As vice can chain the body with disease,
Till death release ;-so, that immortal soul
Roams, guilty, through Eternity-diseas'd and
curs'd!

-Man's soul, at first, was pure and innocent;
To fadeless, everlasting glory heir:
Himself that spirit cloth'd in robes of guilt.
Unfurl'd Rebellion's crimson flag-and dar'd,
Th' Omnipotent! Despis'd his Maker's love-
Preferr'd a fiend-and reap'd a fiend's re-
ward!

His punishment immutable :--tho' Heaven
Should quiver with angelic sighs and tears!
Hear, then, vain Man! and tremble while
thou bear'st!

I thunder, what Eternity approvesIf man be damned for ever-he's self damn'd! "Philosophy-shall teach me how to die!" Thou often saidst-but Death was distant then! At last he came-and burst thy study door, Where solitude and metaphysics reign'd; Where dusky folios shed a solemn gloom, For abstract mathematic reasonings meet: His white arm pluck'd thee from thy cushion'd chair

He laugh'd to see thy diagrams;-puff'd out the lamp,

And flung thee gasping on a bed of death. How's this, Philosopher?-Why writhe thy limbs?

Why sweats thy brow?-Why clench thy clammy hands?

Call up philosophy-and die a man, As Socrates and Epicurus did: Recall to mind thy favourite sentiment : "Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere caussas; Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari!"

Ay; this is manly: at last thou liest still, With philosophic calmness.-Ah! that start! That rigid frame in strong convulsions lock'd! Hell gleameth in that fixed--staring eye!— What dost thou see?-thou glar'st on every side!

Oh, that unearthly laugh!-like echo faint Offiendish yells, and sulphurous billow's dash! Despair hath grasp'd thy thought-indented brow;

Despair hath bound thy classic tongue! Despair Hath broke the laboured framework of thy

mind,

Which saith, "A myriad worlds for half an

hour!"

Thy soul outweighs the universe! but now, Not all the starry realms an hour can buy! Perchance 'tis not too late! oh, spirit, look! Before thy sinking eye the glorious cross is rear'd!

Gaze on those wounds! That blood can save thee yet!

Cling to those pierced feet!-Oh kiss the Son. Lest his fierce anger burn thee! Hell, far beneath,

Hath pour'd its swarthy legions, to behold
This fearful struggle !-Unnumber'd worlds
Perchance are gazing on this spectacle!
Eternity broods pregnant o'er an hour!
Infinite bliss, or horror, an hour decides !
The golden lyres of heaven awhile are still'd!
-Burst!- Burst these bars of unbelief!
spirit!

Heaven is before thee!-Oh, thy heart beats slow!

Believe! Believe!-Before thy darkening eyes For ever close on this celestial scene!

That groan bath rent the curtain of thy life! We gaze on-dust!

| Oh, chant the dreary dirge of an infidel! —
His spirit hath gone!

It hath ventur'd alone
On a dark and boundless sea :
Its gloomy swell,
Moan'd like a knell,

As it bore him thro' dim eternity!

Reason's torchlight

Was quench'd in night,
When he left his house of clay;
Oh, he scorn'd and despis'd
The blood of Christ,

Which alone could guide his dreary way!

Boom onward, boom--
Through the fearful gloom
Of a cheerless and desolate night!
Till thy shuddering eye
Far off shall descry

A startling pomp of terrible light!-

Come, spirit, come!

Receive thy doom

A terrible trump hath peal'd thy name!
Where shalt thou fly

From that fearful eye

Which hath lit the universe into flame!

There is music in hell!

They are chanting thy knell,

They are weaving a burning wreath for thee;
Wrapp'd in robes of fire

Is that fearful choir

Go!-join their ghastly revelry!

On a throne of flame

With hot diadem

men,

Must these but play their part,' then close their days,

Shut up the book of life, then pass away,
And leave us lonely in a darksome world?
Yes" dust thou art, and to thy mother dust
Shalt thou return," 'twas thus th' Almighty
spake,

When first our great forefather Adam sinn'd,
And we the children of the fall must die.
But what is death? Is it an endless sleep,
Annihilation, or nonentity?

When flesh and bone decay, and sinews firm
Receive their transmutation into earth,
Is the ethereal spirit then extinct?

Or living, does it wander throughout space,
Visit the stars,-from sun to planet fly,-
Pursue the roving comet's trackless course,
Or fleet as sunbeams wing its tireless way
To gaze with rapture on the works of God?
All fetterless-all sorrowless-all pure-
An immaterial, an immortal thing?

Or does it sink to those dark dismal shades,
Where Pluto reigns, as fabled stories say,
Stalking in solemn silence with the ghosts
Of mighty heroes, chieftains, sages who
Performed their part of life in other days?
Is death a doubtful and uncertain thing?
When leaving scenes of earth and earthly
bliss,

Do we but leap at random in the dark?
Or does a guide celestial wait to point
The undying spirit to another world?

No more I ask these questions, for the word
Of everlasting truth, inspired by heaven,
Writ by evangelists and holy men,
Reveals the mystic secrets of the grave,
Long to philosophers and sages hid.
This, like an ever-burning lamp, illumes
The dreary sepulchre, and sheds a ray
Of brightness on eternity's profound.
Jesus the Son of God, who died, who rose
Triumphant over death, and wing'd his way
Up to his Father's throne, there sits and
speaks,

"I am the resurrection and the life ;

Ye faithful few shall rise and reign with me." Lord, we believe, and this transporting thought Shall cheer our exit from this lower state.

92.-VOL. VIII.

The vale of dread-the shadowy vale of death, Cheer'd by this hope, shall lose its native gloom.

Thousands who occupy yon blissful seats Have passed the vale in triumph, and exclaim'd, "Now, now we die in peace, vain world, adieu." And then delightful 'tis to watch around The dying bed, and catch the last, last words Of happiness, that fall from lips which soon Must neither comfort nor instruction yield.. To see a glimpse of glory shine across The brow which clay must soon encompass round.

To watch the last convulsive throb that breaks Life's cords, and lets the unfettered soul ascend.

And so, much honour'd dust, it was with thee! That tongue had learn'd the language of the bless'd;

And ere death's stiffness seized it, utter'd forth
Words which anticipated heavenly joys-
Words which adduced to every listening ear
Sure evidence that then thou hadst within
The firmest, strongest faith,-that now thou art
Where not a doubt nor fear can mar thy bliss.
Here is another witness for the truth.
'Tis ours to improve the death of godly men:
"For us they sicken, and for us they die."

Departed spirit! then we mourn thee not; But thinking what thou wast, and what thou art,

Resolve to follow thee on earth, as thou
Didst follow Christ. To live like thee the life
The righteous live-then die the death they die.
Then 'twill be transport to reflect on death,
And see it but the gate to endless joys;
The introduction to a better world,
Where are celestial glories all our own.
There must be happiness, for God is there;
And where he is, is heaven-there are the
saints-

There martyrs, prophets, and apostles dwell,
In the bright land of promise long foretold.
A few more conflicts and temptations o'er,
Till finished be the work 'tis ours to do,
And we shall cease to sojourn here on earth;
Then shall these feet in that fair city stand-
The new Jerusalem shall these eyes behold!
Deal, May, 1826.
E. BROWN.

THE CLIMBING BOY'S COMPLAINT. BY WILLIAM STONES.

"Si genus humanum et mortalia temnitis arma; At seperate deos memores fandi atque nefandi." Virgil.

IN Britain's highly favour'd land
I saw a painful sight;

A climbing boy who scarce could stand
Or take his steps aright.

His crippled limbs, which once were fair,
Were only clothed with rags;
The sweeping brush he scarce could bear,
Much less the sooty bags.

His milk-white teeth, his tender age,
And brilliant swimming eye,
A stranger's notice did engage,
As he was passing by.

2 B

"They took ber-ah, we know not where, How many tears we shed;

The neighbours strove our hearts to cheer, And put us all to bed.

"Next morning when we rose from sleep, A mother once so kind

We saw not all began to weep,
Ourselves bereft to find.

What shall we do?' my sister said,
To brother George and me;
We all must die for want of bread,
For parents none have we.
"A poor-house soon became our lot,
For thither we were sent ;
And though no parents we had got,
We strove to be content.

"Till on the most ill-fated day

We ever yet had seen,
While we were all engaged in play
Upon the open green,—
"There came a dark ill-looking man,
He stood awhile to look,
And as we all together ran,

Both George and me he took.

"In vain we strove for liberty,
He held us both so fast;

But sister ran, and she got free;
A look at us she cast,

"Which pierc'd my almost broken heart,
And made my brother weep;
But ah! I thought not we should part,
And I became a sweep.

"I never shall forget the day,

Poor George and I were told, We both with him must go away, And soon we should be sold.

"By one we never saw before,
Away we both were led;

And sister Jane we saw no more,
I fear that she is dead!

"She wept as if her heart would break,
When we from her did part;
Her eyes were shut, she could not speak,
I think she broke her heart.

"But O! my heart would break to tell :
So when we met a sweep,

My brother he proposed to sell,
Bat Tommy he would keep.

"The sweep thought Tommy would be best, The bargain soon was made,

So I was torn from George's breast,
The price already paid.

"The fellow told of his distress,
Of having no employ,

And then pretended me to bless,-
His little darling boy.

"How brother George and I did weep,
To find that we must part;
When I was taken by the sweep,

It seem'd to break his heart!

"With my new master far away,
I rode when five years old,
Upon a coach a night and day,-
I almost died with cold.

"My clothes were both as whole and clean, Myself as fat and fair,

As any boy that you have seen,
And I had curly hair.

"Nor was I lame, my legs and feet
Were straight and free from pain;
My mother washed and made me neat,
And kiss'd her boy again.
"When I a little sweep became,

I was as straight as you;

But climbing chimneys made me lame,
And made me crooked too.

"With pain I pass along the street,
In piercing cold and rain;
And often am severely beat,

When I of want complain.
"Now all besmear'd with sooty bags,
I have to mourn and cry;
And clothed from day to day in rags,
I wish that I could die !"""

Ye Britons, famed for liberty!
O rescue from their wo,
Your fellow Britons, such as be,
Whose story now you know.

O let each heart, and voice, and hand,
Unite to wipe away

The blot which long bas stain'd the land,
Where British Christians pray.

It hath a martial look to see The dying day depart, whilst sunset waves His colours o'er the hero.

A day like this

Of pure, unsullied blue, seems like the sleep
Of the sweet sky, and sunset is his dreams,
Bright, fanciful, and fleeting, ere he wakes
To watch with all his eyes, the long, clear
night.

The evening sky a high feast unto fancy Doth oft present. There cloud beyond cloud ranged,

Is lessening down the deep horizon, till Immense it seems out-lengthening to heaven's gate,

As if you caught the vision of a saint-
A distant, indistinct, but glorious view
Of the celestial suburbs, where the sun
His fiery orb rolls, like a living wheel
Of God's great chariot, in. Gazing on this,
We still gaze, fascinated, on the spot,
As where an angel vanished.

All this

This sees the mariner, and sighs; for he
Beholds, alas! the harbinger of wo,
And storm, and wreck, in this rich livery.
For see! dispersed is all the gaudy show,
Save a few stragglers, and an awful mass
Comes blackening o'er the west, till darkness
frowns

A mountain where the light can find no pass.
So have I seen in gay procession move
Commercial princes, the support of crowns,
Glittering in civic glory and golden gain;
But scarce had passed, when, like a cypress
grove,

The hearse came nodding, with its long-drawn

train :

ON SPRING.

(Written in Affliction.)

Season of love, delight, and bliss,
Haste to renew my drooping frame;
Come with thy pure and healing kiss,
And charm with thy enchanting name.
Before thy jocund tread shall fly

Disease with its attendant train,
Thy smile shall lighten up the eye,
Whose fire has long been on the wane.

Thy genial glow, thy breathing sweet,
Again the elastic step shall give,
Tinge with a roseate hue the cheek,
And bid the languid sufferer live.

Thy dews are bright, how sweet thy flow'rs,
Gentle thy zephyrs, fair thy face,
Laughing and downy are thy hours,
And all thy airy footsteps grace.
Yet a consumptive beauty is thy name,
Thy flow'rs how fragile and how short thy day,
We hardly own thy soul-inspiring flame

Before thy blooming glories fade away. 'Tis so below, ephemeral are our joys,

Our smile is follow'd by the starting tear, Some worm our gourd of sweetness oft destroys,

And leaves the heart all solitary, drear.

-ἡ λύρη γὰρ

Μονες ἔρωτας ᾄδει. ΑΝΑΚ.

LADY! there glittered a crystal tear
In thy keen, dark, flashing eye--
And thy fluttering bosom often heav'd
With the deep and thrilling sigh.
When last I look'd on thy sylph-like form,
In snowy vesture clad ;-

I mark'd thee-tho' dim and dark was mine eye,
And my breast with sorrow sad!

Tho' oft was the curtain of vision clos'd,
To hide my aching sight,

Thine image still glow'd on my mental eye,
'Mid the drear darkness, bright.

As the silver star in the evening sky,
Of pure and tranquil blue,

Burns, with its distant and quivering light,
Tho' none be near to view!

That lovely star in th' horizon still shines,
Of thought pure, soft, and tender;
And memory's rainbow hues shed round
Enrich its hallowed splendour ;-
Fond star!-thy stainless purity glows,
With undimm'd lustre above,-
Till death's deep darkness extinguish all
Of earthly beauty and love!
Q. Q. Q.

CONFIDENCE AND CREDIT. The day was dark, the markets dull, The 'change was thin, gazettes were full, And half the town was breaking, The countersign of cash was "Stop," Bankers and bankrupts shut up shop;

And honest hearts were aching. When near the 'change, my fancy spied A faded form, with hasty stride,

Beneath grief's burden stooping; Her name was Credit, and she said, Her father, Trade, was lately dead,

Her mother, Commerce, drooping. The smile that she was wont to wear Was withered by the hand of care, Her eyes had lost their lastre ;

Her character was gone, she said,
For basely she had been betrayed,
And nobody would trust her.
That honest Industry had tried,
To gain fair Credit for his bride,
And found the lady willing,
But, ah! a fortune-hunter came,
And Speculation was his name,

A rake not worth a shilling.
The villain was on mischief bent,
He gained both dad and mam's consent;
And then poor Credit smarted.
He filched her fortune and her fame,
And fix'd a blot upon her name,

Then left her broken hearted. While thus poor Credit seemed to sigh, Her cousin, Confidence, came by,

(Methinks he must be clever ;) For when he whispered in her ear, She check'd the sigh, she dried the tear, And smiled as sweet as ever.

REVIEW.-The Boyne Water. A Tale By the O'Hara Family. In three vols. 8vo. pp. 395, 421, 436. London. Simpkin and Marshall. 1826.

THERE is no species of literary composition more likely to attract the general attention of readers than tales. But if these preserve the interest which their titles are calculated to excite, they must be replete with incident, and well saturated with the charms of novelty. The marvellous is an essential ingredient, but something like probability must always be kept in view. When these requisites are combined, expectation is kept alive by gratification, and the reader turns from page to page, closely pursuing the game he has started, and is half pleased with disappointment, even when the phantom eludes his grasp, and mocks his hopes.

By the O'Hara family several tales have been sent into the world, and their reception with the public has not been less favourable than that which generally attends this class of literary compositions. This has emboldened the authors to make another attempt; and the result has issued in the three volumes which now lie before us.

In their narratives, details, dialogues, and episodes much variety is contained, but we look in vain for some catastrophe that shall reward anticipation for the exercise of its patience, while passing through a parterre of flowers, which exhibit gaudy colours, but yield little or no fragrance. Love, rivalship, inter

views, quarrels, duplicity, and blushes, are all wrought into this coat of many colours; but though embroidered with compliment, and variegated with satire, we can find, when it is finished, no person whom it will exactly suit. This is, however, of little consequence, provided it will suit the reader's taste, and the authors' purposes; and that it will do both to a considerable extent, we can hardly entertain a doubt.

As an historical, a satirical, and characteristic delineation of manners, this work is not destitute of merit, but many of the dialogues are too trifling and unimportant for the space they occupу. The essence might have been compressed into a much narrower compass; and if these omission would hardly have involved volumes had never appeared, the

nature in convulsions.

The conversations between the parties, with which this work abounds, contain more vivacity than substance, more sprightliness than energy, more flippancy than sentiment, and much less of utility than entertainment. The authors have given sufficient proof that they understand their business, and have taught us to infer, that without much trouble the volumes might have been extended to a length that is indefinite. Combining the episodes and digressions with the leading features of the principal tale, the characters that flit before us are almost innumerable, so that the deficiencies of sterling worth have found a dazzling substitute in the amplitude of diversity.

From an introductory letter, it was natural to expect that we should have found some general outline of the work to which it is prefixed, but for such information we look in vain. Its character resembles that of the chapters which follow; quaint expressions, and epithets singularly associated, broken by unexpected interruptions, that convey little or no meaning, may be ranked among its more prominent features. To the elongation of the tale by wire-drawing the materials, and by concealing both poverty and parsimony under strokes of superficial humour, the attention of the authors has been particularly directed, and in this their efforts have been crowned with some success.