TO M. J.

Where do I see thee not? When night has spread
Her dewy cloak, and closed each eye,
Thy form will come and soft upbraid

Smiling until I wish to die!

Where do I hear thee not? In every sound

When solitude has welcomed me

The very winds, which sigh around,
Recal thy voice's harmony.

My thoughts are thine, tho thou art gone,
My heart is with thee in the grave,

Quenched is the light from thee that shone,
And with it all the joy it gave.

J. BAXTER L'ANGLEY.

SONNETS.

BY THOMAS WINN HOLME.

Wisdom is with the dead! We may not know
The secrets of our life, till death reveals
Its mysteries. Humanity conceals

The beauty of the spirit-flowers, which blow
And blossom in the heart. The overthrow
Of our world-built Babel comes. The appeal

To man-coined knowledge proveth vain ; we feel
Its impotence, as pure our spirits grow.
And in our youth we ever wander on
In search of happiness already found;

But know it not until its sun is gone,

And manhood throws a deeper shadow round;

When riper years show that those hours have shone,
In pictures sweet, through memory's hallowed ground.

Heaven is within us; Hell at our command;
And all the sorrows that around us creep,
Are but the fruits from seeds by our own hand,
Which a strong mind would from it instant sweep,

And beauty only in remembrance keep.

For woes are useless tombs, that round us stand,

Raised by ourselves, upon else Fairy-land,

Which cause our eyes through life to constant weep.
Then ever move in hopefulness, and live,

As though the present were thy paradise,

And to thyself and others always give

Glad words instead of ever-streaming eyes.

And look thou still before, where beauty lies;
Then, memory to the Past in gladness only flies

33, Rusholme Road, Manchester, April 15th, 1848.

The reviewer here concludes his notice of this remarkable book, which has caused a sensation nnequalled by any publication which has issued from the press for many years. The statements which appear at first sight so startling are calmly urged, and supported by an array of facts which cannot be gainsayed; and the book is written in a spirit of candour and moderation which is sorely lacked by many of its reviewers, who, valiant for their pre-conceived opinions, have precipitately and apparently without more than cursory observation, condemned a theory upon the sole grounds that it did not agree with their ideas, and their system of religion.

April 17, 1848,

LINES TO AN ABSENT FRIEND,

BY THE EDITOR.

Each book I take, each silent song,
Each place I haunt still speaks of thee,
In Memory's garner, treasured long,
Absent thou art not-cannot be !
Each crystal wave, with snowy crest,
That whispers all transparency,-
The tints that fire the glowing west,
And paint the clouds ere twilight die,-
Each violet-bank-each peeping bud,
That we have often loved to see-
The willow bending o'er the flood-
In speechless music tells of thee !
And, as the summer passes on,

As buds to blossoms changed shall be,
When flowers of spring shall all be gone,
"Forget-me-nots" shall speak of thee!
Thus shall each passing season bring

Remembrance of sweet bye-gone hours,
As new endearments still shall spring,
And Friendship find a tongue in flowers!

TO M. J.

Where do I see thee not? When night has spread
Her dewy cloak, and closed each eye,
Thy form will come and soft upbraid

Smiling until I wish to die!

Where do I hear thee not? In every sound

When solitude has welcomed me→

The very winds, which sigh around,
Recal thy voice's harmony.

My thoughts are thine, tho thou art gone,
My heart is with thee in the grave,
Quenched is the light from thee that shone,
And with it all the joy it gave.

J. BAXTER LANGLEY.

SONNETS.

BY THOMAS WINN HOLME.

Wisdom is with the dead! We may not know
The secrets of our life, till death reveals
Its mysteries. Humanity conceals

The beauty of the spirit-flowers, which blow
And blossom in the heart. The overthrow

Of our world-built Babel comes. The appeal

To man-coined knowledge proveth vain ; we feel
Its impotence, as pure our spirits grow.
And in our youth we ever wander on
In search of happiness already found;
But know it not until its sun is gone,

And manhood throws a deeper shadow round ;'
When riper years show that those hours have shone,
In pictures sweet, through memory's hallowed ground.

Heaven is within us; Hell at our command;
And all the sorrows that around us creep,

Are but the fruits from seeds by our own hand,
Which a strong mind would from it instant sweep,
And beauty only in remembrance keep.

For woes are useless tombs, that round us stand,

Raised by ourselves, upon else Fairy-land,

Which cause our eyes through life to constant weep.
Then ever move in hopefulness, and live,
As though the present were thy paradise,

And to thyself and others always give

Glad words instead of ever-streaming eyes.

And look thou still before, where beauty lies;
Then, memory to the Past in gladness only flies

33, Rusholme Road, Manchester, April 15th, 1848.

CHILDHOOD,

BY THE EDITOR.

Oh Childhood! when we call thee back again
But for a glance, amidst the care and pain
That mark the later moments of our life,
How with bright smiles thou seemest to be rife!
Like April days,-alternate sun and showers,
With grief-like clouds-to dim thy rosy hours:
As in the spring-tide, when the happy earth
Rejoices in its verdure's glorious birth;
The sunshine of thy joy gilds all thy tears
And gives a rainbow to our after years-
A shining pledge to light our onward way-
A presage full of hope for that bright day,
When, from this scene of yet imperfect light,
We pass to one shall dazzle earthly sight;
And re-born souls shall find a second youth

In the bright realms of FRIENSHIP, LOVE and TRUTH.

The happiness of purity is thine; sweet type of angel thou,
So fresh from GOD, the light of Heaven still lingers on thy brow!
Who, as he sits alone, can check the wayward sigh,
For happiness and innocence in days gone by!
Each word of kindness, under-valued then,
The heart's response-we never know again.
Amidst the world, the harsh and busy throng,
We lose the murmurs of that pleasant song,
Which, like the music in the sea-shell's cave,
For ever whispers of its long-lost wave!

Childhood! sweet time! so pure and fancy free

How many hopes are concentrate in thee!

How visions of the future crowd the sight,

Tinged with a father's hope and seen by love's own light.
But fancies of the past, too, dimly rise,

Whene'er we look upon thy heaven-lit eyes:

Of that bright spirit-land where thou didst dwell,

Canst thou not speak ?-its gorgeous beauty tell?

Ah! couldst thou say what wonders thou hast seen!

What hast thou heard?-Whence comest?-Where has't been,

In other scenes a trial-life was there,

Before thine advent to this earthly sphere?

Ere yet forgotten is that earlier star,

(In which-so dreamy Platonists declare

Thy spirit dwelt) oh! speak, and number o'er

The beauties of that undiscovered shore !

Thy loves?-Thou joins't them, perchance, in sleep;

For smiles in slumber beautify thy lip,

And rapturous whispers linger on thy tongue,

Like fragments of some half-forgotten song.
Thou canst not tell ?-Ah, 'tis not given below
To learn from whence we came or whither go;
But childhood hints to us the fancied past,
And hopes of childhood cheer us to the last;
For, when we leave this wilderness on Earth

Faith promises NEW CHILDHOOD-SECOND BIRT.

A BIRTH-DAY ODE.

BY THE EDITOR.

Oh, in May, of all beautiful months in the year,
The spring-flowers most blooming are seen;
And the riches of Nature around us appear:
Fit month for the birth of their Queen!

When the sunlight was brightest, and happiest birds
Their songs poured from every tree,

The leaflets and balm-breathing zephyrs made words,
That welcomed-when light fell on-thee!

May the sun-light of joy ever brightly shine down,
And jewel with flowers thy way;

May birds, with soul-melodies, still warble on
Thro' thy life, like a long summer's day!

And if breezes too merrily play round the flowers,
And cause the fair petals to sever,

'Tis an omen of good-for thus shall thy hours
With roses be sprinkled for ever!

ON THE DEATH OF THE WEAVER POET, WILLIAM THOM, OF INVERARY.

Another branch has withered and is lost to the glorious "Tree of Literature !" How sad is the reflection, that Genius however bright, in these days of brotherhood must perish through actual want! This may be thought improbable, yet it is, alas ! too true. Scotland has seen a second Burns; and again let him perish. That lean, hungry monster, starvation, has again claimed a Poet as a sacrifice. This is in Britain I Oh, men, where are your hearts? Oh, age where is thy shame? Whilst Lords and Ministers are revelling in their thousands-the Princes of Knowledge, of Truth, of Beauty, and of Wisdom are left to perish in their miserable hovels.

I can only see one way of avoiding a repetition of such a fate, as poor Thom's; that is, that all Literary men join in one band of brotherhood; something similar to the Theatrical Fund, now in existence. I believe until something of the sort is done, we shall lose many a bright flower, ere it attains its natural growth. On the Continent, the literati, are received, and acknowledged, amongst the highest classes; the fact, of a man being a writer is a sufficient passport to the most fashionable circles. Rank and emminence are open to all who act honourably. At home here the case far different, a man must be a Hercules indeed, to be noticed, until want hath claimed him for a victim, after which his suffering family may be held up as objects of commisseration to some more fortunate sojourner in this vale of tears. The finger of scorn, may be indeed and with justice is pointed at us, and foreigners may ask, (and it is a sore question doubtless to some) what our rulers are about, why such enormous sums are annually expended in such senseless extravagance whilst poets and men of science are left to their miserable, cheerless, homes, there to pine and die! Justly and proudly may the Frenchmen boast of the fostering protection lent by their goverment to men of Letters, of all grades. It is a stain on the annals of English Literature, that its government abandons her best children too often to drag on a weary and miserable existence for a few years-then to die in the very depths of poverty, unthanked, uncared for and forgotten.

VOL. 10-No. 2-S.

R. H. HUTCHINS.