashion of affection; bound by no tie, but the tie of souls: their very

The minstrel may describe the one;
But would ye rightly know the other,
Go, ask the father, who hath done
His toil, and hastes to child and mother.
Or rather-for the words of men
Feebly from swelling hearts arise-
Go, mark the gladsome child, and then
Look into the mother's eyes.
up

O, sweet it is in woods to roam
And list the merry warblers wild!
But sweeter far to hear at home

The dancing, laughing, joyous child!
Such is the delight children yield-yields the
rose a sweeter? such the happiness they give-
give the stars a greater? Flowers are emble-
matical of their beauty; the stars significant of
their brightness. They, indeed, are far more
beautiful and bright than either: their little prat-
tle, their beaming countenance, their confiding
truth, their open-hearted affection, their looks
of thrilling tenderness, their light and joyous step,
their candour, their honesties, their aspirations
after something higher and nobler, their tears
for the distress of the poor, their blushings of
heroic purpose, their kindling souls at the tale
of self-sacrifice, their gratitude, their deep re-
membrance, their free and boisterous mirth,
their sincerity, their fervent prayers, their ardent
affection, are all so many silken cords or
golden chains which bind us to children. The
creature is ever the most exquisite of God's
workmanship: the soul, as it issues from the
Creator, is ever thus his most resplendent jewel:
it is as the May-day of our hopes, the dawn of
our bliss.

Our poet has thus sweetly written on all subjects connected with the domestic affections. His poems scent of the rich incense of a happy home; they breathe the softness, and peace, and tenderness of that holy retreat: his talents are suited to portray its worth and beauty. The verses to his Own Beloved, to their Firstborn, to their Daughter, are redolent with these

feelings. The Dewdrop, and the lines on Evening, show strongly his deep-rooted love of nature; but it is to home that he clings and cleaves; it is his element, his earthly Paradise. And God hath cast thereon the sunshine of his favour, and the bright radiance of his countenance, and the unutterable blessings of his mercy. The smile of heaven is on it—the beams of the Holy One are there.

EMILY.

In the year 1759, there came a poem bearing the handwriting of one Emily to the adjudicators of the Seatonian prize. It spoke of death; but another was thought to speak in bolder and finer tones, and it was returned. Who he was, what he was, whence he came, whither he went, we know not; whether the son of wealthy parents, fondled on the breast of beauty, courted by the great, or whether the child of poverty, and who had by struggles obtained an university education, we cannot tell; whether born amid some wild, mountainous scenery, with nothing but rocks, and pines, and wild goats, and waters, and the blue heavens to look upon, or whether brought forth beneath some lowly roof in England's great metropolis, we are unable to dis

cover.

There is something touching in this brief memorial-a few lines tell it all; the history of a life is compressed within a sentence. His fears, his hopes, his aspirations, his throbbings after bliss, his romantic schemes of happiness, his labours, his rambles, his melancholies, his disappointments, his loves, are wholly unknown. So passes man, and the son of man! His poem is all that we have; it is the hic jacet; it tells of some one, but of whom we cannot ken. There is the mouldering tombstone, it is partly covered with moss; nothing more than the name is traceable; his fate melts the soul, it invests the object of our regard with a sanctity, it throws around him a deep interest: across the heavens came a star, and waned; among the students came a poet, who sang of sable death, and perished.

We often think of his resting-place. Where is it? Is it in some shady dell, near which rose that village spire, on which he used to gaze so often at the sunset hour? or is it in some churchyard now built upon and forgotten? Is it by the murmuring of the silver stream, or by the city's constant hum? The eye which once grew eloquent whilst gazing on Beauty is orbless and rayless now; the pulse has forgotten to beat, the throbbings of the heart are no longer heard; he lies silent; no sound disturbs him: the birds may sing in brake and field, the wild flower may rear its loveliness to the summer sun, the voice of reaper may rise upwards, the perfumes of rose may scent every breath of wind, the stars may shine resplendently, and again fade out, the storm may bellow, and the lightnings gleam on the dark, tempestuous blackness, the day-god may ascend, and the day-god may descend, but our poet is as unconcerned as if all was silence and inactivity.

|

the gay glory of the earth; like us, pensive
thoughts would steal over his soul at the even-
ing hour; and he, too, would think of friend,
and kin, and love, in that dim tranquillizing
season; and the stars of heaven would breathe
spiritual inspiration, and that silver moon look
beautifully pale; they would speak in language
liquid as the nightingale's when heard across
some gentle stream, yet deep, deep as their own
beauty; and this would cheer him, when, sitting
by the midnight lamp, he turned the classic
page, and hoped, and sighed, and prayed for
immortality.

But we have one expression of his heart:
it is original, pathetic, beautiful. Hearken:-
The festive roar of laughter, the warm glow
Of brisk-eyed joy, and friendship's genial bowl,
Wit's seasoned converse, and the liberal flow
Of unsuspicious youth, profuse of soul,
Delight not ever; from the boisterous scene
Of riot far, and Comus' wild uproar,
From folly's crowd, whose vacant brow serene
Was never knit to wisdom's frowning lore,
Permit me, ye tine-hallowed domes, ye piles
Of rude magnificence, your solemn rest,
Amid your fretted vaults, and lengthening aisles,
Lonely to wander; no unholy guest
That means to break, with sacrilegious tread,
The marble slumbers of your monumented dead.
Permit me, with sad musings, that inspire
Unlaboured numbers apt, your silence drear
Blameless to wake, and with the Orphean lyre,
Fitly attempered, soothe the merciless ear
Of Hades, and stern Death, whose iron sway
Great nature owns through all her wide domain.

you,

Know, on the stealing wing of time shall flee
Some few, some short-lived years, and all is past;
A future bard these awful domes may see,
Muse o'er the present age, as I the last,
Who, mouldering in the grave, yet once, like
The various maze of life were seen to tread,
Each bent their own peculiar to pursue,
As custom urged or wilful nature led:
Mixed with the various crowd's inglorious clay,
The nobler virtues undistinguished lie;
No more to melt with beauty's heaven-born ray,
No more to wet compassion's tearful eye,
Catch from the poet raptures not their own,
And feel the thrilling melody of sweet renown.
Where is the master-hand, whose semblant art
Chiselled the marble into life, or taught
From the well-pencilled portraiture to start
The nerve that beat with soul, the brow that thought?
Cold are the fingers that in stone-fixed trance
The mute attention rivetting, to the lyre
Struck language; dimmed the poet's quick-eyed glance,
All in wild raptures flashing heaven's own fire.
Shrunk is the sinewed energy, that strung
The warrior's arm. Where sleeps the patriot breast
Whilom that heaved impassioned?-where the tongue
That lanced its lightning on the tow'ring crest
Of sceptred insolence, and overthrew
Giant oppression, leagued with all her earth-born crew?

All in the dust; the song, the dance, and eloquent oration no longer move them; the whirlwind's sweep and the thistle's down pass over them, alike unnoticed and alike unfelt; the blue heavens gaze down as before; no change in them; the earth is fresh and beautiful as then; it looks not old; we it is who change, we it is who moulder, we it is who are forgotten. The heavens and the earth livelive; we die, we fade away, we sink into oblivion; every hour but bears us to the tomb, every moment but hurries us to the grave; thus humanity passes onwards, making room for those who follow. Oh, one would think Ah, once it was otherwise; his heart vibra- | that the ocean, and the sky, and the dry land ted when gazing on creation; like us, he loved | would weep ! but no, they are silent; they