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She bent, and kissed her sister's lips,

As she was wont to do ;-
Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath
Woke just enough of life in death

To make Hope die anew.

Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honored friend with my own, I solicited and obtained the permission of Professor J. H. Green to permit the insertion of the two following poems, by him composed.




HE house is a prison, the school-room's a cell !

Leave study and books for the upland and dell; Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care ; Sally forth ! Sally forth ! Let us breathe the fresh

air! The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue; The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew; Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light, And here and there turns his eye piercing and

bright; Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car, With smiles to the morn,- for he means to go far: While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his

levee, Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling

between Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green,

With king.cups and daisies, that all the year please, Sprays, petals, and leaflets, that nod in the breeze, With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths, deck the

way, And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray, Itself its own home ;-far away ! far away! The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower; The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower; The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill, And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill; The birds carol gladly the lark mounts on high ; The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye, And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well, Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell. The hunt is abroad ;-hark! the horn sounds its

note, And seems to invite us to regions remote. The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound, And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound; Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he

bounds, To the whoop of the huntsmen and tongue of the

hounds. Then stay not within, for on such a blest day We can never quit home, while with Nature we

stray; far away, far away!


'HE feverous. dream is past! and I awake,

Alone and joyless in my prison-cell,
Again to ply the never ending toil,

characters more worthy of his attention, has led me far beyond my first intention; but it is not unimportant to expose the false zeal which has occasioned these attacks on our elder patriots. It has been too much the fashion first to personify the Church of England, and then to speak of different individuals, who in different ages have been rulers in that church, as if in some strange way they constituted its personal identity. Why should a clergyman of the present day feel interested in the defence of Laud or Sheldon? Surely it is sufficient for the warmest partizau of our establislıment, that he can assert with truth, when our Church persecuted, it was on mistaken principles held in common by all Christendom; and at all events, far less culpable was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were maintaining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit afterwards shown by their successful opponents, who had no such excuse, and who should have been taught mercy by their own sufferings, and wisdom by the utter failure of the experiment in their own case. We can say, that our Church, apostolical in its faith, primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its liturgical forms; that our Church, which has kindled and displayed more bright and burning lights of genius and learning, than all other Protestant churches since the reformation, was (with the single exception of the times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, when all Christians unhappily deemed a species of intolerance their religious duty; that Bishops of our church were among the first that contended against this error; and finally, that since the reformation, when tolerance became a fashion, the Church of England, in a tolerating age, has shown herself eminently tolerant, and far more so, both in spirit and in fact, than many of her most bitter opponents, who profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the rights of mankind! As to myself, who not only know the Church Establishment to be tolerant, but who see in it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of toleration, I feel no necessity of defending or palliating oppressions under the two Charleses, in order to exclain with a full and fervent heart, Esto perpetua !

In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd ;-
They welcomed me with bitter laughs of scorn,
They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate.-
But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts,
Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway,—
Again give license to my lawless will !
And yet I know not, if that demon rout
Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true ;
Or life itself be but a shadowy dream,
The act and working of an evil will !—
Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power!
Oh God! take back the boon, the precious gift
Of will mysterious.—Give me, give again,
The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs ;
Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply
And shield against temptations, that assail
My weak and yielding spirit !-Madness, come!
The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse,
Make me forget, and save me from myself!

A BIRD, who for his other sins

Had lived amongst the Jacobins ;
Tho' like a kitten amid rats,
Or callow tit in nest of bats,
He much abhorred all democrats ;
Yet nathless stood in ill report
Of wishing ill to Church and Court,
Tho’ he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting,
And learnt to pipe God save the King;

Tho' each day did new feathers bring,
All swore he had a leathern wing;
Nor polished wing, nor feathered tail,
Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail :
And tho'—his tongue devoid of gall-
He civilly assured them all ;-
“A bird am I of Phæbus' breed,
And on the sunflower cling and feed;
My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!
The bats would hail him brother cit,
Or, at the furthest, cousin-german.
At length the matter to determine,
He publicly denounced the vermin ;
He spared the mouse, he praised the owl;
But bats were neither flesh nor fowl.
Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul,
Came in full clatter from his throat,
Till his old nest-mates changed their note
To hireling, traitor, and turn-coat,-
A base apostate who had sold
His very teeth and claws for gold ;-
And then his feathers !-sharp the jest
No doubt he feathered well his nest!
A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat-
With place and title, brother Bat,
We soon shall see how well he'll play
Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay !"

Bird ! and ill-bestarred-
Or rather let us say, poor Bard !
And henceforth quit the allegoric

With metaphor and simile,
For simple facts and style historic:-
Alas, poor Bard ! no gold had he.
Behind another's team he stept,

Alas, poor

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