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My soul then sicken'd, and I lost the gem That sooth'd my sorrow, and that check'd my fear.

Ah! when I turn with retrospective view
To years, to days, to moments, that I dread,
That, wing'd with pleasure, ever gaily flew,
When pass'd with him I now lament as dead;
When I refer to ev'ry sanguine wish
That fir'd our bosom with unfading joy,
The birds we snar'd, or caught the tangled
fish,

And each enjoyment of the raptur'd boy;
Sudden a tear, that childish may be deem'd,
Starts as a tribute to an early friend,
Whose breast with gen'rous feelings always
teem'd.

Like his, perhaps my voyage soon will end; Shortly, when number'd with the hallow'd dead,

Freed from its shackles, my blest soul shall

soar

To realms whence sorrow has for ever fled,
Where pangs of parting will be felt no more.
Pupil of sorrow, though in years but young,
Vers'd in this school, and burden'd by a load,
Long have I listen'd to the syren song
That anguish still continues to forebode.

I lost my father when an artless child,
Too young to feel his value or his loss,
My ardent soul was then as nature wild,
And blest if mounted on a wooden horse.
Perhaps some gambols had engag'd my
thought,

Some pleasing bauble, or some pastime dear, When the sad news some messenger had brought,

And the eye glisten'd with a tender tear.
Perhaps I still continu'd at my sport,
And still was happy as I was before,
Nor knew the meaning of the dread report,
That my dear Alfred would return no more.
Oh! could his spirit in my sight appear,
And the lov'd shade but bless me with a smile,
I'd freely tell my little history here,
And ev'ry sorrow in this world of guile;
That those I valued and esteem'd as dear,
Had feign'd their friendship with the vilest

art,

That ere my youth had reach'd its sixteenth year,

It stung me deeply, and transfix'd my heart. 'Tis clear that, as the circling years proceed,

Written on the loss of a Friend, who died of the And roll their course o'er man's devoted

Yellow Fever, in the Havanah.

WHAT means this sad despondency of mind,
These languid feelings and this drooping heart;
That all my hopes are now as light as wind:
And nought of sunshine to my breast impart ?
Nature around in gayest vesture smiles,
And yields her roses to the breathing air;
The birds are cheerful, and with artless wiles
Indulge their feelings, and avoid the snare.
Then should not I by sympathy partake
The joys that fill the songsters of the spring?
Ab no, the grief with which our bosoms ache
Too deeply fester and too quickly sting.
Yet once, but ah! that once is distant now,
Tis lost like years beyond the whelming flood,
Each festive pleasure did my breast endow,
Quicken'd my spirits, revel'd in my blood."
But soon the flowers that grow on fancy's

stem,

Droop by degrees with every added year;

head,

Our former pleasures we no longer heed,
And scenes once valu'd with indifference
tread.

In verdant groves and ever-blooming vales,
I've oft in childhood pass'd my happy hours,
Play'd in the woodlands, sported in the dales,
Lain on the herbage and the fragrant flow'rs;
But now the scene of beauty is decay'd,
Lost is the lively verdure of the trees,
The charms of nature in my senses fade,
And my soul sickens at the passing breeze.
Nor can the prospects darting on my sight
Cheer the dark night that shades my gloomy
breast,

Though once, alas! they could bestow delight,

And yield to life a never-ceasing zest.
When sorrows press upon my drooping soul
With native ardour to that bourn it tends,

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WRITTEN FOR MY PRAYER BOOK. Almighty Fountain of eternal bliss, Great God! in tender mercy grant me this, That as I read this sacred book, inspire My soul with ardent zeal, and heav'nly fire; Let me with faith thy holy truths pursue, And keep my God for ever in my view.

Sprung from thy bounty, all I have is thine;
O fill my breast with gratitude divine;
Accept the contrite breathings of my heart,
And what my weakness wants, may grace
impart ;

Teach me to pray, and whatsoe'er I do,
Be thou, my God, for ever in my view.

Trembling, I kneel before thy awful throne, To thee my thoughts and all my wants are known:

O cleanse these thoughts, and pure affections give,

And through thy mercy bid a sinner live. And may thy Spirit inward strength renew, To keep my God for ever in my view! HENRY POPE.

New York, March 2, 1821.

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ter's views cannot, on this account, be Those who are in grace must of course, involved in any obscurity.

MR. EDITOR.

SIR, A communication of mine, signed A. F. on Conscience, I thank you for inserting, agreeably to_my_wish, in the Imperial Magazine for February, 1821. I shall again feel myself obliged if you will allow the early appearance of the subjoined.

I think the gentleman who in the first instance proposed the question"What is Conscience?" has not, at present received a sufficient reply ;for this reason, I shall take the liberty to answer him more fully than I did before. I conceive this to be a very interesting subject. The correct meaning of the word Conscience, is a thing, many more than Mr. J. B. of London, desire, and one by which thousands would be benefited. It has been justly remarked by Theologius, that "This question deserves a very serious attention, because Christians in general appeal to the decisions of Conscience, in order to justify their deportment." It is generally believed that this same quality, (which must necessarily be divine,) is perfectly competent thus to decide. This is the opinion of the gentleman whose answers are inserted with mine-that the finger of God is ever present in the mind of man, to discover to him truth in passing judgment upon his actions; -this I shall attempt to contro

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if any are, be enlightened from heaven. This supernatural power, of necessity, must direct them in their decision between good and evil; they cannot do wrong without knowing it. But I think no man, let him enjoy "the peace of Conscience" as it is expressed, as much as can be, which I take to be a sign of the individuals being in a state of grace, can himself believe he is thus from heaven enlightened; I mean with respect to his ordinary actions, when he is continually discovering that he was in the commission of some sin, the criminality of which he never knew till that moment, and then only knew from reading, or from information from his fellow men.

I remember myself, when I was about 16 years old, being greatly attached to religion; my faith was Calvinistic; I was full of the love of God. I was then possibly in a state of grace; I acted as uprightly as I knew how; I enjoyed a peace of Conscience;-if ever in my past life the light of heaven directed me, I am satisfied it did then. But I am now a convert, and am firmly attached to an opposite religion. I have known the delight of grace in my present faith; this will readily be granted. God respects not creeds, if there is piety; but agreeably to our faith we act! I now practise daily, deeds, I at present think virtuous, but which my former faith condemned as vicious. If God then directed me, it is plain he does not now. Still my Conscience is as approving as it was then; it is as happy. Men of all persuasions die in the peace of Conscience; and the last deeds of some, done out of piety, others die condemning. If Conscience is from heaven, it must lead into truth in this extremity of life: but is this the case?

It is certain that numbers of good men die in the possession of God's grace, whose final disagreement in faith and works, proves that Conscience must be human; that it is nothing more than the Understanding. The disproportionate possession of this power by individuals, and their moral and religious information (the great guides to the understanding in passing judgment upon the will) being likewise so unequal, are the causes of the differences of Conscience in different men.

2 M

I class God's works as natural and ordinary, supernatural, or miraculous. The perfection at which the body arrives, and the increase the understanding receives in the course of life, are the ordinary blessings of God. Superior or miraculous qualifications of the body, or divine endowments of the mind, when bestowed upon man, I conceive to be extraordinary or supernatural gifts. The Almighty's will is to a great extent known all over the world; some nations, some religions, some men, possess more of the truth than others; but in general, enough is known to direct us in our conceptions of good and evil, without the aid of a supernatural light; I mean an unceasing communication from above to direct us.

A Political Dream in May, 1821, and repeated in May, 1822,—by John Bunyan.

THE Catholic Question, now agitating in the House of Commons, having excited a considerable degree of interest both among Protestants and Papists, will furnish a reasonable apology for the insertion of the following dream. It is to be lamented that while the advocates for this bill are using every exertion for the accomplishment of their purposes, too many Protestants view it with a degree of apathy, for which it is difficult to account.

The important question has long been before the public; and it is well known, that whatever alterations it may have undergone in the modification of its subordinate branches, its radical principles remain unaltered. Hence, the article which is subjoined, though not entirely new, retains all its point and original force. It is not in the nature of time, either to impair truth, or to give to error a new essence. On this subject, what was true in 1821, is not false in 1822. On both sides of this question, the dream

The Almighty, when he creates a child, bestows upon it a mind immortal. His creature is at the birth completed. He has not afterwards, as the child matures, to add another instinct to the mind, or enlighten with a beam of his divinity, the soul, as it issues into the world, to point out his will, when his law is already known, and the understanding is capable of comprehending it. As the infant minder has imbodied the principal argumatures, the principles, or essentials, of morality, are quickly understood from inspiration, and religion, and revelation, also. These things, when we know their importance, are treasured and deeply imprinted in the memory, and any person must see how capable the mind is thus rendered, competently to judge between good and evil. We all know that the Almighty grants to us sometimes, and I may say, not very unfrequently, upon momentous concerns, a superior intelligence; but this is not general, and therefore cannot matter to my argument.

I have, I think, now sufficiently proved, that Conscience is nothing more (as I said at first) than the human Understanding, and that limited to the information it has received.

On this momentous subject I shall be glad to have the thoughts of others, whether they confirm or correct my own. There is nothing to which we so frequently appeal as to Conscience; but it must be confessed that there is scarcely any thing less understood. ANNE FITZALLAN. Camp-Hill, near Birmingham, Oct 9th, 1821.

ments, by which the measure has been advocated and opposed. The question seems to be placed in a proper light; and we want neither Daniel nor the wise men of Babylon, to show either the vision or its interpreta. tion.-EDITOR.

After hearing the debates in a certain great House on the question of giving political power to Roman Catholics in this Protestant country, I returned home at three in the morning, and being exhausted by the attention I had given to all the speakers, I threw myself on a sofa, and fell fast asleep. And as I slept, I dreamed, and behold a castle, having four turrets, stood before me:-near to this building was a crowd of people, holding a consultation, apparently on some important subject. I inquired of a person who was passing, the name of the place, and the cause of the assembly. He informed me that I was on Tower Hill, and that the crowd was composed of the neighbouring inhabitants, who were then considering the merits of a Petition which had been presented to them from the wild beasts who inhabited the Tower, praying emancipation from confine

ment, and an equal participation in all rights and privileges possessed by every tame and harmless animal in the metropolis-also admission to the Select Vestry of the parish, and a share in all offices, emoluments, and advantages, at present enjoyed by the resident inhabitants and householders.

Sovereign, wherever he may happen to be resident, and were perpetually swearing obedience to his will and commands, they could not be relied on as trust-worthy subjects of King George IV. who was nothing but a man."

A grave old gentleman entreated honourable members coolly to weigh this fair objection- he was, however, silenced by a shrewd and powerful orator, who reminded the assembly that the Lions, having for the last 200 years been regularly washed every 1st of April, had been purged by degrees of all their natural ferocity, and they would certainly require nothing of their subjects inimical to the peace of the nation at large, or to the authority of their well-beloved human brother on the Throne.-(A loud shout of Hear, hear!)-Having confirmed the solidity of this argument, no one had courage to answer it. Another Petition reminded the meeting, that the wild beasts were in the constant habit of maintaining that no faith was to be kept either with men or tame animals; and that they were in the habit of taking an oath, that, should it be considered for the good of the wild fraternity, they might tear and slaughter other animals as a matter of conscience.

I thought I was in time to hear the Petition read; and it set forth, among other things, "that the brutes were, properly speaking, lords of the creation, being created previously to man: that they were also the original inhabitants and possessors of the British Isles, which were infested by wolves, and other wild animals, before they were discovered by man: that, although they did not deny the truth of certain histories respecting the cruelties, murders, and enormities, of many of their progenitors, nor even that they had been sworn enemies both to the human race and to all tame animals, yet that ever since they had become their fellow parishioners in the Tower, they had lived harmlessly and peaceably, molesting no one, and neither biting, tearing, nor devouring, any thing but their daily food: that, so far from being injurious, they had contributed very greatly to the emolument and security of the Tower; and that in evidence of this their good con- Another grave man now entreated duct they could bring forward the tes- the assembly to allow this fact to postimony of their keeper, and also that sess its just and proper weight with of many monkeys, pelicans, and other them; so that, if they would not listen respectable and defenceless animals, to argument, they would at least rewho bad lived for years in the Tower gard a proof of such nature. A flouwith them in undisturbed security.rishing fellow, however, quashed all For these, and other reasons, they this by stating, that what the wild prayed emancipation from their pre-beasts promised on their honour to sent state of oppression and unjust the tame animals, or to man, was confinement." of much more importance than all the oaths they took to their Creator.

Perceiving the favourable manner in which the Petition was listened to, and fearing, as the crowd was rapidly increasing, that I might not be able to escape before the wild beasts should be liberated, I was happy to learn that counter-meetings had been held in Lamb's Conduit and CateatonStreets, Nag's Head Court, Houndsditch, and Cow Cross; at which Petitions had been voted and forwarded from the various tame animals in the metropolis against the emancipation of their wild fellow-subjects in the Tower. One of these Petitions stated, "that since the wild beasts acknowledged the Lion as their rightful

After the Counter-petitions had all been read, I thought the debate continued as follows:-"Mr. Chairnian, all beasts have equal rights-they have been obedient subjects, and peaceable inhabitants."-"What do you mean?" replied another: "why, one got loose and killed the keeper's wife in the Tower; and a relation of his, at Exeter 'Change, broke out, and ate two monkeys. Another wild beast got out near Salisbury, attacked the Exeter mail-coach, tore one of the horses, and killed a dog ; and wherever they have got loose

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