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GEORGE CROLY.

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

WHAT is Death? "T is to be free!
No more to love, or hope, or fear-
To join the great equality:
All alike are humble there!
The mighty grave
Wraps lord and slave;
Nor pride, nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge-house, the tomb!

Spirit with the drooping wing,
And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art king!
Empires at thy footstool lie!
Beneath thee strow'd
Their multitude

Sink, like waves upon the shore;
Storms shall never rouse them more!

What's the grandeur of the earth
To the grandeur round thy throne!
Riches, glory, beauty, birth,
To thy kingdom all have gone.
Before thee stand

The wondrous band;

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,
Who darken'd nations when they died!

Earth has hosts; but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Has for countless years roll'd on:
Back from the tomb

No step has come;

There fix'd, till the last thunder's sound
Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound!

DOMESTIC LOVE.

DOMESTIC Love! not in proud palace halls
Is often seen thy beauty to abide;
Thy dwelling is in lonely cottage walls,
That in the thickets of the woodbine hide;
With hum of bees around, and from the side
Of woody hills some little bubbling spring,
Shining along, through banks with harebells dyed;

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And many a bird to warble on the wing,

When morn her saffron robe o'er heaven and earth doth fling.

O! love of loves!-to thy white hand is given
Of earthly happiness the golden key.
Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even,
When the babes cling around their father's knee;
And thine the voice, that, on the midnight sea,
Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home,
Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit! I've built a shrine; and thou hast come
And on its altar closed-forever closed thy plume.

CUPID CARRYING PROVISIONS.

THERE was once a gentle time
Whenne the worlde was in its prime ;
And everie daye was holydaye,
And everie monthe was lovelie Maye
Cupid thenne hadde but to goe
With his purple winges and bowe;
And in blossomede vale and grove
Everie shepherde knelte to love.

Thenne a rosie, dimplede cheeke,
And a blue eye, fonde and mceke;
And a ringlette-wreathenne brow,.
Like hyacinthes on a bed of snowe;
And a low voice, silverre sweete,
From a lippe without deceite;
Onlie those the heartes could move
Of the simple swaines to love.

But thatte time is gone and paste,
Canne the summer always laste?
And the swaines are wiser grown,
And the hearte is turned to stone,
And the maidenne's rose may witherre,
Cupid's fled, no man knows whitherre
But anotherre Cupid's come,
With a browe of care and gloome:
Fixede upon the earthlie moulde,
Thinkinge of the sullene golde;
In his hande the bowe no more,
At his backe the householde store,
That the bridalle gold must buye:
Uselesse nowe the smile and sighe:
But he weares the pinion stille,
Flyinge at the sighte of ille.

Oh, for the olde true-love time,
Whenne the world was in its prime!

EXTRACT FROM "PARIS IN 1815,"

BUT stoop or pass the tempest as it will;
The hour is fix'd, when the Resplendent One,
Seen by the Prophet in his Patmos isle,
The Seraph, from whose forehead flames the sun,
Shall bid the Evil City be undone ;
Then with one fiery foot upon the shore,
And one upon the ocean's shrinking zone,
With lifted hand and thunder's sevenfold roar,
Send up his cry to Heaven, that Time shall be no more.

Then the Deliverance comes! the crimson scroll,
Writ with the madness of six thousand years,
Shall be like snow; from Heaven the clouds shall roll;
The Earth no longer be the vale of tears.
Speed on your swiftest wheels, ye golden spheres,
To bring the splendours of that morning nigh.
Already the forgiven desert bears

The rose; the Pagan lifts th' adoring eye,
The exiled Hebrew seeks the daybreak in the sky!

I see the Tribes returning in their pomp ;

Before them moves the Babe of Bethlehem's star: They come with shout and hymn, and uplift trump That rang of old on Zion's holy air. They come from every region wild and far, That wo e'er trod, with every swarthy stain Of storm, and slavery, and barbaric war; Sons of the desert, dungeon, mountain, main; Turban'd, and capp'd, and helm'd, a countless, boundless train.

One conflict more, the fiercest and the last!
When the old dragon-monarch of the air
His sails upon the groaning storm shall east,
To fight the final battle of despair.

But from the cope of Heaven a sword shall share
His fiery pinion in the sight of man.

Down to the depths shall rush th' eclipsing star,
Condemn'd the cup of agonies to drain,

A thousand years of night,—wild horror,-scorpion pain!

Ancient of Days! that high above all height

Sitt'st on the circle of eternity!

The hour shall come, when all shall know Thy might,
And earth be heaven, for it shall look on Thee!
Blessed the eye which lives that day to see.
The grave may wrap me ere its glorious sun:
Even, Father, as Thou wilt; but Thou art He,
That sees the sparrow perish from Thy throne;
Father, in life or death, Thy sovereign will be done.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

SABBATH MORNING.

DEAR is the hallow'd morn to me,
When village bells awake the day;
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.

And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord! To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode, Which swells and sinks, and swells again, Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harmony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heavenly melody,
The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall; But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

Oft when the world, with iron hands,
Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,
And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn;

The village bells, the shepherd's voice; These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,
Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Our's be the prophet's car of fire,

That bears us to a Father's arms.

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GENESIS, xxxv. 19.

AND Rachel lies in Ephrath's land,

Beneath her lonely oak of weeping:
With mouldering heart, and withering hand,
The sleep of death forever sleeping.

The spring comes smiling down the vale,
The lilies and the roses bringing:
But Rachel never more shall hail

The flowers that in the world are springing.

The Summer gives his radiant day,

And Jewish dames the dance are treading;
But Rachael on her couch of clay,
Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding.

The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines,
And reapers to the field is calling ;
But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling.

The Winter sends his drenching shower,
And sweeps his howling blast around her;
But earthly storms possess no power

To break the slumber that hath bound her.

CHARLES WOLFE.

"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 fashionable audiences, that Mr Wolfe dedicated his labours, In a miserable curacy in the province of Armagh, he suffered nearly as great privations as a missionary in heathen lands, labouring with zeal, to which he fell an early victim, to promote in all things the spiritual and temporal welfare of the poor people of his extensive parish. In the year 1821, when the typhus fever made such ravages in Ireland, the fatigue which Mr Wolfe encountered in visiting the sick-a duty to which he was peculiarly devoted-and his zeal in administer

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