And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of

hurrying feet,

And the broad streams of pikes and flags rush'd down each roaring street;

And broader still became the blaze, and louder still

the din,

As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in :

And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went,

And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent.

Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth;

High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north;

And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still;

All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill :

Till the proud Peak unfurl'd the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales,

Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills

of Wales,

Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's

lonely height,

Till stream'd in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light,

Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane,

And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the bound

less plain;

Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale

of Trent;

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burn'd on Gaunt's

embattled pile,

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle.

THOMAS KIBBLE HERVEY.

Born, 1804; Died, 1859.

THE CONVICT-SHIP.

MORN on the waters !—and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light!
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on ;

Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,

And her pennon streams onward, like Hope, in the

gale.

The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice, as they bear her along!
See, she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds!
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!

Bright as the visions of youth ere they part,
Passing away like a dream of the heart!-
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
O, there be hearts that are breaking below!

Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high, Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky; Treading its depths in the power of her might, And turning the clouds as they pass her to light! Look to the waters !-asleep on their breast, Seems not the ship like an island of rest ? Bright and alone on the shadowy main, Like a heart-cherish'd home on

plain !

some desolate

Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep,—as the moon in the sky,—
A phantom of beauty!—could deem, with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who-as he watches her silently gliding—
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts that are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The death-bed of Hope, or the young spirit's
grave?

"Tis thus with our life, while it passes along, Like a vessel at sea, amid sunshine and song! Gaily we glide in the gaze of the world,

With streamers afloat, and with canvas unfurl'd;
All gladness and glory to wandering eyes,

Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs!—
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,

As the smiles we put on, just to cover our tears;

And the withering thoughts which the world cannot

know,

Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;

While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore

Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and

o'er !

WILLIAM MACLARDIE BUNTING.

Born, 1805; Died, 1866.

THAT I, who could have died to give
Life, under God, to thee,

Was doom'd, in wisdom doom'd, to live,

And thy last struggle see!

That I have nursed thee for another

Corruption-to call son,

And for the worm, thy monster-mother,
To feed more sweetly on!

-That I, who, day and night, before,

Beside thy cradle sang,

Must change thy bed so soon, and o'er

Thy little coffin hang!

These arms, till late thy couch, must make

Thy fun'ral canopy:

I hush'd thee then, nor let thee wake;

Now, could I waken thee!

—That thou, whom Spring had laugh'd to find

Dancing o'er yon green graves,

Must lie below, and stay behind,

Where the dead herbage waves!

* Occasioned by the death of a lovely boy, the son of the Rev. Thomas Galland.

And that amidst the freshen'd bloom,
Which Spring shall soon supply,
The grass-flowers of thy very tomb
Will mock a mother's eye!

-That thou, whom well I loved, my boy,
Should'st scarcely live to bless me ;
Requite my care, fulfil my joy,

And all I was confess me!

And when thy father's children meet,
All blithe, and fond, and fair,
Each other and their home to greet,
That thou wilt not be there!

These, these are thoughts for many a tear,
If they would let me shed one :
O stunning stroke! O loss severe !
My darling little dead one!
But hark! the very hush of death

Truth to my heart hath taught;
And, softer than a spirit's breath,
Hath woke a calmer thought!

That thou art gone to heaven, without
A fear of other doom,-

Too young to sin,-nor can I doubt,
Accepted from the womb;
One of my first-fruits unto God,

My own-born cherubim,

A spotless dove, I long have owed

In sacrifice to Him!

-That thou art free from death and pain,

And full of life and joy ;

That these will never fail again,

And those no more annoy;