VERSES WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

If thou wilt let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias, nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead, and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to ambition? Ah! no: Affrighted he shrinketh away;

For see! they would pin him below

To a small narrow cave, and begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To beauty? Ah! no; she forgets The charms that she wielded before:

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin which, but yesterday, fools could adore For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which dizen the proud ? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To riches? Alas! 'tis in vain,

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squander'd again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which mirth can afford, The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board,

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to affection and love? Ah! no; they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto sorrow? The dead cannot grieve, Not a sob, not a sigh, meets mine ear

Which compassion itself could relieve;

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, or fear; Peace, peace, is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah! no; for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow;

Beneath the cold dead, and around the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies.

T

REGINALD HEBER.

BORN 1783-DIED 1826.

Dr HEBER, late Bishop of Calcutta, was the second son of the Rector of Malpas. At an early age Heber was entered of All-Souls College, Oxford, and at nineteen he composed his celebrated prize-poem, entitled PALESTINE. He afterwards travelled, extending his tour to the north of Europe. In 1808 he took his degree of A.M., and in 1812 published a small volume of poems. In 1815 he resigned the Fellowship he had obtained, and was thenceforth more known as a preacher than a poet. In 1822 Heber was elected Preacher to the Society of Benchers of Lincoln's Inn, an office which has been filled by the most celebrated divines of the church of England; and, before he was appointed Bishop of Calcutta, he had published the works of Jeremy Taylor, with a life of that eminent churchman. In October, 1823, the Bishop and his family landed in India; and he afterwards devoted much of his time to episcopal visitations of his extensive diocese. occupied in this manner in the spring of 1826 at Trichinopoly, where he preached and held a confirmation on Sunday the 9th of April. Next morning, after visiting a congregation of native Christians, he went into a bath, where he was seized with an apoplectic fit, which almost immediately terminated his valuable life.

He was

THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA.

FOR many a coal-black tribe and cany spear,
The hireling guards of Mizraim's throne, were

there;

On either wing, their fiery coursers check
The parch'd and sinewy sons of Amalek;

While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Deck'd in behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla

strode.

Mid blazing helms, and bucklers rough with gold, Saw ye how swift the sithed chariots roll'd?

Lo! these are they whom, lords of Afric's fates, Old Thebes has pour'd through all her hundred gates

Mother of armies!... How the emerald glow'd, Where, flush'd with power and vengeance, Pharaoh rode;

And, stoled in white, those blazing wheels before, Osiris' ark his swarthy wizards bore:

And, still responsive to the trumpet's cry,

The priestly sistrum murmur'd, “ Victory!” Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom?

Whom come ye forth to combat? warrior, whom? These flocks and herds, this faint and weary train, Red from the scourge, and weary from the chain? Friend of the poor! the poor and friendless saveGiver and Lord of freedom! help the slave.

North, south, and west, the sandy whirlwinds fly, The circling pale of Egypt's chivalry.

On earth's last margin throng the weeping train, Their cloudy guide moves on-and must we swim the main ?

Mid the light spray their snorting camels stood,
Nor bathed a fetlock in the nauseous flood.
He comes their leader comes-the Man of God
O'er the wide waters lifts his mighty rod,
And onward treads; the circling waves retreat,
In hoarse, deep murmurs, from his holy feet;
And the chased surges, inly roaring, show
The hard wet sand and coral hills below.

With limbs that falter, and with hearts that swell,
Down, down they pass, a steep and slippery dell;
Round them arise, in pristine chaos hurl'd,
The ancient rocks, the secrets of the world;
And flowers that blush beneath the ocean green;
And caves, the sea-calf's low-roof'd haunts are

seen.

Down, safely down the narrow pass they tread,
The seething waters storm above their head;
While far behind retires the sinking day,
And fades on Edom's hills its latest ray.
Yet not from Israel fled the friendly light,
Or dark to them, or cheerless came the night;
Still in the van along that dreadful road,
Blazed broad and fierce the brandish'd torch of God;
Its meteor-glare a tenfold lustre gave
On the long mirror of the rosy wave;

While its blest beams a sunlike heat supply,
Warm every cheek, and dance in every eye-
To them alone:-for Mizraim's wizard train
Invoke for light their monster-gods in vain :
Clouds heap'd on clouds their struggling sight
confine,

And tenfold darkness broods along their line.
Yet on they go, by reckless vengeance led,
And range unconscious through the ocean's bed.
Till, midway now, that strange and fiery Form
Show'd his dread visage, light'ning through the
storm,

With withering splendour blasted all their might, And brake their chariot-wheels, and marr'd their coursers' flight.

"Fly, Mizraim, fly!" The rav'nous floods they

see,

And fiercer than the floods, the Deity!