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We may not therefore dwell
Too long and deeply on the dearer past,

Nor sound, for aye, the knell
Of pleasures gone and glories overcast.


Whate'er our lot may be,
Whatever tints life's varied prospects wear,

The temper'd breast is free
From sullen apathy or fierce despair.


In fortune's cloudiest hours,
Within the dreariest regions of the earth,

Are found both beams and flowers,
Unless the wanderer's soul betrays a dearth.


For still, where'er we range, Are traced the sweet results of virtue's reign ;

Though forms and features change, Fair thoughts and fine humanities remain.


And he, whose spirit glows
At Nature's charms, shall own in every land

Her glorious aspect shows
The same bright marks of God's creating hand !

SONNET-TO ENGLAND. Fair England ! thine untravell’d sons may bear

tranquil sense of thy surpassing worth, As those who ne'er have parted from their birth In faith serene their social comforts share ; But he, alone, doth feel how deeply dear The charms of home, who wildly wandering forth To distant realms, finds dreariness and dearth E'en where kind Nature's lavish blooms appear. Around his path bright scenes unheeded lie, For these are tinged not with his early dreamsHis heart is far away ! Thy varied sky Dappling the silent hills with clouds and gleams-Thy nest-like cottages and silver streamsAre all that catch the wanderer's dreaming eye !


THERE is exulting pride, and holy mirth,
In Freedom's kindling eye ! Her radiant smile
Profoundly thrills this fair imperial isle,
The Queen of nations ! Glory of the earth !
Impassioned orisons are breathing forth,
And lofty aspirations. Phantoms vile
That chill the feeble spirit, and defile
The springs of thought and feeling in their birth,
Fade like the mists of morn, and lose the power
That made us willing slaves. For reason's light
Is bursting through the clouds that darkly lower,
And hide the face of Heaven ! O'er the night
Of slumbering millions--oh! transcendent hour !
The sun of liberty is rising bright !

* Written in England.



Here is CHRISTMAS Day again! There is something as animating in the mere announcement as in the sound of a merry bell. It is the season of cheerful piety, of the renewal of old customs that keep the heart alive and tender, and of pure and child-like enjoyment. In our native land it is a time when the dreariness of out-of-doors nature heightens and concentrates the social pleasures and affections within the sheltered home. The hard ground and the frozen sheets of water remain unthawed by the pale and sickly sun; but the heart of man melts within him, and the fountain of love is unlocked. The huge Christmas fire is the blazing sun that now warms and illumines each domestic circle. How beauti, fully its red light tinges every object in the snug apartment, and flashes on cheerful faces that glow as beneath the fervour of summer skies ! There is no winter within domestic walls.

Now do the most busy and bustling of men of business pause for a few pleasant hours in their quick career, and casting off all feverish anxiety for the future, abandon themselves wholly to present pleasure, or dwell with a serene and grateful tenderness on the joys of the long-vanished past. The stern pride of philosophy and the zeal of the worshipper of Mammon are suspended for a day. The heart has an undivided reign over the kindlier and

purer elements of our nature. Now friends long separated, and scattered over different corners of the kingdom, are re-called to one common centre, and surround the hearth that once echoed to the peals of their boyish laughter. The happy patriarch of the family gathers again around him the forms that he cherished from their cradles, whom the cares and duties of manhood have drawn from the paternal roof. The day is sacred to the affections. The Goddess of domestic love demands the entire man. The Christmas hearth is a shrine at which tender recollections, charity and forgiveness, and social feeling and a gentle joy are the only acceptable offerings. On this day especially does

The inviolate island of the sage and free,

notwithstanding its cold and cloudy clime, deserve the title of Merry England. The very streets of her dingy metropolis look bright with happy faces and gay garments.

The churches are decorated with sparkling holly, and sprigs of evergreen are in every window. With ponderous cakes, a rich mass of sweets, whose sugary coats rival in their brilliancy the snow upon the hills, and with the gigantic roast beef of old England, almost every table in the land is groaning. Even the poor man's heart is gladdened. The toil-worn mechanic and the humble cottager have for this day at least clean clothes and a substantial meal, and a cheerful fire, and a merry meeting of their unsophisticated associates. With a smiling air, and a hurried yet careful tread, they rush from the busy bake-house with their earthen dish of beef and potatoes that scents the atmosphere as they pass along. What an appetite-provoking sight and savour! The school-boy with his shining face will not " whine” to-day, nor creep, like snail, unwillingly to his task. This long-looked for day is to him, as to many others, the happiest of the year. His head has been as full of confectionary visions as his stomach will now be of the substantial reality. There is such a contagious merriment around, that the adult who does not feel like a boy again is not fit to be a man. Every generous spirit abandons itself to the influence and character of the season.

And all is conscience and tender heart.

It is sad to recollect that we in this far land are excluded from so many of these simple but true enjoyments. All we can now do is to enjoy the memory of them.

A sound-headed man, however, cannot but be something of a cosmopolite and optimist. Wherever there are human hearts there are social feelings; and even in solitude, where external nature is not excluded by prison doors, there is always beauty : and God is every where. He leaves no corner of the world, no class of his creatures, forlorn and fatherless. Why then should we be guilty of an impious discontent, and recall the past only to feed our cares ?

A distance of fifteen thousand miles, a tropical sun, and the presence of foreign faces need not make us forgetful of homedelights. That strange magician, Fancy, who supplies so many corporeal deficiencies and mocks at time and space, enables us to pass, in the twinkling of an eye, over the dreary waste of waters that divides us from the scenes and associates of our youth. We tread again our native shore. We sit by the hospitable hearth, and listen to the laugh of children. We exchange cordial greetings and friendly gifts. There is a resurrection of the dead, and a return of vanished years. We abandon ourselves to this sweet illusion, and again

Live o'er each scene, and be what we behold.

The warm-hearted and the imaginative cheat Time of half his triumph. The happiness of a dream is real, however false its images. To be pleasurably deceived is no great hardship. Happiness is our object, and the wise care little for the means. It is enough to know that the end is good and true, however it may have been obtained; for he who is in the enjoyment of genuine happiness cannot have forfeited any right of conscience to that precious dower :-evil intentions are not thus rewarded.

If, therefore, we turn our imagination into a right path, we can hardly give it too free a rein. Let any man take a retro

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