call him fool, for we are told not to give that name to a brother. Yet we are likewise told, that "the fool saith in his heart, there is no God." He so saith in his heart, because his heart is desperately wicked, and hard as a stone. But affliction comes like a great frost, and splits the stone into pieces, and then the wretch knows that there is a God, and a judgment. Mr Loudon is, like ourselves, an editor. He has then a catapulta and a battering-ram to bring against us; and, if our wall be weak, he may hope to breach it, to rush in and storm our citadel, and put our garrison to the sword. But we promise, if he be rash enough to face such an encounter, to meet him, not in the breach, but outside the ramparts, and within his own lines, at the head of a victorious sally, and in our hand the Crutch. In hoc signo vincimusand our very name has long been a tower of strength, and a sword of fire-Christopher North. Gardeners of Great Britain and of Ireland!-for we love the Emerald of the Sea-ye will range yourselves, we know, under our banner. How often have our hearts been gladdened by the sight of that Annual Show, moving to music through the streets and squares of high Dunedin, a waving wood of beautiful green branches, fruit-laden, and bright, too, with flowers, while underneath, with measured tread, whose firm sound brings from the dust the pleasant sound of peace, marches a long line of thoughtful, but cheerful faces, of figures, such as, if need were, would drive, with levelled bayonets, all invaders into the sea. Sons of Adam, and followers of his trade! we greet you well one and all of you at this hour pursuing your work, which is your pastime, on the bosom of the various spring. We are with you on Mayday. Saunders, give us a spade. "When Adam delved and Eve span, Who was then the gentleman?" Why, Adam, to be sure, and Eve was the lady-and so is every Adam still and so is every Eve-who delving, remembers that he too is but a worm; who spinning, thinks sometimes of her own frail thread of life! O, gardeners of Mid-Lothian! we saw you through a window-we say not in what street-with our own old eyes, walking in that multitudinous procession on the day celebrative of -Reform. What Pan, and Sylvanus, and Vertumnus, and Pomona, and Flora, thought and felt, we know not; perhaps even as Christopher North. May no frost kill the blossoms of your hopes! May the tree then planted be the best of bearers, and a very golden pippin in the flavour of its fruit! As for you, ye Plumbers, "with leaden eyes that love the ground!" we noticed your banner, emblazoned with "Christopher under the Pump." It was a poor caricature-and the inscription stolen from Maga. It had been well if all the members of your managing committee had confined themselves to such petty theft. But on the very day before the Procession, that very standard-bearer, availing himself of his office of Inspector of the Gutters, in which we had employed and paid him for a good many years, cut off some hundred pound weight of lead, and rolling it up like a few yards of carpetting, over his unseen shoulder with it, down stairs, out of the area-door, and, having deposited it in a place of safety, away to speak on Reformthe orator being at the same time a Thief and a Robber. FOUR LYRICS. BY DELTA. No. I. TO THE SKYLARK. AWAKE ere the morning dawn-skylark, arise! Earth starts like a sluggard half-roused from a dream; Arise from the clover, and up to the cloud, Up, up with a loud voice of singing! the bee Soon the marsh will resound to the plover's lone cries ;- Alone Up, up with thy praise-breathing anthem ! No. II. TWILIGHT THOUGHTS. HOARSE chatter'd the crow on the boughs overhead, Boded forth to my spirit its omens of dread, And added fresh gloom to the hour: Earth frown'd like a desert; the clouds roll'd above In murkier shadows, a desolate throng; While the stream, as it flow'd through October's wan grove, Then sunk the red sun o'er the verge of the hill, And sigh'd-while all sounds of existence were still- 'Twas a scene of seclusion-beneath an oak-tree, I mused on the friends who had pass'd to the grave- Then, listening, I heard but the dull hollow rave I thought on the glory, the sunshine of yore, When Hope rear'd her fairy-built piles to the view; Thrice happy, I deem'd, were the perish'd and dead, And the friends, with whom youth's sunny morning was led, Who longest survive but the longer deplore, Since Heaven calls its favourites the soonest away; The holly-tree smiles through the snows lying hoar, No. III. HADDON HALL, YORKSHIRE. GREEN weeds o'ertop thy ruined wall, The swallow twitters through thee; Who would have thought, when, in their pride, That time should thus subdue thee? While with a famed and far renown, How many a Vernon thou hast seen, Then, as the soft autumnal breeze The grandeur of the olden time Before thy cellars cheer'd them. Since thine unbroken early day, In charnel vault to moulder, Yet Nature round thee breathes an air The past is but a gorgeous dream, No. IV. ELEGIAC STANZAS. FAREWELL! if there can be farewell I think how pure mere man might be, Thine was the tongue that spake no ill; Pure in thyself, 'twas thine to think That others,-all mankind were such, Alive to feel, and quick to shrink From Sin's polluting touch. Yes! 'twas no idle, vain pretence, The glories of the ancient day Illumed thy steps with classic light, The patriot's deed and poet's lay Bequeath'd thee sweet delight. And thine was Duty's loftiest sense, And thine that calm, high, Christian faith, Which warm'd thee to benevolence, And soothed the thorny bed of death; So God hath call'd thee back again, Back to thy birthright in the sky, Who ne'er gave cause of grief to men, Save when 'twas thine to die! WOMAN. BY SIMONIDES (NOT OF COs). TRANSLATED BY WILLIAM HAY. 1. THE prototype of every female mind II. The scoundrel fox another soul supplies, At truth or lies, at right or wrong to catch; III. That barking woman, with her slanderous itch, IV. The lazy lump, the weary husband's load, v. Mark you a fifth the never constant sea, |