and forty have been added to the list-that the utmost harmony has prevailed throughout their deliberations and that ample accommodations were provided for them by their numerous friends in Sheffield.

POETKY.

cherous to their enemies, and thankless to their benefactors. Eight cases of poison. ing have fallen under my observation already-five of these victims; and in every case the fatal dose did its deadly business within eight-and-forty hours, but in most instances in twelve. The nature of the poison I cannot speak of with certainty; from its being tasteless in the coffee, which is commonly made its vehicle, it can neither be opium nor corrosive sublimate; but, from the symptoms it produces, I believe it to be arsenic.

“Of all things in Turkey, human life is of the least value, and of all the roads to honour and ambition, murder is deemed the most secure. I sat beside a Candiote Turk at dinner, who boasted of having killed eleven men in cold blood; and the society of this assassin was courted by the cousin of the Reis Effendi, at whose house I met him, because he was a man of courage.' A rich Ulema, a man of the law and of religion, proposed sending for one of the Jewish women who followed the avocation of infanticide, and who are consulted, not only by the Turks, but also by the most respectable Levantines. I of course declined a consultation with a privileged murderess, and represented the evil consequences arising from such practices. * *

“The Turks are generally considered to be more honest than the Greeks, and in point of fact they are, or at least appear so. They are certainly less mendacious, and are too clumsy to practise chicanery to advantage. Their probity, however, depends not on any moral repugnance to deceit, but solely on the want of talent to deceive. I never found a Turk who kept his word when it was his interest to break it; but then I never knew a Greek who was not unnecessarily and habitually a liar. He is subtle in spirit, insidious in discourse, plausible in his manner, and indefatigable in dishonesty: he is an accomplished scoundrel; and beside him the Turk, with all the desire to defraud, is so gauche in knavery, that to avoid detection he is constrained to be honest.

“THE CLOUDS RETURN AFTER THE

RAIN."-SOLOMON. How soon do we outlive our blossoming prime, When health glides through every vein, No sooner to manhood's meridian we climb, Than we fade, and we bleach, by the action of

time, And the music of fancy becomes a dull chime, “For the clouds return after the rain." Age comes! glossy ringlets, and roseate hue, At once he expels from his train; Whatever was sprightly when life was but new, And youth was all freshness with morningtide

dew, Has past like a vision that fits from the view, “And clouds return after the rain." The heyday of mortals is over apace, Youth, beauty, bloom, vigour, all wane, The nerves are relax'd, and care wrinkles the face, And happy is be who can finish his race, With the eye of his mind fix'd on glory and grace, " Though the clouds return after the rain."

The dance and the viol, the lute and the song,
Are tasteless, insipid, and vain ;
Nought pleases him now, that delighted when

young, The heart's living lyre is by sorrow unstrung, All broken his spirit, and silent his tongue, “For clouds return after the rain." The days of his childhood were sunny and bright, But none can recall them again : And now 'tis short daylight, and tedious night, Time's visions of beauty have vanish'd from sight, And left not a trace of their footsteps in flight, “ While the clouds return after the rain."

Spring covers the earth with an emerald vest,
Which Flora enamels in vain ;
The winter of snow has frosted his breast,
His breathing is short, and his sleep much op-

press'd
By a stitch in his side, or a pain in his chest,
“For clouds return after the rain."
And let them return! Christ is able to save,
Though flesh, strength, and nature decay;
My hope in his love shall the winter storm brave,
He'll guide my lone bark as I pass the dark wave,
And rising to bliss as I sink in the grave,
I shall live through eternity's day.

JOSHUA MARSDEN.

STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MISS H-GWho died 11th September, 1827, in the 22d year

of her age.

In vain I entreat ber to nature's gay plains,

Or indulge contemplation in some lonely glade, Or range through Elysium, where spring ever

reigns, Where verdure and flowrets immortal ne'er fade,

In that region which death nerer dares to invade. More pleasing to her in the deep shades of night,

To roam through the dreary church-yard; To weep o'er the vanquish’d, once strong in his

might, Or mourn the unfortunate bard: Cut off in bis bloom, in full vigour of health, Whom the Nine vainly strove from death's po

iard to save ; The elegy mourns for no statesman of wealth,

This strain sorrows not for the fall of the brave, But beauty's untimely descent to the grave.

A WAVE, a breath, a tale that's told,

A cygnet's song, a swallow's fight, A bubble cast in beauty's mould,

A shade, a storm-encompass'd light, Is human life; and, laugh or weep, “A thousand years are but a sleep." Ah! who will triumph, who will mourn,

To hear this woeful, welcome truth; That swift as morning's glad return,

And short as the full rest of youth, Eternity on time will break, And all from life's brief slumber wake?

It is not for beauty alone that I sigh,

Too early consign'd to her urn;
For time will soon rob of its lustre the eye,

And dust unto dust must return :
When charms intellectual with beauty combine,

And sweet sensibilities govern the breast, When in one every virtue conspires to shine, What heart can forbear to deplore the behest, That calls her away to the seats of the blest?

Art thou not glad, o widow'd wife,

O childless mother, sad and lone? Wouldst thou not fain escape from life,

And join tbine heart beneath that stone ? Death has already broke thy sleep, And waked thee vip to watch and weep, Not so that fair sun-featured boy,

His are the hopes of life's young dream ; . He feeds upon foretasted joy,

He basks in summer's brightest beam.
But he must wake, and waking find,
The vision gone, a cheated mind.
And what of him, whose sbaking head

Bears, thinly strewn, the flowers of age ? Is be not of the living dead,

The Crusoe of the tempest's rage?
Ah ! one may live till life's distress,
And sleep till sleep is weariness.
But there be those whom guilty fears,

Like nightmare visions, early woke ;
Again they slept, and in their ears,

Unheard, a voice of thunder spoke.
And on their eyes, unseen, unfelt,
A flame, like forked lightning, dwelt.

It was the voice which spoke to Paul,

It was the light that flash'd on him, The voice and ligbt that visit all;

But these have drunk, charged to the brim, The cup of wrath, that opiate deep: Ah I life may be a dreadful sleep." J. M. H:

TO A LADY,

When Aurora is seen from her slumbers to rise,

And her vestment begins to unfold ; And the lamp of her brightness displays in the

skies, Richly streak'd with ethereal gold : When the bright sparkling dewdrop is seen on the

trees, And the birds sweetly sing in ambrosial bowers ; And the gay winged butterfly sports in the breeze, 'Tis an emblem, sweet maid, of tby youth's cheer

ful hours, And the pleasures that beam'd on thy infantile

powers. "Tis past-and thy morn of existence is fled.

And drear is the once lovely scene; And the rays of bright prospects that play'd round

thy head, Seem to thee as they never had been. Not a shade of thy beauties now lingers behind, Save thy virtues which live in the hearts of thy

friends, Remembrance shall cherish thy worth in their mind

While reason her aid to mortality lends,

And each in his turn to death's region descends. Each grace unaffected warm fancy shall paint,

While the tongue of affection sincere, Sball dwell on thy wit with a smile and a plaint, Though that smile must be “dash'd with a

tear." Thy friend, gentle Hannab, the friend of thy choice,

Wisely taught by that ebeering example of thine, Shall muse on the last sad adieu from thy voice,

And thy kind admonitions in accents benign,

Like thee will submit to the fiat divine.
Dear Hannah, thy friends with regret give thee up,

To the cold cheerless pillow of earth
But their grief is allay'd by a scriptural hope,

That thy beauties will find a new birth.
As the germ of the grain is preserv'd in the dust.

Till it springs forth to view a ripe beautiful ear, So, Hannah, shall rest thy remains with the just, In a form like thy Lord's, thou with bim shalt

appear, To dwell with the saints in a happier sphere. No lingering consumption thy vigour decay'd,

And secretly prey'd on thy bloom; Like a whirlwind death came, and his terrors dis.

play'd, And hurried thee down to the tomb. Adieu, gentle shade, may the gay trifling fair,

Who give to thy memory the tribute of sighs, Like thee, for the same awful crisis, prepare,

And as wisely earth's gilded temptations despise,

And seek for superior bliss in the skies. Great Grimsby.

ANN WEBSTER. 129.-VOL. XI.

Upon seeing the first and only Production of her Muse, and hearing she had intimated her intention to write no more.

O LADY I sweep again the lyre,
(Whose thrilling notes will peace inspire,)

Which piety has strung:
Till sounds are heard, as sweet as those
Which 'bove the fanes of Jebus rose,

By monarch minstrel sung.
Ah, wherefore thus its magic try,
Then throw the harp neglected by,

When only once its sound
Beneath your skilful hand has spoke,
In soul-arousing strains, and broke

The gloom which hung around.
Again resume, with magic spell,
The harp already touch'd so well.

The pleasing task pursue :
Again pour forth, in sacred lays,
The mingled notes of pray'r and praise,

Which please and profit too.
O lady, sweep again the lyre,
Nor quench at once the kindling fire,

Which in your bosom glows:
To Him devote the talent giv'n,
By turning wand'ring souls to heav'n,

From whom the spirit flows.
Hadleigh, July.

J. YOUNG. 3

THE JOYS OF CHILDHOOD. How sweet, when cbildhood's prattling bliss

Unfolds a thousand lovely charms; To meet the soft maternal kiss, When circled in a mother's arms.

How sweet it is in those young days,

When beauty, budding as a rose; Receives a mother's partial praise,

That from affection's fountain flows,

How sweet when actions infantile,

The beart of innocence declare; To gain a mother's beamy smile,

A smile the darling loves to share.

How sweet it is when sorrows rise,

And thoughts their struggling troubles bear; To see reflected in those eyes,

A mother's sympathizing care,

How sweet in every pang to know,

Where'er the tender frame shall rove; There is a heart to feel its wo,

There is a mother's sacred love. Beaconsfield.

J. A. B.

A PORTRAIT OF THE DEAD.

Her eyes were like “ Forget me not,"

As blue as is that lovely flower,

Mild as the mildest summer's eve,
Making love spring, as April's shower

Awakens Flora: yes, believe,
Her eyes' expression ne'er can be forgot.
Her face was worthy of such eyes,

"Twas form'd in beauty's happiest mould,

"Twas all that fancy's pencil paints, All tbat e'er poet thought or told,

More beauteous far than Guido's saints, Too fair for earth, 'twas formed to grace the skies. Her form gave every eye delight,

Onice seen, though but for once, beloved,

Her every gesture shewed a grace,
Easy as if in courts she'd moved,

Her form was worthy of her face,
With Hebe's freshness blest, yet sylph-like light.
We heard sweet music when she spoke,

As if 'twere zephyr's gentlest note ;

We scarcely breathed to list' her breath,
And yet rebuke from her deep smote,

Offending her was worse than death,
Who knew her best, most loved, most blest love's

yoke. Her mind was stored with richest lore,

The wisdoin taught by heavenly means,

The wisdom given from above,
To blanch as snow sin's foulest stains,

Teaching the promise true of love,
And joy when earth and time shall be no more.

REVIEW_The Church in Danger from

Herself. By the Rev. J. Acaster, Vicar
of St. Helen's, York, and Domestic
Chaplain to the Right Hon, the Earl of
Mexborough. 8vo. pp. 176. Seeley and

Sons, London. Tue common cry of “The church is in danger,” strongly reminds us of the fable, in which a roguish shepherd boy is represented, reiterating the cry “ The wolf is among the sheep,” and imposing upon his neighbours, so that when the wolf had actually got among them, they would not believe him. Sacheverel cried that it was in danger from the act of toleration; Dauberry, that it was in danger from evangelical preaching; Simpson, that it was in danger from the expense of washing sur. plices; Norris, that it was in danger from the Bible Society; and Thomas, that it was in danger from the Church Missionary Society; and as we have perceived no danger attending all these alleged mischievous things, we are apt to be sceptical when Mr. Acaster cries, that she is “in danger from herself.” Yet we ought not to stop our ears against his alarm. Neither should those who have the power of keeping her from danger be indifferent. She is now so closely cooped up, that unless she act vigorously on the defensive, the contest will be doubtful. Her bulwarks are thrown down by those who were voluntarily swom to defend them, though the citadel reinains uninjured, and will continue impregnable, if those within it remain true and firm at their posts. The present volume is an honest and unadorned remonstrance with her rulers, suited to the present crisis. It is divided into four chapters.

1. The necessity of a church establishment to maintain and perpetuate the Christian religion through successive generations, and to meet the religious wants of the nation,

11. The church of England, as by law established, is, if properly and efficiently administered, peculiarly adapted to maintain and perpetuate the Christian religion, and to meet in every way the spiritual wants of the nation.

III. Deviations from the adjustments and regulations of the founders of the church, the cause of her present inefficiency, and of dissent throughout the land.

iv. Necessity of returning to the original intentions of the founders of the church, with regard to all the plans which they devised, and the regulations they adopted; in order to render her efficient for the pur

Her heart, her soul, were fit for heaven,

For each was what it seemed to be,
- With angel person, angel mind,
O God! how dear she was to me,

The loveliest flower of loveliest kind,
The best, the dearest gift to man ere given.
Death hath now closed that brilliant eye,

That face bath lost its youthful bloom,

That graceful form will move no more, That tongue is silent in the tomb,

That mind's illumination's o'er, That soul-but that not death can e'er destroy.

But what am I? I must repine

For once the angel was mine own!

Oft have I seen her beavenly smile,
As if on me her life were grown,

Now, 'tis felicity's recoil,
Of all berest. No! in heaven she's still mine.