Singing the while its triumph to the skies,-
Oh, can we stay to question pain—why art thou?
Nor take at once the way she points to joy!
Beware of doubt, that gloomiest, coldest cloud,

A shroud of death in life for human hearts.”—p. 60. The individuality, the inward life and soul of courage in Perpetua, are finely pictured in these lines :

“ The world I fear not,-
Its thought of me did never have a thought;
Things in themselves for their own sake I seek,
And not regard of others in them, or
I ne'er had follow'd in the Christian track.
You do not know how often I have turn'd
Unto these silent marbles, there to try
And gaze away a weariness of soul,
Forgetting in their graciousness awhile
Others' forgetfulness of what they owe
Unto their nobler natures. Never yet
Found I true dignity in any one
Who let the world's opinion cripple thought,
Sure of revenge upon the outward form,
Whose finer graces only wait on freedom.
The world's opinion ! O what were it? What
The entire that wealth could give ? I would give all-
How joyfully !—for one approving smile
Like that which once did bless a little child.

SATURUS.
Think of thy child!

Vivia.
I now could go and fold him to my heart,
Bequeath my love in one long kiss, and then
Lie down on earth, and listen for my death
Quietly as his sleep, ere I could live
To have him question of his mother's eyes,
And they did shame to look on him.”-p. 68.

The final scene with her father in the prison is one of the most powerful in the poem,—but we must forbear to quote those passages of it which utterly annihilate all sympathy with Vivius, and destroy, to our feeling, all pain in her filial sacrifice for the love of Christ. In Perpetua's case we are not made to sympathize with the daughter's struggle in her obedience to the Lord, “He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me:" and we are too forcibly reminded of the other scriptural form of expressing the same sentiment, “ He that hateth not father or mother is not worthy of me.”

“ Vivius.
Do ye know me, who I am ?-No, no-no wonder !
I am older many years since yester morn.
I was before that time a man nam'd Vivius,
A happy father, who did read his hopes
Upon the noble brows, and, as he thought,
The most true brows, of a beloved daughter !
I am-I know not what. And when I ask
Help of the outward universe to bring
Back to myself the former consciousness,
The sun shuts up the while I look on him ;
The stars all hurry past me while I pray ;
The earth sinks from my feet : all false all false !

Vivia.
No bitterness now!

Vivius.

No bitterness !--gods,
No bitterness !

Vivia.

My father, that thou could'st
Crowd all thyself at once into one thought !
Think of the faith-look on me as I stand,
A creature anguished at thy agony,-
How far beyond the morrow's suffering !-
One who hath lost even the few brief hours
She reckoned as her own to tend her child ;-
Then think upon the faith that bids my heart
Have yet beneath it all, a hope as calm
As were his lids when last I parted from him.
Whence comes such miracle- of whom such faith?

Vivius.
Faith! faith !-is that the word ?-and miracle !
Yes !—that thy tongue would stir to speak the word!
What is thy faith a lie. What are its fruits ?
What made thee false to me? What made thee thus
Show forth fine joys to woo me in thy face,
A black’ning plague-spot hidden in thy breast ;-
Lur'd me to build my trust on thee for rock,
While thou wert rotten as the poisonous heap
The sea throws up for waste ? And this is faith!
A lie !-it is a lie!

Vivia.

No more! forbear !
I see, though thou dost not, God's angel stand
Shelt'ring my hope in thee! Thou shalt not speak,
Lest he be moved to stretch a ruffled wing
Up to the Lord, with those accusing words.
I will not have thee less before the Lord
When I shall plead for thee,-as plead I will
Plead for the earthly father, who once taught
His child in youth to love the truth, so led
Unto the heav'nly. Hath it been gainsay'd ?
Thou know'st it hath not. Thou dost know 'twas love,
And love alone, that, fearful of thy grief,
Delay'd to bring it on thee, hoping still
A way might show to mitigate the pang.
And I will not be lesser than I am,
Unworthy as I am for this emprize ;-
For thy sake, not. 'Twas thou who mad'st me true,
And true I am ; 'twas thou who mad'st me dare,
And I have dar'd.”-p. 176.

The last extract we must give is the speech of Perpetua to her servant and sister, her fellow Christian and fellow martyr, as they pass on together to their death : “ Courage, Felicitas !--my sister, peace !

[Kisses her.
A few short moments, and we are with Christ.
Farewell !—it is no word-and yet, farewell !
My blessing-oh, my blessing-take once more,
My brothers, brethren all! And if, Cæcilius,
Thou and my Thascius meet, tell him, although
No mother's name he knows, a mother's love
Clung round him with her life; a mother's heart
Yearn'd for him in her death; a mother's pray'r
Was her last utterance. My child ! my Thascius!
Christ, make him thine!-though baptism such as this
May be the way thy wisdom seeth best
To bring him to his mother's arms in heaven!

[She throws her arm round FELICITAs, and they pass

within the gate.”—p. 196.

We would, in conclusion, speak most respectfully of a mind whose taste and sympathies have led to the adoption of so pure a theme,—and of the powers that have turned its capabilities to such rich account. Numberless are the beauties of feeling, the unfoldings of the deep, sacred, and mysterious heart, which keep alive a constant interest, and manifest the poet's insight. The faults we have suggested, and we are by no means infallible in such matters, and would speak with modesty, are rather failures in Art than deficiencies of Nature. If this, as we believe, is a first attempt in poetry, it raises high hopes for the future, and we shall rejoice to meet the author again in this most difficult walk of literature, when she shall have taken confidence to write solely from the simplicity and earnestness of her own heart, without departing from reality, or seeking, afar, the adventitious charm of fancy or ornament, as though she modestly distrusted what herself supplied.

ce to write of literature, meet the abigh hopes the be

SONNET.
I Call my little child unto my knee,

He leaves bis play, and resting his small hand
Gently on mine, most quietly doth stand,

Waiting in patience till I set him free ;
And his sweet face looketh up lovingly,

Without a shade of doubt at my command,
But fond confidingness, expression bland

Of pure affection in his eyes I see.
Oh if the earthly parent does receive

Such willing duty, loving reverence,

From the free spirit of his spotless child,
Far more should He, who willeth not to grieve

His erring children, but doth e'er dispense
All chastisement, in love and mercy mild.

ART. II.-TWELVE LECTURES, IN ILLUSTRATION AND DEFENCE OF CHRISTIAN UNITARIANISM. By J. Scott PORTER. 8vo. pp. 170. London: Green, Mardon.

This is a work admirably adapted for popular use. It is a broad and effective, yet just, statement of the relative claims, merits, and evidences of Unitarianism and Trinitarianism. It is direct, plain, and vigorous, presenting the great features of the question in full and striking lights. It does not pretend to more than this, nor does it accomplish more. It is a popular statement, manifestation, and defence of Christian Unitarianism. It affects no originality, yet it is always fresh, and conveys that charm the most delightful to a reader, the feeling that the sentiments and thoughts are reproduced by the writer, and are springing into life from a moved and earnest heart. We know not that there is a new thought or illustration in the book, yet there is not a page that is stale, or borrowed, or tame. Every where there is the impress of a living mind, speaking from itself, and clothing even familiar views with its own individuality. This is exactly the exhibition of Unitarianism that the great mass of Trinitarians require, not too critical, or philosophical, or refined, yet partaking of all these qualities, and presented in the lights of Scripture, of history, of reason, of feeling, of the moral nature and requirements of man.

Mr. Porter is an Arian, but he attaches no essential importance to the doctrine of the pre-existence of Christ. This is an honourable peculiarity, by which we fear he is almost distinguished amongst Arians. Few men will admit a gratuitous difficulty into their creed : if they cannot find a practical reason for a doctrine they will not encumber themselves with its defence. The Trinitarian Theology has mainly sprung from the necessity of finding offices for the three persons in the Trinity. Mr. Porter thinks that the example of Christ is equally obligatory and influential on the Arian and the Humanitarian view. But if Christ was a man, our powers, our destinies, our possible perfection, were exhibited on one of like nature with ourselves; not so, if he was a pre-existent angel. As an exhibition of God's will, Christ's life, if Christ was an angel, would still hold good, but not as an exhibition of man's power to do God's will. The moral, the personally binding power of the example ceases to exist. How can the example of an angel be urged home on the conscience of a man? If there is no alliance between their