And inmost feeling of our souls, which never Had else been breath'd in words, rush'd forth and sought

Their sweet home in each other's hearts, and there They lived and grew 'mid sadness and despair.

It was not with the bonds of common love

Our hearts were knit together; they had been Silent companions in those griefs which move And purify the soul, and we had seen Each other's strength and truth of mind, and hence We loved with passion's holiest confidence.

We parted (as our hearts had loved) in duty
To Heaven and virtue, and we both resign'd
Our cherish'd trust-I all her worth and beauty,
And she th' untold devotion of my mind;
We parted in mute anguish, but we bent
Lowly to Him whose love is chastisement.

She rests in Heaven, and I-I could not follow :
My soul was crush'd, not broken: and I live
To think of all her love; and feel how hollow
Are the sick gladnesses the world can give.
I live in faith and holy calm, to prove
My heart was not unworthy of such love.

ANON.

WHAT IS LIFE?

AND what is life?-An hour-glass on the run, A mist, retreating from the morning sun,

3

A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream,—
Its length ?—A minute's pause, a moment's
thought.

And happiness ?-A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope ?-the puffing gale of morn, That robs each flow'ret of its gem,-and dies; A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,

Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is Death ?-Is still the cause unfound? That dark, mysterious name of horrid sound?

A long and lingering sleep, the weary crave. And peace? Where can its happiness abound? No where at all, save Heaven, and the grave.

Then what is Life ?-When stripp'd of its disguise,

A thing to be desired it cannot be ;
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.

'Tis but a trial all must undergo,

To teach unthankful mortal how to prize That happiness vain man's denied to know, Until he's call'd to claim it in the skies.

CLARE.

TO SCOTLAND.

(FROM A SABBATH AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.) DEAR to my spirit, Scotland, thou hast been, Since infant years, in all thy glens of green;

Land of my love, where every sound and sight
Comes in soft melody, or melts in light;
Land of the green wood by the silver rill,
The heather and the daisy of the hill,
The guardian thistle to thy foemen stern,
The wild-rose, hawthorn, and the lady-fern;
Land of the lark, that like a seraph sings,
Beyond the rainbow, upon quivering wings;
Land of wild beauty and romantic shapes,
Of shelter'd valleys and of stormy capes;
Of the bright garden and the tangled brake,
Of the dark mountain and the sun-light lake;
Land of my birth and of my father's grave,
The eagle's home, the eyrie of the brave;
Land of affection, and of native worth;
Land where my bones shall mingle with the earth;
The foot of slave thy heather never stain'd,
Nor rocks that battlement thy sons profaned;
Unrivall❜d land of science and of arts,
Land of fair faces and of faithful hearts;
Land where Religion paves her heavenward road,
Land of the temple of the living God!
Yet dear to feeling, Scotland, as thou art,
Should thou that glorious temple e'er desert,
I would disclaim thee, seek the distant shore
Of Christian isle, and thence return no more.

JAMES GRAY.

GOD VISIBLE IN HIS WORKS.

ETERNAL, and Omnipotent unseen!

Who bad'st the world, with all its lives complete,

Start from the void, and thrill beneath THY feet, THEE I adore, with reverence serene;

Here, in the fields, thine own cathedral meet, Built by THYSELF, blue-roofed, and hung with green,

Wherein all breathing things, in concert sweet, Organed by winds, perpetual hymns repeat; Where hast thou spread that Book to every eye Whose tongue and truth all—all may read and prove;

On whose three blessed leaves, EARTH, OCEAN,

SKY,

THINE own right hand hath stamp'd, MIGHT,

JUSTICE, LOVE,

True trinity, which binds in due degree
God, man, and brute, in mutual unity.

HORACE SMITH.

VERSES.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:

It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again ;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain!

But when I speak-thou dost not say,
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-

I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I, perhaps, may sooth this heart,
In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore !

WOLFE.

* This affecting composition is the production of the late Rev. Charles Wolfe, author of the well-known verses on the death of Sir John Moore. His poetical pieces are few in number, but they are of great excellence, though subordinate to the much loftier qualities of a zeal truly apostolic, and a vigorous and manly intellect, devoted unremittingly to the noblest cause to which the human faculties can be devoted. It was not to crowded cities, nor to