Sweet is the lily's silver bell,

And sweet the wakeful taper's smell,
That watch for early prayer.

Sweet the young nurse, with love intense, Which smiles o'er sleeping innocence;

Sweet when the lost arrive:

Sweet the musician's ardour beats,

While his vague mind's in quest of sweets,
The choicest flowers to hive.

Sweeter, in all the strains of love,
The language of thy turtle-dove,
Paired to thy swelling chord;
Sweeter, with every grace endued,
The glory of thy gratitude,
Respired unto the Lord.

Strong is the horse upon his speed;
Strong in pursuit the rapid glede,

Which makes at once his game:

Strong the tall ostrich on the ground;
Strong through the turbulence profound
Shoots xiphias to his aim.

Strong is the lion-like a coal
His eyeball-like a bastion's mole
His chest against the foes:
Strong the gier-eagle on his sail,
Strong against tide the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.

But stronger still in earth and air,
And in the sea, the man of prayer,

And far beneath the tide :

And in the seat to faith assigned,

Where ask is have, where seek is find,
Where knock is open wide.

Beauteous the fleet before the gale;
Beauteous the multitudes in mail,
Ranked arms, and crested heads;

Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild,
Walk, water, meditated wild,

And all the blooming beds.

Beauteous the moon full on the lawn; And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn, The virgin to her spouse:

Beauteous the temple, decked and filled, When to the heaven of heavens they build Their heart-directed vows.

Beauteous, yea, beauteous more than these, The shepherd king upon his knees,

For his momentous trust;

With wish of infinite conceit,

For man, beast, mute, the small and great,
And prostrate dust to dust.

Glorious the sun in mid career;
Glorious the assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet's train;

Glorious the trumpet and alarm;

Glorious the Almighty's stretched-out arm; Glorious the enraptured main:

Glorious the northern lights astream; Glorious the song, when God's the theme; Glorious the thunder's roar:

Glorious hosannah from the den:

Glorious the Catholic Amen;

Glorious the martyr's gore:

Glorious, more glorious is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,
By meekness called thy Son;
Thou that stupendous truth believed,
And now the matchless deed's achieved,
Determined, dared, and done!

WOODROOFFE, WALKER, GILFILLAN,

ETC.

"The world is full of poetry—the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies too perfect and too high
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn,

Unfading beauty, and unyielding power."-PERCIVAL.

TIME Sweepeth by, and we must close our volume; but we cannot do so ere we express our feelings and thoughts in regard to some other deeply cherished spirits. We had intended giving a lengthened criticism on each, but opportunity has fled, and we have now to prepare for colder studies; but this little we must and will say.

Sophia Woodrooffe:-The poems of this youthful author exhibit much exquisite beauty, elegance, and taste; there is something of Gray's manner and style about them; there is the classic music of Collins; but they sing a lighter song-more truly Grecian— more like the sunny sky of Athens-breathe a more

liquid melody; they are warmer, have more of the heart, are embued with more of the life-blood of humanity; they are not so cold, nor so like the chilly portico of a marble temple; there is more vigour, more energy, more brilliant fire; many of them are superior to Mason, though tinctured at times with his stiff colouring.

Her imagination is decidedly Grecian: loveliness is the characteristic. We catch, at times, a deeper tone of voluptuousness, as if breathing of Araby; there is a slight tinge of Orientalism; but Greece, Greece is the idol of her soul, the star ever sparkling in her horizon, the fire-flame ever flaring upward to the wide heavens-Greece, Greece, ancient, glorious Greece!

The Origin of Painting, Delos, and the Athenian Torch-race, are among the most exquisite of her productions. We know not which to admire most-the beauty of the thoughts, or the sweetness of the melody. Of her translations from the Italian and German, those from Metastasio and Goëthe are perhaps the finest. The Hymn of Cleantes is magnificent, and rises at times to the sublime.

How different is Bradshawe Walker-how opposite his love! What liquid warblings, and how redolent of the flowers of his own sunny isle! We love his thoroughly pastoral songs; they breathe of meadows, and cornfields, and new-made hay; what memories they awaken, sweet-toned, of olden times; and how pleasant his love of nature; he is all heart, all soul; there is no enchaining the feelings, no coldness, no icy sternness; he is like some quiet pellucid brook meandering through some fine English park and by some ancient village

church, while all around is still and quiet. Blessings on thee, poet! for thy strains of peace and happiness and radiant beauty.

But grandeur as of Creation's glory; how shall we speak of Gilfillan, with his magnificent images and thoughts? He is like his own land, with its gorgeous sunsets amid the wide-stretching and heaven-towering mountains: like the splendour of his own lochs shadowing in their deep waters the sublime scenery of the midnight sky: he is like the earth with her rolling oceans, and beauteous isles, and huge continents, and dark forests. He is part of the great universe; the spirit-breathing hymn of heaven; the glorious and divine song throwing tenfold beauty, and shedding tenfold lustre on the vast creation: well may he be one of Scotia's mightiest sons!

How silvery are Moultrie's tones; how he enchanted us with his "Dream of Life;" we had just entered the University when we heard the peaceful notes; it was a change from discord to lute-like melody: how we listened to the mellow sounds; and Time has not lessened our regard. It is one of the sweetest of strains-like the wood-pigeon-like the nightingale like "every daughter of heavenly song." It has the delicious cadence of an evening hymn-it is all beauty, all loveliness: it is like a mild, radiant day—all golden sunshine-all softened glory. One floats amid its still, quiet music: how tender and melting its voice of home and bygone memories! ever does it soothe and purify the heart.

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