The folly of man may stain it and turn its course, but still the stream will flow and refresh the land. Nor is it to shine in the sun or glitter to the moon that its Maker has poured it out. There is a use and intention in all the works of nature; nor does she do her work slovenly or unwisely like man. That river is made up of many brooks, and each brook waters its own little vale, refreshes its own trees and flowers, turns the mill which grinds the corn, supplies water to the maiden to bleach her linen, is drink to man and beast, and contains within its bosom ten thousand speckled trouts which leap in the water and play in the sunlighted pools. All those brooks gather into one and form a river, broad and deep, on the banks of which castles and cities are built, and on the bosom of which ships swim as swans do, and spreading out their wings, bring to us the fatness of far countries. The river has its people also as the earth has. The fish which swim there come as food to man, and nothing can surpass them in beauty as they glide along in their native element. God sends the river and God sends the fish, that they may be a benefit and a blessing to the sons of men. Listen, my children. There was once a good man who lived in this vale, and he had a wife and seven children. And it was a time of drought and of famine, and crops failed and cattle died, and his children cried for bread and he had none to give them. And he went out and the moon shone bright on the hill and bright on a rich man's flock of sheep, and the unhappy man said to himself,' I shall take one from the fold, for my children will surely perish.' And he took a staff in his hand and began to wade the river: as he

passed through, he saw two large fish struggling to swim up the ford, and he struck them with his staff and carried them home, and said, 'Eat, and bless the Lord, for he is good, and has delivered me this night from a great sin; eat, for these are of his providing.' So he asked a blessing when they were dressed, and his wife and children ate, and want fled and never more returned; and before he died he told me the story, that the mercy of God might be known among us. Let us go in and bless him and praise him, my children, for he is good and he is merciful and he is wondrous,"

FONTHILL.

MAN and his works! The meteor's gleam,

The sun-flash on a winter stream,

A vision seen in sleep, that gives

Of gladness more than aught which lives,
A palace from a splendid cloud

Formed, while the wind is rising loud,

A bubble on the lake, a cry

Heard sad from sea when storms are high,

Ways made through air by wild birds' wings,

Are sure and well established things;

Man and his works! words writ on snow

Are emblem of them both below:

Stars dropt from heaven to darkness thrown,

A moment light-and all is gone.

1

See, Art has cast her spell to check
Man's greatness ere it goes to wreck ;
Here, Turner, with a wizard's power,
Has fixed in splendour tree and tower;
And bravely from oblivion won,

A landscape steeped in dew and sun.
A grove, a shepherd, sheep, a rill,
Towers seen o'er all-behold Fonthill!

Where, like a saint embalmed and shrined,
Long worshiped Beckford dozed and dined;
Strayed through that wood, strolled by that brook
Ate much-thought little-wrote a book ;
Tattled with titled dames and sighed
In state like any prince, and died.
And that's Fonthill! things of high fame
Less lovely are in look than name—
Spots bright in song and fair in story
Glow far less lustrous than their glory:
Historians' heroes, poets' lasses,

Shine glorious through Fame's magic glasses,
Who in rude war, or rapture's hour,
Had no such heart-inspiring power.

So fares it with Fonthill, which proud
Shoots there in lustre to the cloud;
Give fame its portion, art its share,
And all the rest is empty air.
No longer, through the lighted hall,
Its lord at midnight leads the ball;
Nor, dancing 'mid its dazzling rooms,
Young jewelled beauty shakes her plumes;