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the distinct impress of individual character and of a character with which no reader can thus become acquainted without loving and wishing to share in its virtues.

We open the volume almost at random for a few specimens. The first piece consists of • Verses written in a Quaker Burialground;' and contains, among other things, this justification of their disallowance of sepulchral monuments. • Could we conceive Death was indeed the close

Of our existence, Nature might demand
That, where the reliques of our friends repose,

Some record to their memory should stand,
To keep them unforgotten in the land :-

| Then, then indeed, urn, tomb, or marble bust,
By sculptor's art elaborately plann'd,

Would seem a debt due to their mouldering dust,
Though time would soon efface the perishable trust.
But hoping, and believing ; yea, through Faith,

Knowing, because His word has told us so,
That Christ, our Captain, triumph'd over Death,

And is the first fruits of the dead below;
That he has trod for man this path of woe,

Dying-to rise again ! We would not grace
Death's transitory spell with trophied show;

As if that “ shadowy vale” supply'd no trace
To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place.
Then, be our burial-grounds, as should become

A simple, but a not unfeeling race:
Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb

As best befits the quiet dwelling-place
Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,

Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,-
When the last trump shall sound, the trembling base

Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven,
And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven !
Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail

Unto the " spiritual body" will be found
The costliest canopy, or proudest tale

Recorded on it ? --what avail the bound
Of holy, or unconsecrated ground ?

As freely will the unencumber'd sod
Be cleft asunder at that trumpet's sound,

As Royalty's magnificent abode :

pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God." pp. 2–8. The following extract from Verses on the Death of a Youth of great promise, will remind the admirers of Cowper of some of that author's smaller pieces. VOL. XXXIV. NO. 68.



p. 70.

We had hopes it was pleasure to nourish,

(Then how shall our sorrow be mute?)
That those bright buds of genius would flourish,

And burst into blossoms and fruit.
But our hopes and our prospects are shaded,

For the plant which inspir'd them hath shed
Its foliage, all green and unfaded,

Ere the beauty of spring-time hath fled.
Like foam on the crest of the billow,

Which sparkles, and sinks from the sight;
Like leaf of the wind-shaken willow,

Though transiently, beauteously bright;
Like dew-drops, exhal'd as they glisten;

Like perfume, which dies soon as shed ;
Like melody, hush'd while we listen ;-

Is Memory's dream of the dead.' The following, inscribed • To the Memory of Mary Fletcher," are nearly of the same character.

• Enthusiast, fanatic, and fool,

Many who read thy life' will style thee;
And others, more sedate and cool,

Will pity, who dare not revile thee.
For me, I feel, on laying down

The volume, neither power nor will
To ape the critic's frigid frown:

To flatter thee were idler still.
While living, praise of man to thee

Was nothing : o'er thy mouldering earth,
Its empty echo now would be

But mockery of thy Christian worth!
Yet there are those, with whom the test

Of truth is not the Gospel creed;
To whom thy life will be a jest,

Thy path-a parable indeed!
And these, perchance, to show their wit,

Will heap thy name with obloquy;
And o’er thy hallow'd pages sit,

“ Drest up in brief authority. ”
To thee it matters not ; but those

Who honour and revere thy name,
May be allow'd to interpose,

And vindicate thy well-earn'd fame.
Not for thy sake alone, but theirs

Who tread the path which thou hast trod;' &c. pp. 76-78.

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And the same model may be traced in the following lines to Bonaparte in his island prison.

• Far from the battle's shock,

Fate hath fast bound' thee;
Chain'd to the rugged rock,

Waves warring round thee.
Instead of the trumpet's sound,

Sea-birds are shrieking:
Hoarse on thy rampart’s bound,

Billows are breaking.
For ensigns unfurling,

Like sunbeams in brightness ;
Are crested waves curling,

Like snow-wreaths in whiteness.
No sycophants mock thee

With dreams of dominion ;
But rude tempests rock thee,

And ruffle thy pinion.' pp. 122, 123.
This stanza shows, that the author's dislike to tombstones is
not altogether insuperable.
Onward the

of night advances : slow Through fleecy clouds with majesty she wheels : Yon tower's indented outline, tombstones low,


And mossy grey, her silver light reveals :
Now quivering through the lime-trees' foliage steals;
And now each humble, narrow, nameless bed,

hillock not in vain appeals To eyes that pass by epitaphs unread, Rise to the view. How still the dwelling of the dead !' p. 88 And the same image is brought still more prominently forward in the following. • How lonely and lovely their resting place seem'd !

An enclosure which care could not enter :
And how sweetly the grey lights of evening gleam'd,

On the solitary tómb in its centre !
When at morn, or at eve, I have wander'd near,

And in various lights have view'd it,
With what differing forms, unto friendship dear,

Has the magic of fancy endued it !
Sometimes it has seem'd like a lonely sail,

A white spot on the emerald billow;
Sometimes like a lamb, in a low grassy vale,

Stretch'd in peace on its verdant pillow.
But no image of gloom, or of care, or strife,
Has it ever given birth to one minute ;

Whose grassy

pp. 230, 231.

For lamented in death, as beloved in life,

Was he, who now slumbers within it.
He was one who in youth on the stormy seas

Was a far and a fearless ranger;
Who, borne on the billow, and blown by the breeze,

Counted lightly of death or of danger.
Yet in this rude school had his heart still kept

All the freshness of gentlest feeling ;
Nor in woman's warm eye has a tear ever slept,

More of softness and kindness revealing. The following is in a more gay and discursive vein; and affords a pleasing view of the literary recreations which are now permitted to those self-denying sectaries. To be by taste's and fashion's laws

The favourite of this fickle day ;
To win the drawing-room's applause,

To strike, to startle, to display,
And give effect, would

seem the aim
Of most who bear the Poet's name.
For this, one idol of the hour,

Brilliant and sparkling as the beams
Of the glad sun, culls every flower,

And scatters round dews, gems, and streams;
Until the wearied, aching sight,
Is 6 blasted with excess of light.
Another leads his readers on

With scenery, narrative, and tales
Of legends wild, and battles won-

Of craggy rocks, and verdant vales ;
Till, always on amazement's brink,
We find we have no time to think.
And last, not least, a master mind,

Around whose proud and haughty brow,
Had he but chosen, might have twin'd

The muses' brightest, greenest bough,
Who, would he his own victor be,
Might seize on immortality.
He too, forsooth, with morbid vein,

Must Aling a glorious fame away ;
Instruction and delight disdain,

And make us own, yet loathe his sway:
From Helicon he might have quaff'd,
Yet turn'd to Acheron's deadly draught.
O shame and glory of our age!

With talents such as scarcely met
In bard before: thy magic page

Who can peruse without regret ?

Or think, with cold, unpitying mien,

Of what thou art, and mightst have been ?' pp. 107–109. What follows has rather more of the ardour and tenderness of love, than we had supposed tolerated in the Society of Friends. • I did not forget how with Thee I had paced

On the shore I now trod, and how pleasant it seem'd; How my eye then sought thine, and how gladly it traced

Every glance of affection which mildly it beam'd. The beginning and end of our loves were before me;

And both touch'd a chord of the tenderest tone;
For thy Spirit, then near, shed its influence o'er me,

And told me that still thou wert truly my own.
Yes, I thought at the moment, (how dear was the thought !)

That there still was a union which death could not break;
And if with some sorrow the feeling was fraught,

Yet even that sorrow was sweet for thy sake. Thus musing on thee, every object around

Seem'd to borrow thy sweetness to make itself dear ;
Each murmuring wave reach'd the shore with a sound

As soft as the tone of thy voice to my ear.
The lights and the shades on the surface of ocean,

Seem'd to give back the glimpses of feeling and grace,
Which once so expressively told each emotion

Of thy innocent heart as I gaz'd on thy face. And, when I look'd up to the beautiful sky,

So cloudless and calm; oh! it harmoniz'd well With the gentle expression which spoke in that eye,

Ere the curtain of death on its loveliness fell! The following stanzas on the Sea appear to us at once simple and powerful. • Oh! I shall not forget, until memory depart,

When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart;
The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me,
When its billowy boundlessness open'd before me !
As I stood on its margin, or roam'd on its strand,
I felt new ideas within me expand,
Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour,
And my spirit was mute in the presence of POWER !
In the surf-beaten sands thnt encircl'd it round,
In the billow's retreat and the breaker's rebound,
In its white-drifted foam, and i .: dark-heaving green,
Each moment I gaz'd som fre I beauty was seen.

pp. 176-7.

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