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No: though he knew full well The grief that then shall be— The grief that angels cannot tellOur God in agony !

"It is not thus he mourns;

Such might be Martyr's tears, When his last lingering look he turns On human hopes and fears;

But hero ne'er or saint

The secret load might know, With which His spirit waxeth faint;

His is a Saviour's woe.

"If thou hadst known, even thou,

At least in this thy day, The message of thy peace! but now 'Tis pass'd for aye away: Now foes shall trench thee round,

And lay thee even with earth, And dash thy children to the ground, Thy glory and thy mirth.'

"And doth the Saviour weep

Over his people's sin, Because we will not let him keep

The souls He died to win? Ye hearts, that love the Lord,

If at this sight ye burn, See that in thought, in deed, in word,

Ye hate what made Him mourn."

Protestant poets have seldom sung, as they ought to have done, of the Mother of our Lord. Poetry is privileged to be idolatrous-when the Saint invoked is she who nursed the "And Saviour in her virgin bosom. the angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women." What divinest picture of divinest painter of old, of Mary Mild, ever so purified and elevated the gazing spirit, as Wordsworth's holy sonnet to the Virgin? "Mother! whose virgin bosom was un

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All that was mix'd and reconciled in thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene.'

Try to wish to alter one single word there-and you feel it would be almost sacrilege. It is a perfect poem-perfect as "the unblemished moon" and it will shine serenely for ever in the heaven of poetry, "Before that inward eye,

Which is the bliss of solitude."

Mr Keeble is far inferior-and indeed who is equal-to Wordsworth -in consummate power over the heart-mysteries shrouded in breathing words. But trusting to his feelings-always pure and sincere-he seldom sinks far below his subjectand often-even when that subject is high-sees it like a seraph. Even after that sonnet may be devoutly read,

THE ANNUNCIATION OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY.

"Oh Thou who deign'st to sympathize With all our frail and fleshly ties,

Maker yet Brother dear; Forgive the too presumptuous thought, If, calming wayward grief, I sought To gaze on Thee too near.

"Yet sure 'twas not presumption, Lord, 'Twas thine own comfortable word

That made the lesson known : Of all the dearest bonds we prove, Thou countest sons' and mothers' love

Most sacred, most thine own.

"When wandering here a little span,
Thou took'st on Thee to rescue man,
Thou hadst no earthly sire:
That wedded love we prize so dear,
As if our heaven and home were here,
It lit in Thee no fire.

"On no sweet sister's faithful breast
Wouldst thou thine aching forehead rest,
On no kind brother lean :
But who, O perfect filial heart!
E'er did like Thee a true son's part,
Endearing, firm, serene?

"Thou wept'st, meek maiden, mother mild,

Thou wept'st upon thy sinless child,

Thy very heart was riven :

And yet, what mourning matron here
Would deem thy sorrows bought too dear
By all on this side Heaven?

"A son that never did amiss,
That never shamed his mother's kiss,
Nor cross'd her fondest prayer:

Even from the tree he deign'd to bow For her his agonized brow,

Her, his sole earthly care.

"Ave Maria! blessed Maid! Lily of Eden's fragrant shade,

Who can express the love

That nurtured thee so pure and sweet,
Making thy heart a shelter meet
For Jesus' holy Dove?,

"Ave Maria! Mother blest,
To whom caressing and caress'd,

Clings the Eternal Child; Favour'd beyond Archangels' dream, When first on thee with tenderest gleam Thy new-born Saviour smiled!

"Ave Maria! Thou whose name All but adoring love may claim,

Yet may we reach thy shrine; For He, thy son and Saviour, vows To crown all lowly lofty brows

With love and joy like thine.

"Bless'd is the womb that bare Himbless'd

The bosom where his lips were press'd, But rather bless'd are they

Who hear his word and keep it well, The living homes where Christ shall dwell,

And never pass away."

Let us turn to another strain of the same mood, which will be read with tears by many a grateful heart. What would become of us without the ceremonies of religion? How they strengthen the piety out of which they spring! How, by concentrating all that is holy and divine around their outward forms, do they purify and sanctify the affections! What a change on his infant's face is wrought before a father's eyes by baptism! How the heart of the husband and the father yearns, as he sees the wife and mother kneeling in thanksgiving after child-birth!

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"O what a treasure of sweet thought Is here! what hope and joy and love All in one tender bosom brought,

For the all-gracious Dove

To brood o'er silently, and form for heaven Each passionate wish and dream to dear affection given.

"Her fluttering heart, too keenly blest,
Would sicken, but she leans on Thee,
Sees Thee by faith on Mary's breast,
And breathes serene and free.
Slight tremblings only of her veil declare
Soft answers duly whisper'd to each sooth-
ing prayer.

"We are too weak, when Thou dost bless,
To bear the joy-help, Virgin-born!
By thine own mother's first caress,
That waked thy natal morn!
Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made
A heaven on earth around the couch where
Thou wast laid!"

"Consider the lilies of the field how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." What is all the poetry that genius ever breathed over all the flowers of this earth, to that one divine sentence! It has inspired our Christian poet-and here is his heart-felt homily.

FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

"Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies,

To fill the heart's fond view? In childhood's sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on Life's downward way, How soothing! in our last decay Memorials prompt and true.

"Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fall'n all beside the world of life, How is it stain'd with fear and strife! In Reason's world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare!

"But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye shew, The same that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow.

The stars of Heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought ;— Ye may be found if ye are sought,

And as we gaze we know.

"Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meetBut we may taste your solace sweet, And come again to-morrow.

"Ye fearless in your nests abideNor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes;

For ye could draw th' admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys:
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.

"Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when he paused and own'd you good;
His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew'd.

What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm,
Ye fear no vexing mood.

"Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
'Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight.
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless.'"

Would we had more such strains as these in English poetry! And more we shall have when poets read the Book of Life as constantly and as devoutly as they read the Book of Nature. The last poem we quote from this delightful volume is worthy of James Montgomery.

PALM SUNDAY.

"Ye whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of Poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace, God's own work to do on earth, (If the word be not too bold,)

Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old

"Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye, who hath set your parts?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose strength ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you, to lead

His Hosannas here below;— Mount, and claim your glorious meed; Linger not with sin and woe.

"But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,
Stones in earth's dark womb that rest,
High and low in choir shall meet,

Ere His Name shall be unblest.

"Lord, by every minstrel tongue
Be thy praise so duly sung,
That thine angels' harps may ne'er
Fail to find fit echoing here:
We the while, of meaner birth,

Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,

Give us grace to listen well.

"But should thankless silence seal
Lips, that might half Heaven reveal,
Should bards in idle hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain,
(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using,)
Then, thy power and mercy shew,
In vile things noble breath infusing;

"Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of thy shrine,
Till we, like Heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore.
Childlike though the voices be,
And untunable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy,
If it flow from childlike hearts."

Such poetry as this must have a fine influence on all the best human affections. Sacred are such songs to sorrow-and sorrow is either a frequent visitor, or a domesticated inmate, in every household. Religion may thus be made to steal unawares, even during ordinary hours, into the commonest ongoings of life. Call not the mother unhappy who closes the eyes of her dead child, whether it has smiled lonely in the house, the sole delight of her eyes, or bloomed among other flowers, now all drooping for its sake—nor yet call the fa

ther unhappy who lays his sweet son below the earth, and returns to the home where his voice is to be heard never more. That affliction brings forth feelings unknown before in his heart; calming all turbulent thoughts by the settled peace of the grave. Then every page of the Bible is beautiful-and beautiful every verse of poetry that thence draws its inspiration. Thus in the pale and almost ghostlike countenance of decay, our hearts are not touched by the remembrance alone of beauty which is departed, and by the near extinction of loveliness which we behold fading before our eyes-but a beauty fairer and deeper far lies around the hollow eye and the sunken cheek, breathed from the calm air of the untroubled spirit that has heard resigned the voice that calls it away from the dim shades of mortality. Well may that beauty be said to be religious; for in it speaks the soul, conscious, in the undreaded dissolution of its earthly frame, of a being destined to everlasting bliss. With every deep emotion arising from our contemplation of such beauty as this, religious beauty beaming in the human countenance, whether in joy or sadness, health or decay, there is profoundly interfused a sense of the soul's spirituality, which silently sheds over the emotion something celestial and divine, rendering it not only different in degree, but altogether distinct in kind, from all the feelings that things merely perishable can inspire-so that the spirit is fully satisfied, and the feeling of beauty is but a vivid recognition of its own deathless being and ethereal essence. This is a feeling of beauty which was but faintly known to the human heart in those ages of the world when all other feelings of beauty were most perfect; and accordingly we find, in the most pathetic strains of their elegiac poetry, lamentations over the beauty in

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tensely worshipped in the dust, which was to lie for ever over its now beamless head. But to the Christian who may have seen the living lustre leave the eye of some beloved friend, there must have shone a beauty in his latest smile, which spoke not alone of a brief scene closed, but of an endless scene unfolding; while its cessation, instead of leaving him in utter darkness, seemed to be accompanied with a burst of light.

We hope this delightful writer will continue to compose poetry in the leisure allowed him by his sacred profession. He will always find an earnest audience; for the music of his voice touches the heart, and endures in the memory clear and distinct among those common recollections that are hour by hour fading irrecoverably away into oblivion. Much of our most fashionable Modern Poetry is at once ludicrously and lamentably unsuitable and unseasonable to the innocent and youthful creatures who shed tears "such as angels weep" over the shameful sins of shameless sinners, crimes which, when perpetrated out of Poetry, and by persons with such surnames as Emond, and Dobbie, and Thurtell, elevate their respective heros to that vulgar altitude—the gal lows. The darker-the stronger passions, forsooth! And what hast thou to do my dove-eyed Margaretwith the darker and stronger passions? Nothing whatever in thy sweet, still, serene, and almost sinless world. Be the brighter and the weaker passions thine-brighter indeed-yetsay not weaker, for they are strong as death-Love and Pity, Awe and Reverence, Joy, Grief, and Sorrow, sunny smiles and showery tears-be these all thy own-and sometimes, too, on melancholy nights, let the hea ven of thy imagination be spanned in its starriness by that most celestial Evanescence-a Lunar Rainbow.

THE SILENT MEMBER.

No. III.

"WELL, sir, and what has Parliament been doing since it met ?" "Don't you see the papers?" "Yes, I see them; but I have too much to do myself to find leisure for reading a good-sized pamphlet every day."

Then how can I recapitulate, in a conversation, all the discussions which have taken place since the beginning of February?-all the speeches that have been delivered, during five days out of every seven, and during ten hours, upon the average, out of every four-and-twenty"

"Never mind what you said to each other. Just mention, in few words, the upshot-what came of it all-in short, what has been done?" "Done?"

"Aye, surely; for it as little concerns me and the like of me, to know how many speeches were spoken, as it would to enquire of my thresher how many strokes of the flail he makes in a day. The main point is, the quantity of work actually done." "You are right. That is the main point; but the seed-time, friend, is not the harvest. We must wait till the latter is gathered in, before we pronounce upon the abundance or the quality of the crop."

"I understand you, sir. A great deal of ploughing and sowing, digging and planting; but nothing come up yet."

"Just so."

"Humph! Good morning."

The history of the above dialogue is briefly as follows: Taking advantage of the Easter Recess, which was for a longer period this year than usual, (in consequence, no doubt, of the prosperous state of the country,) I paid a visit to my constituents in the north of England. One of them, a man of few words, but diligent habits of business, who always calculates the productive value of time by the number of things done which are to be done, perplexed me exceedingly, after the customary salutations were exchanged, by his first question. "Well, sir, and what has ParVOL. XXVII. NO. LXVII.

liament been doing since it met?" I hardly think I could have been more puzzled had he asked me what the Emperor of China was doing at the moment he put his question.

It was on the 29th of April this conversation took place. It is now the 10th of May; and I have repeatedly asked myself since-" what has Parliament done?" It has met, and sat, and talked; and in another month, or probably less, it will be prorogued; and then, it will have met, and sat, and talked for nothing. I say, for nothing, compared with that which might and ought to have been done.

If my worthy constituent, instead of asking me what Parliament had been doing since it met, had enquired what it had been talking about, I could have answered him by a voluble recital of its debates. I could have told him, we have talked about Portugal, Don Miguel, Donna Maria, Terceira, and the law of nations; about Greece, Prince Leopold, and the island of Candia; about East Retford, Parliamentary Reform, and the Hundred of Bassetlaw; about distress, and its legion of causes; about economy, and the impossibility of being economical; about old taxes repealed, because they could not be raised, and new ones imposed, because placemen must be paid; about the revision of our financial system, instead of its reduction; about the injustice of denying little pensions for less services, followed up by the saving of L.900 a-year to the country, and the loss of it to Messrs Bathurst and Dundas, two sons of two cabinet ministers, who, like other sons of wealthy parents, must henceforth look for their pocket-money from the paternal, instead of the national, purse; about Lord Ellenborough's divorce bill, Miss Steele, Prince Schwartzenberg, and the pruriencies of an adulterous tale; about crown lands, the emancipation of the Jews, and the Irish Union. In short, every thing was discussed; and being discussed, put aside, like the lots of an auctioneer's catalogue, to make room for the next.

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