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he lead thee into the fields. Then after the
sweetest words that ever fell from mortal lips,
the day will reach its meridian, and the bells
from yonder village church will break out, and
the poet's soul will burst with thrilling me-
mories:-

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds,
And as the mind is pitched the ear is pleased
With melting airs or martial, brisk or grave;
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touched within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells

Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)

The windings of my way through many years.
And pursuing this he will tell thee of a
father and a mother, and of their inestimable
worth; but the chimes swelling out again in
simple music will recall his thoughts:-

Again the harmony comes o'er the vale:
And through the trees I view the embattled tower,
Whence all the music. I again perceive
The soothing influence of the wafted strains,
And settle in soft musings as I tread

The walk, still verdant, under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
And then he will take thee to his quiet
and happy home, and the day thou spendest

with him will be hallowed indeed.

Thus we have let our feelings flow while lingering over the pages of this sainted bard. Fast falls the snow without and faster still; but warmer comfort and higher bliss have been tasted within. The lamp sheds a more mellowed lustre; the fire blazes more tranquilly; even the busts and pictures and books have a deeper look of quietude. Peace broods over home; blessedness pervades our heart. Now and then the wind blows; but it enhances the comforts of our hearth. We lay aside the book, loving and clinging to our poet more than heretofore. He has added to our delights; he has enhanced our purest joys.

our

So closes the volume one evening in our quiet home; a home secluded from the world and far off from the noise of busy London; a home blessed with peace and tenderness and the smile of God: closed indeed but to be opened in other calm and holy hours. Wintry indeed without and white with cold; but here, within, all hallowed joy; unruffled and undisturbed.

GEORGE CROLY.

THE genius of this poet is of the boldest and most splendid character; he displays in all his writings, the most trifling not excepted, a profusion of intellectual wealth. Brought up and nurtured amid wild hill-scenery, his mind naturally partakes of its grandeur and sublimity; and even his vast oriental researches and predilections have not entirely subdued the ruggedness of his conceptions. Eastern luxuriance and Eastern voluptuousness have not wholly taken posses

sion of his soul; there still remains the fresh, free, vigorous strength of a mountaineer.

His poems will never become popular; they are too gorgeous and magnificent for the multitude; they pall upon the taste; the mind is not ever in a mood to enjoy their massive splendour; it cannot always be on the stretch; it seeks for simpler and sweeter strains. The wild blast of the hurricane-the startling flash of the lightning- the tremendous roll of thunders-the bellowings of ocean-do not always please; they elevate, indeed, the thoughts, but they soon weary the senses; they expand and dilate the being; the imagination is fired; we admire the terrible confusion, and even love for awhile the loud crashings of the storm, but we soon turn with joy to the softer features of an evening landscape beneath an Italian sky; and as the traveller, in the midst of the sublime scenery of the North Cape, with an eye fully capable of taking in all its grandeur and glory, often casts his spirit back to those less rugged and more lovely spots of his own beautiful isle, so do we turn from the more brilliant gushes of minstrelsy to the chaster and humbler music of the heart with a feeling of delight and rapture.

The love of grandeur and magnificence is the ruling passion of our poet, and is discoverable in every production of his lyre; and it is to this very characteristic that they will owe their unpopularity; they will never move the people; they will never enchain the mind of the nation; their rich, powerful music will fall unheeded. To gain their ear and heart, it wants something more lively and simple; sweetness is the charm that wins them. This is not only true with the writings of poet and of orator, but it is also true with regard to painters. It is not the sublime sketch of the Last Judgment that enchants, but the humbler drawing of some rural festival: beauty, and not splendour, is the idol. There is, however, no question as to which is higher in the scale of intellectual greatness; the tremendous conception of the future desolation requires a stronger and a loftier stretch of mind than some picture of an English landscape; and it needs a greater bard to sweep the deep, sinewy chords of eternity than the trembling strings of earthly sweets. And yet the latter shall be the favourite with the many; and, indeed, this may be seen in the case of Milton and Cowper; for although the former is so much applauded, and that, too, deservedly, yet we very much doubt if he is as much read as the sainted bard of Olney.

Had our author been less gifted, he would doubtless have had more numerous admirers ; there is too much dazzling splendour for the populace; had he less, he would have been better known. He indeed works powerfully on a few master-minds; to them he gives new impulses; but with the multitude, he, as it were, has no existence; the names and songs of his humbler brethren are in every one's mouth— they are household words.

Paris in 1815 is Croly's principal poem: it has more of the solemn and stately grandeur than the gorgeous; there is a lofty tone running through the whole. His cities are marble; his people, moving statues. It is prefaced by a splendid dissertation on the French revolution

in perfect accordance with what follows. How characteristic of its author is the following description of the worship in Notre Dame: and then the reference to the simpler service of the village churches of England:

The organ peals; at once, as some vast wave,
Bend to the earth the mighty multitude,
Silent as those pale emblems of the grave
In monumental marble round them strewed,
Low at the altar, forms in cope and hood

Superb with gold-wrought cross and diamond twine,
Life in their upturned visages subdued,
Toss their untiring censers round the shrine,
Where on her throne of clouds the Virgin sits divine,
But only kindred faith can fitly tell
Of the high ritual at that altar done,
When clashed the arms, and rose the chorus-swell,
Then sank, as if beneath the grave 'twere gone;
Till broke the spell the mitred abbot's tone,
Deep, touching, solemn, as he stood in prayer,
A dazzling form upon its topmost stone,
And raised, with hallowed look, the Host in air, [there.

And blessed with heavenward hand the thousands kneeling

Pompous! but love I not such pomp of prayer;
Ill bends the heart 'mid mortal luxury.
Rather let me the meek devotion share,
Where, in their silent glens and thickets high,
England, thy lone and lowly chapels lie.

The spotless table by the eastern wall,

The marble, rudely traced with names gone by,
The pale-eyed pastor's simple. fervent call;
Those deeper wake the heart, where heart is all in all.
If pride be evil; if the holiest sighs

Must come from humblest hearts; if man must turn
Full on his wreck of nature to be wise:

If there be blessedness for those who mourn;
What speak the purple gauds that round us burn?
Ask of that kneeling crowd whose glances stray
So restless round on altar, vestment, urn;
Can guilt weep there? can mild repentance pray?
Ask, when this moment's past, how runs their Sabbath-day!
Their Sabbath-day! alas! to France that day
Comes not; she has a day of looser dress,
A day of thicker crowded ball and play,

A day of folly's hotter, ranker press;
She knoweth not its hallowed happiness,
Its eve of gathered hearts and gentle cheer.

Throughout the whole of this there is dignity: it is deeply coloured with the stateliness of his own mind. There is not a line which is not full and sonorous, we had almost said pompous. Even when the poet alludes to the religious peasantry of England, and the beautiful and sunny spots on which so many of their churches stand—when he speaks of the calm, unruffled peace-their hours, so soft and spirit-like, of Sabbatic rest-their fervid aspirations after the pure and holy-their simple but heart-breathing services-their sigh of deep contrition-their plea for pardon-their entire reliance on Jesus their spiritual hymns, we have the same majestic roll of music; there is little or no diminution in its solemn movement; there is no sweet, low pause; no gentle hush. The gorgeous ceremonies of the apostate church are more in accordance with his muse than the lovelier ritual of our own. And even here he is not so much at home as in pictures of sullen grandeur. His best poems remind one of the setting of the sun amid a brooding storm; the cry of the sea-gull-the dark clouds-ever and anon a streak of bluish white-the crimson and the gold in the western sky-the tempestuous breeze-the lashing of the waters, often combine to form a scene of wild and strange magnificence strikingly characteristic of our author.

Perhaps the first of the following pieces is as free from this stately music as any; but the

second exhibits it in a high degree. They are both on Evening; the one displaying its sweet, unruffled quietude, and the other, its sullen and tempestuous glory:

Look on these waters, with how soft a kiss
They woo the pebbled shore! then steal away,
Like wanton lovers,-but to come again,
And die in music! There, the bending skies
See all their stars,-and the beach-loving trees,
Oziers and willows, and the watery flowers,

That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones,
Make pictures of themselves!

There is a gloomy grandeur in the sun,
That levels his last light along the shore;
The clouds are rolling downwards, stern and dun ;
The long, slow wave is streaked with red, like gore
On some vast field of battle; and the roar
Of wave and wind comes like the battle's sound.
And now the sun sinks deeper and the clouds,
In folds of sullen fire, still heavier lower:

"Till the whole storm the shore and ocean shrouds.

well told, though often negligent in the conCroly's Sebastian is a fine Spanish romance, struction of its verse; it abounds with splendid passages; perhaps the one on the Alhambra is the most gorgeous. Much of his poetry, however, is descriptive of the beauty and glory of the East; in it we discover the wonderful resources of his mind. He has woven the highwrought superstitions of Araby and its adjacent countries into a woof of magnificent texture.

It is not unfrequently pleasant to read the tales that abound in eastern lands; they may be very improbable, but they are not on that account the less beautiful. Besides angels, the Mahometans believe in a race of beings which form, as it were, a link between man and the celestial spirits, composed of soul and body, but higher and more ethereal. Many are the exquisite stories we have concerning these; and we cannot but admire them when they come to us clothed in all the softness and voluptuousness of the East. They scent of the odoriferous spices of Arabia. We delight in reading of their magnificent palaces—their flowery gardens-their cooling streams-their million fountains-their myriad gems-their wide outspread heavens-their citron and their olive groves-their stately temples-their faithful and constant loves. There is an unearthly splendour cast over each. How often did we listen to these marvellous stories in our childhood! and in our later years they have not completely left us; something of their fragrance remains.

We cannot think even of the orient clime

without the imagination being somewhat tinged with its fair beauty. "The gold of that land is good." But to nothing do we turn with greater delight than to its traditions respecting the angels: one of these our poet has chosen as a fitting theme of his lyre. It is related in the Koran that two angels, Haruth and Maruth, having spoken in contemptuous tones of man's weakness in resisting temptation, were sent down to earth that their own firmness and purity might be tested. They surmount every trial, and are about to re- ascend to their blissful abode, when a woman, whose form a spirit has assumed, plies her wiles to seduce: she fails, until she persuades them to taste the wine-cup, when she completely triumphs; and in their folly, they reveal the words by which men are elevated to angels. The punishment

quickly follows, and they are for ever exiled from heaven.

The angel gazed upon the lovely one, and she deeply blushed, and stooping, plucked a flower, and laid it on the footstool of the throne. "Her sighs were richer than the rose they fanned." By command he could not accept the gift without staining the purity of his judgment-seat; it lay untouched. The pilgrim cast upwards an upbraiding glance; a dizziness came; his spirit was enwrapt in a dream of forgetfulness; yet still he heard the voice of the suppliant sweeter than the sweetest

Our poet makes a little alteration. Instead of two spirits, he narrates the overthrow of one: the tale is thereby simplified and interest increased. He also mitigates the severe judgment, and the angel is partly forgiven. The poem is literally crowded with diamonds, and pearls, and amethysts, and rubies, and sapphires, and roses, and lilies, and amaranths, and palms, and cedars, and frankincense, and myrrh, and cloudless skies, and balmy even-melody. ings, and gentle music, and tones of deepest tenderness. We deem it the most magnificent

of his productions.

The angel of the world was seated on a lofty tower near Damascus; the time of his departure was at hand; temptations had assailed in vain; his faith was still pure; his holiness stood vouched; it was unblemished; it shone brighter for the trial; he felt joyous in conscious innocence; he looked forward to the garden-land of Paradise; his triumph was at hand; he had undergone the fiery ordeal, and he had come out a gem of more brilliant lustre; his former boastful words were nearly accomplished, his vaunt nearly fulfilled. But one other test awaited him:

The sun was slowly sinking to the west,
Pavilioned with a thousand glorious dyes;
The turtle-doves were winging to the nest
Along the mountain's soft declivities;
The fresher breath of flowers began to rise,
Like incense, to that sweet departing sun;
Faint as the hum of bees the city's cries:
A moment, and the lingering disk was gone;
Then were the angel's task on earth's dim orbit done.
Oft had he gazed upon that lovely vale,
But never gazed with gladness such as now;
When on Damascus' roofs and turrets pale
He saw the solemn sunlight's fainter glow,
With joy he heard the Imauns' voices flow
Like breath of silver trumpets on the air;
The vintagers' sweet song, the camels' low,
As home they stalked from pasture, pair by pair,
Flinging their shadows tall in the deep sunset glare.

Then at his sceptre's wave, a rush of plumes
Shook the thick dew-drops from the roses' dyes;
And, as embodying of their waked perfumes,
A crowd of lovely forms, with lightning eyes,
And flower-crowned hair, and cheeks of paradise,
Circled the bower of beauty on the wing;
And all the grove was rich with symphonies
Of seeming flute, and horn, and golden string,
That slowly rose, and o'er the mount hung hovering.

The angel's glance was thrown upwards to the blue vault; his wings expanded; already his flight was begun. He turned his countenance on the plain beneath, and there was a suppliant on her knees. Wrath darkened his fair, bright face, but it soon regained its sunny radiance. She stated her petition: she had vowed to close her dying parent's eyes, and on the way, the caravan was stopped, and her little wealth made the prize of the robbers: he cast a priceless gem to the lowly pilgrim, and prepared again for his return heavenward. She still knelt; he bade her "be happy, and begone:".

The weeper raised the veil; a ruby lip

First dawned: then glowed the young cheek's deeper hue,
Yet delicate as roses when they dip

Their odorous blossoms in the morning dew:
Then beamed the eyes, twin stars of living blue;

Half shaded by the curls of glossy hair,

That turned to golden as the light wind threw
Their clusters in the western golden glare.

Yet was her blue eye dim, for tears were standing there.

Consciousness returned: he touched the beautiful offering, and bade farewell. In a moment, deep thunders rolled and crashed; a mist gathered in the vale, and enveloped the mountain; the storm raged, the dim vapours seemed as many waters; a ship heaved on the dashing waves; its sail was silken, and its guide a lovely woman: suddenly it plunged beneath the roaring billows, and the tempest ceased. The angel knew the symbol, but still gazed on the fatal flower, and the pilgrim, with her "small, unsandaled feet, shining like silver on a floor of rose:"

A simple Syrian lyre was on her breast,
And on her crimson li was murmuring
A village strain, that in the day's sweet rest
Is heard in Araby, round many a spring,

When down the twilight vales the maidens bring
The flocks to some old patriarchal well;

Or where, beneath the palms, some desert king
Lies, with his tribe around him as they fell!
The thunder burst again, a long, deep, crashing peal.
The angel heard not:-

He heard not even the strain, though it had changed From the calm sweetness of the holy hymn:

His thoughts from depth to depth unconscious ranged,
Yet all within was dizzy, strange, and dim:

A mist seemed spreading between heaven and him;
He sat absorbed in dreams-a searching tone
Came on his ear; oh how her dark eyes swim
Who breathed that echo to a heart undone,
The song of early joys, delicious, dear, and gone!

Again it changed; but now 'twas wild and grand-
The praise of hearts that scorn the world's control,
Disdaining all but Love's delicious band,
The chain of gold and flowers, the tie of soul!
Again strange paleness o'er her beauty stole;
She glanced above, then stooped her glowing eye,
Blue as the star that glittered by the pole;
One tear-drop gleamed, she dashed it quickly by,
And dropped the lyre, and turned-as if she turned to die.

The night-breeze swept up the mountain's side; the clouds in the western heaven seemed as some huge palace lighted up with golden sunbeams and amethystine tints. The angel had lost his eye for grandeur; his heart was with the being that so sweetly kneeled at his feet. Would the flowery clime be happiness without her?-would earth not be paradise with her?-were thoughts that disturbed the settled rest of his soul. A storm again arose, and the whirlwind dashed out its gloomy sounds; the fair moon waned, and the stars lost their brightness.

The angel sat enthroned within a dome
Of alabaster, raised on pillars slight,
Curtained with tissues of no earthly loom;
For spirits wove the web of blossoms bright,
Woof of all flowers that drink the morning light,
And with their beauty figured all the stone

In characters of mystery and might,

A more than mortal guard around the throne; That in their tender shade one glorious diamond shone. And every bud round pedestal and plinth, As fell the evening, turned a living gem.

H

Lighted its purple lamp the hyacinth, The dahlia poured its thousand-coloured gleam, A ruby torch the wondering eye might deem Hung on the brow of some night-watching tower, Where upwards climbed the broad magnolia's stemAn urn of lovely lustre every flower, Burning before the king of that illumined bower. And nestling in that arbour's leafy twine, From cedar's top to violet's lowly bell, Were birds, now hushed, of plumage all divine, That as the quivering radiance on them fell, Shot back such hues as stain the orient shell, Touching the deep, green shades with light from eyes Jacinth, and jet, and blazing carbuncle,

And gold-dropt coronets, and wings of dyes Bathed in the living streams of their own paradise.

The angel heeded not the warning, the deep witchery of the suppliant spell-bound him; night's gloomy shadows had fallen on hill, and plain, and proud Damascus; there was no stir in the city; the maiden's foot had ceased to tread her streets, and the voice of song had died away; the poor man alike with the rich slept soundly, and forgot his troubles, or perhaps in fairy dream beheld some beautiful home, with its wide-extended garden, his own; darkness was in the horizon, but celestial light was in the bower; the expression of the pilgrim's eye became loftier, but not less sweet. She rose, and with one arm pointing to the sky, approached him nearer; then plucking "a cluster from the vine" which threw its light, transparent leaves around beneath the golden radiance, she pressed its juice into a crystal chalice, and offered it to the angel. His countenance darted fire, and she tottered as if wounded to the heart; he sprang forwards, and caught her in his arms, and drank the contents of the cup, which she still had strength to offer; once more she fixed on his bending form "the beam of her deep, dewy, melancholy eye." Another warning was given-they stood as if sadness had taken possession of their souls; the angel felt his guilt; but she, "in a voice as sweet as the murmuring of summer streams beneath the moonlight's glance," besought him to reveal the unknown words. Her delicious beguilements prevailed, and he uttered the sentence; the heavens resounded with hollow thunders, and the clouds gave forth the lightnings; the rain dashed downwards to the earth, and the plain and the mountain smoked beneath the terrible storm.

The seducer proves to be Eblis, who having re-assumed his shape, pronounces the angel's doom-to remain on earth until it is once again covered with the innocence and pristine beauty of paradise and the peaceful loveliness of its birth hour.

We think this is the most exquisite Arabian fiction we have ever read: it is sweetly sung; and of all songs bearing an Oriental origin and cast, we deem this one of the finest. There are several other poems which are distinguished as having issued from the same source; and we cannot leave the odoriferous ground of the East without quoting our author's lines on the Dream of Jacob. We cannot forget, too, that the events which interested and delighted us most in childhood were witnessed by an Asiatic sky; the touching histories of the Bible belong to these lands-with them they are for ever associated; and one of the most thrill

ing of these is the account of Jacob. Sent out at an early age, friendless and alone, with nothing but the blessing of his father, he toiled onwards towards the home of his uncle Laban; the twilight was deepening into night, and the heaven sending out her myriad stars, when he took a stone, and placing it as a pillow, laid himself down to rest:

The sun was sinking on the mountain-zone
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine!
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line,
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-aram's height, abrupt and bare,
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline
Looked pale, then paused for eve's delicious air; [prayer.
The summit gained, he knelt and breathed his evening
He spread his cloak and slumbered-darkness fell
Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound
Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell;
Clouds heavy with the tempest gathered round,
Yet was the whirlwind in its caverns bound;
Still deeper rolled the darkness from on high,
Gigantic volume upon volume wound-
Above, a pillar shooting to the sky:
Below, a mighty sea, that spreads incessantly.

Voices are heard-a choir of golden strings;
Low winds, whose breath is loaded with the rose;
Then chariot-wheels-the nearer rush of wings;
Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows:
It thunders-the resplendent gates unclose.
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height
Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows,
Millions on millions, brighter and more bright,
Till all is lost in one supreme, unmingled light.

But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand,
Like cherub-kings, with lifted, mighty plume,
Fixed, sun-bright eyes, and looks of high command:
They tell the patriarch of his glorious doom;
Father of countless myriads that shall come,
Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom,
Till He is given whom angels long to see,
And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.

Such is the vision that appeared to the weary pilgrim. He arose in the morning, and raised a monument with the stone, in commemoration of the event, and vowed that if he returned to his home again in peace, the Lord should be his God. He still toiled onwards, but doubtless with a lighter heart. Before his dream, his mind would naturally be sad; it would often recur to the past; the retreat of infancy would exert a powerful influence in deepening that melancholy; the fear of his incensed brother would press upon him; and as he turned around upon the setting glories of the first day, he would be absorbed by pensive reflections: he was homeless-he was houseless. But now he could go on his way rejoicing; the star of hope had beamed; the Deity had appeared; his gloom would be exchanged for a delightful anticipation; and in the magnificence of the Eternal's promise, he would almost forget his former fears and sorrows, and even the face of those he loved.

He arrived at Laban's, "and he looked, and behold a well in the field, and lo, there were three flocks of sheep lying by it; for out of that well they watered the flocks: and a great stone was upon the well's mouth. And thither were all the flocks gathered: and they rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the sheep, and put the stone again upon the well's mouth in his place. And Jacob said unto them, My brethren, whence be ye? And they said, Of Haran are we. And he said unto them, Know ye Laban the son of Nahor?

And they said, We know him. And he said unto them, Is he well? And they said, He is well and behold Rachel his daughter cometh with the sheep. And he said, Lo, it is high day, neither is it time that the cattle should be gathered together: water ye the sheep, and go and feed them. And they said, We cannot, until all the flocks be gathered together, and till they roll the stone from the well's mouth; then we water the sheep. And while he yet spake with them, Rachel came with her father's sheep: for she kept them. And it came to pass, when Jacob saw Rachel the daughter of Laban, his mother's brother, and the sheep of Laban his mother's brother, that Jacob went near, and rolled the stone from the well's mouth, and watered the flock of Laban his mother's brother. And Jacob kissed Rachel, and lifted up his voice and wept. And Jacob told Rachel that he was her father's brother, and that he was Rebekah's son: and she ran and told her father. And it came to pass, when Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister's son, that he ran to meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and he brought him to his house. And he told Laban all these things."

How beautiful is his love for Rachel; pure and spotless as anything on earth. The man is under the smile of heaven: he daily increases in wealth, and in a few years becomes a powerful prince. We pass over the interesting and touching records of his life-his wrestling with the angel at Peniel, and refusing to let him go until blessed-his meeting with his brother Esau-his establishment in the land of Canaan -his love of Joseph-all these beautiful records belong to the East. They are entwined around its dells, and plains, and mountains, and streams. Well may we love the oriental region; well may it kindle all our enthusiasm, and all our hopes; much of its ground is sacred; it teems with hallowed associations; and on its soil the Incarnate trod, preaching "deliverance to the captive, and the opening of prison-doors to those that are bound.'

THOMAS DAVIS.

IN a world of bustle and anxiety, it is sweet and refreshing to hear, ever and anon, the song of peace and the hymn of faith; they cheer and exalt the depressed spirit; they gladden and

raise the sorrowful heart.

The poems are in perfect keeping with their title, Songs from the Parsonage, and are worthy of a minister of the apostolic English church: they are somewhat similar to the beautiful strains of the good George Herbert. The versification is correct, and often elegant. How full of confiding trust is this:

Oh! how profoundly tranquil is the peace
Of him whose mind, my God, is stayed on thee!
The storm may come, and earthly hopes may cease,
And all that once was full of joy, may be
Lost and for ever; but while he may see
Thine arm directing, let the storm beat on;
It will not pass unheeded: but shall he
Tremble and murmur, upon whom hath shone,
From the glad Sun of Righteousness, a ray
Showing the pathway to a home above,

Where that same hand ere long shall wipe away His every tear, which now doth smite in love? No: from his heart he prays, Thy will be done, And even in grief can feel, Thy will and his are one. And this, suggested by a vase of flowers, is not less beautiful:

[dyes,

How fair must be the flowers of Paradise, Earth's to surpass in beauty! With what skill Must heaven have formed and blent their wondrous When upon these the eye can gaze until All is a dream of loveliness; and still With every closer gaze new beauties rise, Anew to please, to charm, and with surprise, Devout as deep, to animate and fill! Oh! for a seraph's wings to flee away! To mount and bathe in beauty and in loveLove as it glows beneath a heavenly ray, And beauty as it blooms in climes above: To dwell where God, that decks the earth with flowers, Himself for ever dwells amid celestial bowers.

With this the mind sympathizes: for who has not stood in calm, deep thought before these stars of earth, and mused on Paradise, its blushing flowers, its enchanting sweetness, its perfect stillness, its tall, majestic cedars, its lofty pines, its clear waters, its blissful pair? Scenes of Eden's unruffled peace have broken in upon us, and we have gazed delighted on its orient mornings and its dewy evenings; its gales have wafted to the sense the odoriferous perfume of its garden; the music of its rivers has sounded on the ear; the liquid notes of its nightingales have arisen upwards and floated onwards; the benignity and hallowed felicity of its newly created inhabitants have thrown over the enchanting spot a deeper and a more delicious beauty, and we have been subdued into a gentle -we will not say sadness, for we have a "higher happiness than theirs; a happiness won through struggle with inward and outward foes, the happiness of power and moral victory, the happiness of disinterested sacrifices and wide-spread love, the happiness of boundless hope, and of 'thoughts which wander through eternity.' Still there are times when the spirit, oppressed with pain, worn with toil, tired of tumult, sick at the sight of guilt, wounded in its love, baffled in its hope, and trembling in its faith, almost longs for the wings of a dove, that it might fly away,' and take refuge amidst the shady bowers,' the 'vernal airs,' the 'roses without thorns,' the quiet, the beauty, the loveliness of Eden."

We wish, too, in these moments, that we were some subtler essence, material and yet spiritual, that our souls might commingle with the perfumes of flowers; become the sweet scent, and yet retain the consciousness of distinct and separate being-atom united to atom; incorporated with the rich odour, and yet retain the sense of our own individual life. Thus may it be in the happier clime: in our tenderest embraces we may pass into the object of our love

become one with it-in form and shape to appear but one, and yet have all the vividness of a self-existence.

But the joyous lark, the fairy butterfly, the whispering woods, the soft breezes, all remind us of Paradise and heaven: the former is faded and gone, the latter is yet our own. Every bud, and every tree, and every brook, and every insect, and every bird tell us of the better land; and the throbbing and quenchless spirit of man gives reality to the fact; the grandeur and the

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