joy! Wilt thou gain that "isle of beauty"? Worship the meek and gentle Jesus; deeper and richer glory shall break on thy soul and melody. Thou hast, perchance, stood by the side of thine Own, in some evening's hallowed twilight, and she hath sung thee a song of the better land, and its musie hath thrilled thy being; even such shall the song be, but far more delicious: and thou shalt meet thy parents, and thy children, and all whom thou hast loved; and in the calm sunset of heaven shalt thou recal the days of infancy and youth, and pointing to this beauteous earth, rolling along the azure expanse, shalt thine heart throb with unspeakable bliss; that bliss shall be holy. And those exquisitely soft strains of Cowper and Bowles shall come warbling on the air, and fill it with sweetness: never wilt thou forget: thou canst not, memory lives, its golden light radiates for ever. Seest thou that gentle flower, uprearing its lovely petals to the morning breath? So shalt thou be looking upwards and drawing thy life, thy happiness from the Invisible. Love Christ, the divinity shines in him; the sounds of ocean and the whisperings of tender affection issue from his lips. Behold thyself and live! He is thy brother, kinsman, God! Live, live; and thou shalt scent the odoriferous flowers of paradise, with angels and thine own beloved ones!

And thus does Hazlitt at times open up his heart. In general he keeps strictly to the subject on which he dilates; but now and then we get an insight into his bosom: we behold the man. Indeed to us now no passages are so full of simple beauty as these of which we are speaking, none so powerful to win us away from the world to gaze into the eye of Hazlitt, and to grasp his warm hand in tenderest sympathy. He will tell you of his wanderings in the woods of Norman Court; he will breathe out his painful recollections, and you, reader, shall be subdued:

Ye woods that crown the clear lone brow of Norman Court, why do I revisit ye so oft, and feel a soothing consciousness of your presence, but that your high tops waving in the wind recal to me the hours and years that are for ever fled, that ye renew in ceaseless murmurs the story of long-cherished hopes and bitter disappointment, that in your solitudes and tangled wilds I can wander

and lose myself as I wander on, and am lost in the

solitude of my own heart; and that, as your rustling branches give the loud blast to the waste below-borne patient anguish at the cheerless desolation which I feel within! Without that face pale as the primrose with hyacinthine locks, for ever shunning and for ever haunt. ing me, mocking my waking thoughts as in a dream, without that smile which my heart could never turn to scorn, without those eyes dark with their own lustre, still bent on mine, and drawing the soul into their liquid mazes like a sea of love, without that name trembling in fancy's ear, without that form gliding before me like Oread or Dryad in fabled groves, what should I do, how pass away the listless leaden-footed hours? Then wave, wave on, ye woods of Tuderley, and lift your high tops in the air; my sighs and vows uttered by your mystic voice breathe into me my former being, and enable me to bear the thing I am!

on the thoughts of other years, I can look down with

Poor Hazlitt, one cannot but feel for him. One loves the name of Norman Court; and fancies the wood is not far distant from us, and yet far, far away from the world. We seem to wander amid the dim paths; and while we listen to the fitful breeze, our soul

is seized by melancholy thoughts. The heart is full to bursting. The pensive evening sinks into dismal night; and the trees look so sombre and full of gloom. Hours that are past, how gaze ye into this present season! Poor Hazlitt, we shall never forget the woods of Tuderley; and whenever that name is sounded, thy sorrows will breathe themselves into our bosom.

One had not thought his heart so deep and gushing; and yet we seem to behold even more of this when he speaks of his lost child :— I have never seen death but once, and that was in an infant. It is years ago. The look was calm and placid, and the face was fair and firm. It was as if a waxen image had been laid out in the coffin, and strewed with innocent flowers. It was not like death, but more like an image of life! No breath moved the lips, no pulse stirred, no sight or sound would enter those eyes or ears more I looked at it, I saw no pain was there; it seemed to smile at the short pang of life which was over: but I could not bear the coffin-lid to be closed-it seemed to stifle me; and still as the nettles wave in a corner of the churchyard over his little grave, the welcome breeze

helps to refresh me, and ease the tightness of my breast.

Thus wrecked were his hopes and delicious dreams. There is a touching plaint in his language. His voice is melancholy; his eye is dimmed with sorrow. No high flash now! That has passed: gone into the shades of years. How he kindled at the sound of triumphant liberty, sitting enthroned on the world's empire, and peace and plenty flowing over isles and continents! Then "the immortal light, all young and joyful, million-orbed, millioncolored, will beam over the universe as at the first morning." So deemed his ardent and glowing faith; but even these visions were scattered: had they not been so, we perhaps had never heard some of his fullest and deepest breathings: all passed away, his visions and gentle slumberings. Yea, the creations beautiful and bright, the melodies like "some snow. light cadences melting to silence, when upon the breeze some holy bard lets fail an anthem sweet to cheer itself to Delphi," the magnificent bursts of song, the immortal stirring, the everlasting aspirations, the profound bliss, the sinking into all soul, the divine influx, the sky with her myriad stars breathing her sylph-like tones, the silence of deserts and lofty mountains, more exquisite than the subtle witchery of an evening hymn, the undefined thrill of delicious emotions trembling through the whole being, a sort of rich, throbbing, musical feeling, as though the entire existence were one heart, the dilating and enkindling and burning spirit, the quenchless love of excellence, the basking in the empyrean, the more than laving in the clearest streams, the passionate love of painting, the worship of the world's Scourge, the tossings and throes of his bosom, all, all passed with him: all, all. Not one remained. And then well might he weep to find instead of these, the scoff, the taunt, the indifferent reception. Oh, he had rather turned back to that sweet day, when he was at All-Foxden; that day "when Wordsworth, looking out of the low latticed window said, 'how beautifully the sun sets on that yellow bank!"" than tread onwards to the future, lonely and broken-hearted.

BISHOP HEBER.

To contemplate Heber, either in the character of a Christian Bishop or a sacred poet, must ever be a pleasing task. With the bard alone we have at present to do; and the very morn on which we write seems to partake much of the gentleness and quiet beauty of his poetry. His strains do not madden the brain, flush the cheek, and quicken the throbbings of the heart; but they breathe a softness and gentleness quite their own. It has been one of our sweetest enjoyments to listen to the melody of his voice, and the mild yet elegant language of his lips. We love to suit the time of reading a favourite author with the distinguishing features of his productions; thus we read Coleridge when the heavens are serene, and the world seems to lie in dreaminess; Cowper, when the winter covers the landscape with snow, and makes us feel a deeper and higher delight in the comfort of an English fireside; and Heber, when a beautiful dawn streaks the horizon with the light of a summer's day. The fair, enchanting loveliness of creation expands the soul, gives it a richer tone, draws out the feelings, lets loose the imagination, weaves a web of glorious thoughts, wraps into a forgetfulness of every-day existence, brightens, radiates, etherealizes the fancy, opens up resplendent visions, fits the spirit to enter fully into the liquid harmonies of the poet.

In Heber's poems, piety shines pre-eminent; we mean the piety of the heart, which includes heirship to the throne of heaven. They are alike suited to the sunny day of success and the dark hour of adversity; they ever yield consolation. Nor are we less pleased with their elegance; they are chaste and exquisite. What can be more beautiful than this?—

everlasting, its harmonies imperishable. The purer and the holier we become, the deeper will be our love for its sublime teachings. None ever listened to its grandeur of song without sighing for immortality, without feeling that the spirit is eternal, without wishing for something more hallowed than aught on earth, without making resolves of future good, without determining to forsake sin, without sending the thoughts far out into the infinite expanse of existence, without creating scenes of quiet, undisturbed and unruffled bliss. Every vibration of its chords is as the sweep of the hurricane, yet gentle as the soft cooing of the ring-dove. We cannot hear its lofty minstrelsy without beholding the beauty of flower, field, and tree, without seeing additional loveliness in the gambols of childhood, the blush of first affection, the fond clinging of true-hearted attachment, the bended knee, the meek devotion of a child of God; without thirsting more intensely after a fairer and sunnier clime, and a happier and better home. And sculpture and architecture and painting produce the same effect; the same everlasting potency dwells in all; they issue from the same immortal spirit. We do not say that they influence man always to put into practice what they inspire; that must come from a far higher and Diviner power; but they ever stir his bosom with thrilling and beautiful emotionsthey ever tend to that which is good and lovely.

Heber is chiefly known by his prize poem of Palestine. It displays both learning and elegance, but little or no originality; for chasteness of expression and beauty of design it has, perhaps, few equals. This, on the restoration of the Jews to favour, is very harmonious :

Lo! cherub hands the golden courts prepare,
Lo! thrones arise, and every saint is there;
Earth's utmost bounds confess their awful sway,
The mountains worship and the isles obey;
Nor sun nor moon they need-nor day, nor night;
God is their temple, and the Lamb their light:
And shall not Israel's sons exulting come,
Hail the glad beam, and claim their ancient home?
On David's throne shall David's offspring reign,
And the dry bones be warm with life again.
Hark! white-robed crowds their deep hozannas raise,
And the hoarse flood repeats the sound of praise;
Ten thousand harps attune the mystic song,
Ten thousand thousand saints the strain prolong:
"Worthy the Lamb! omnipotent to save,
Who died, who lives, triumphant o'er the grave."

Though there is much grace and harmony in these lines, there is little of the deep, thrilling outbreaks of the poet-no gigantic mass of sound seizing the very soul; the tremendous roll of music sweeps not onwards from Heber's lyre, it is a soft and liquid warble. The versification of this production we acknowledge to be melodious and the language elegant; but the bard moves us not; the heart is untouched, though the ear is continually pleased. There is, however, more poetry and originality in the following, from his fragment of the World before the Flood:

There came a spirit down at eventide
To the city of Enoch, and the terraced height
Of Jared's palace. On his turret top
There Jared sate, the king, with lifted face,
And eyes intent on Heaven, whose sober light
Slept on his ample forehead, and the locks
Of crisped silver, beautiful in age,

And-but that pride had dimmed, and lust of war,

66

will pour forth such liquid melodies, that the obdurest heart will melt, and the sternest sinner seek forgiveness?-madness, folly, to tell them that there flows from Calvary a stream, wherein if a man plunge, he shall be "whiter than snow," and that there issues from Calvary's cross a mellowed light, wherein if a man bathe, he shall become divested of every taint and every spot?-madness, folly, to go to the benighted heathen who worships some idol of his own workmanship, and who sacrifices at its shrine those nearest and dearest to his heart, and to tell him that there is One above who hath made perfect atonement, and that in the blood shed" there is free and everlasting pardon?-to go to the beclouded pagan, who stands on the shore of the boundless sea, and then, listening to the waves dashing their music on the rocky coast, kneels to the magnificent orb of day rising above the level of the ocean, and to tell him that there is something mightier, and greater, and more gigantic than the sun, to which he renders so much homage, and that this Being has wound his love around the world, that that world might be knitted to him for ever?-to go to the wild son of Ishmael, and as he stands bare-footed and bare-headed beneath the midnight sky, and gazes upwards on the starry immensity breathing its sweet, soft hymn, and whilst awed by the still silence and the profound solitudes of the arid desert, be bends lowly to the vast material universe as to his living god, to tell him that there is One whose lineaments of beauty are far more exquisite, and whose features of majesty are far more glorious, and whose attributes of grandeur are far more divine; and that this stupendous universe, on which he leans as on the Supreme, is but the "goings forth" of this Holy and this Highest, and that there is a communion yet more elevating and soul-enkindling, and a worship yet more hallowed and spirit-blessing, and a service yet more exalted and heart-freeing!

We will tell these lofty beings what it is that missions do. In the place of darkness, they shed the full beauty of immortal day; in the stead of death, they put life; they find the man lower sunk than "the beast which perisheth,' and they exalt him to throneship with the Everlasting; they find him going down to the grave without one bright hope, and they strike out the hymn of an imperishable existence; for corruption, they give health; for pollution, purity: they find homes girt around with wretchedness, and within full of misery, and they cast thereon the hallowed beams of blessedness, and love, and peace; and in the desert, where once prowled the savage, is seen the tapering spire pointing heavenwards, and often on the winds comes the silvery chime of its chapel-bell; and in the place of adultery and uncleanness do they give chastity and holiness; and in the stead of violated abodes do they raise the lovely shrine of domestic bliss; and in cities do they make good subjects and loyal people; and in kingdoms do they establish the throne, and teach him that sitteth thereon to rule righteously; and over the whole world do they throw a calm, unruffled repose and ripening plenty.

Thus missions regenerate the world; and

what sacrifice is like to one who, for the redemption of the roaming savage, forsakes the land of his fathers, with its thousand memories and its thousand sweets, and bidding adieu to kinsmen whose faces were as the light of heaven, and whose love as deep as a river, and whose kindness made the years pass as one short sunny hour, betakes himself far off amid strangers and amid foes, to labour till his deathhour for the renovation of immortal spirits? Deride it as they may, sport with it as they will, the missionary character is essentially and truly great; it approaches nearest to the Eternal's; it bears his impress most deeply; its voice is the voice of the Divinity; its masterprinciple is the principle that governs him; it is man's highest dignity, man's loftiest bearing. How exulting the song for Easter-day; enthusiasm is in its every note:

God is gone up with a merry noise
Of saints that sing on high;

With his own right hand and his holy arm
He hath won the victory!

Now empty are the courts of Death,
And crushed thy sting, Despair;
And roses bloom in the desert tomb,
For Jesus hath been there!

And he hath tamed the strength of hell,
And dragged him through the sky,
And captive behind his chariot-wheel
He hath bound captivity.

God is gone up with a merry noise
Of saints that sing on high;

With his own right hand and his holy arm
He hath won the victory!

A fit hymn for the hour of the church's triumph-it is one of joy. Blackness and gloom were the clouds that before had bedimmed the tomb; there was no life, there was no hope; the cypress and the yew moaned beside the grave; there were sounds of lamentation-sounds of woe; the agonizing moment-so heart-rending, so heart-bursting, so heartstifling - was without one cheering anticipation of meeting again. Ah, those deep, without deep, heavy gigantic wails were one consoling assurance!-the parting of husband and of wife, of child and mother, was without one cheering ray; the tearing, breaking, convulsive, forcing away was without one beam of comfort; the last glance of the eye, the last language of the lips, the last pressure of the hand, the last-it was all the last : a separation, a disunion, annihilation, or worse, for ever;-no more to gaze on each other, no more to greet with fondest love, no more kind and gentle services, no more vows of unchanging attachment, no more prattle of babe, no more tenderness, no more love, no more life! What partings, then; what adieus -what farewells! But henceforth there was light; immortality sprang up and everlasting peace; the dying man heard the imperishable notes, caught the divine music; his heart moved with happiness, throbbed with bliss ; his countenance shone with brightness, was radiated with glory; the room, the awful, terrible room of death became the antechamber of heaven; the viol and the harp were there; ever and anon would come the harmonies of the invisible world, and the scents of that sweet clime; there were breathings of deepest hope; angels came and tarried: and He, the

K

morning star, stood up the sky, and pointed to a land where there is everlasting reunion, and everlasting love.

Such strains as Heber's are suited to the worship of the Everlasting One; they become the lips of the renewed man; they express the feelings of the humble but believing heart; the truths of the sky are sung to an earthly lyre; we listen to their consoling and divine music; happiness then takes possession of the soul, a gentle soothing peace, the spirit. The hymn is eternal: it rises now, it will rise for ever-it is immortal and imperishable; as ages roll on, it will deepen in its intonations; it will become grander and more sublime. We already feel its kindling, growing power. We awaken to its dignity and gigantic influence. Bear us on thy breast, O song, to that world of love!

JOHN A. HERAUD.

WONDROUS these days to the subtle spirit: days girt round with marvel; days gemmed with beauty; days edged with the opal loveliness of dawn; dawn opening into some orient clime, bathing nature in delicious light, and pointing onwards to the holiest in heaven. Wondrous days are these; days of deep marvel. Sky tints on all; sapphire-fringed the universe.

How opens the world on the spirit, opens in blushing sweetness to enamour and win for ever to itself; beautiful indeed the earth, and beautiful indeed man's soul! Something exquisitely tuned to hymn of God; to hymn of purity and peace!

Deep, deep the heart; deep, deep its thoughts; deeper still its love.

So dawn breaks, and we wonder how the twinkling gems of heaven sink into pure unsullied light all passed away, rolled up as a scroll, those million burning watchers, rolled up till even.

And these have awakened a lofty spirit to breathe out his magnificent song; have enkindled all the highest feelings of his heart into a holy flame of tenderness and truth.

Sweet the dawn comes on through the wide heaven-portals, and to that dawn is turned the deep seeing eye of a wondrous man, looking far down into its snowy whiteness, and praying

for the holiest.

Sweet the evening steals away with crimson and with gold. Sweet quietude on ocean's wave and the gentle purling rill. So sinks the sun beneath the western tide; sinks in hallowed twilight; unruffled and exquisitely serene. And as he sinks, that eye, deepwondering, watches and watches still, adoration bent. Down sinks the sun, and that eye intensely looks; intensely and yet more intensely, till the last gleam fades from the dark seabosom, then lifts its light above on the quenchless stars, and prays for inspiration.

Day after day, and night after night, that eye doth gaze: risen morn and beautiful eve pass on and on, and no dimness there, deep and deeper still the prophetic meaning and the fervid prayer.

The universe, ah, no! can never give thee

what thou seekest, Poet! The universe of God is mute to prayer like thine, mute, mute. So higher look; look through creation to her Lord.

Rose sweet smelling on yon latticed porch is but what the universe itself is to God-the scent of that essence supreme. There fix thine eye!

Dawn, dawn, beautiful dawn awakes again, but in his chamber lonely kneels the spirit to its God: nature mute: the spirit mute: all round the presence of the Holy. Silence on the soul when the Creator speaks.

Light now and life! light sweeter far than dawn, and life fairer than calmest eve; light and life, they are given and thy heart is happy.

How beautiful is light in the dwellings of the righteous! Fairer then than spirit ever dreamed in loveliest vision; fairer, so fair, so sweet, so beautiful, the daughter of the sky!

Who listened there,

Had heard the mother prattling to the children
Tales of their father, and low breathed numbers,
Like the sequestered stock-dove's brooding murmur,
Full of maternal tenderness-the burthen,
The gladness of that sire's return at even,
When he should take the sweet boy from her bosom,
Or on his daughter's head let fall the tear,
The purest that can fall from human eye;
While, quiet in her bliss, she should await
The sweet embrace; and after, on his breast
Reclined, from his meek lips receive account
What knowledge, wisdom, truth, the sons of God
Had won from large discourse on loftiest themes,
Or by the elders of the brethren taught,
Or from angelic ministers derived.

Anon the sun went down; their hearts first bowed
In worship pure, then folded each to each,
In calm repose; the stars watched o'er them.
Beautiful, most beautiful, the vale in which
these beings dwell; beautiful indeed!

Sweet is the twilight eve in Armon's vale,
Sweet, lovely, tranquil, sometimes darkly throned,
And oft refulgent; soft the western wind,
Floating white clouds through silent depths of blue,
O'er hills and haunts secluded, where the voice
Of waters murmurs with the bleat of lambs.

Fair o'er the vale of Armon walks the moon
In brightness, and on flowers, and streams, and hills,
Flings beauteous radiance from her ample orb,
Streaking with silver lines the swarthy night-
Till
grey with
age, herself forshew her death;
The resurrection of another day,
As yet but hoped for; like a coming joy,
Subsisting in desire; as do the souls
In Hades, till with risen flesh reclothed.

So the poet's prayer is heard in heaven, and utterance deep-toned is given.

Dawn now the visions of the soul, glimpses of beauty never to fade: gleams, ruby tinted, as of the sun's western course: but living, speaking to man's heart.

Time rolls backward; the dial of Ahaz moves wonder in the heart of prince and people; backwards still, deeper and deeper into forgotten years, till time is fresh and young, with the dews of morn upon her, and the grass all beautiful and green.

No rainbow in the heaven now; no exquisite play of mysterious colours. Broad sky of blue, deep, deep sapphire sea, calm, undisturbed, serene.

Quiet the universe around; the garment of the Infinite; quiet all and beautiful; too beautiful for the spirit to look upon; fair as virgin dawn.