Lord! let not Britain arm her hands,
Her sister states to ban;
But bless through her all other lands,
Thy family of man.

For freedom if thy Hampden fought;

For peace if Falkland fell;

For peace and love if Bentham wrote,
And Burns sang wildly well-
Let knowledge, strongest of the strong,
Bid hate and discord cease ;
Be this the burden of her song:
"Love, liberty, and peace!"

Then, Father, will the nations all,
As with the sound of seas,

In universal festival,

Sing words of joy, like these:Let each love all, and all be free, Receiving as they give;

Lord! Jesus died for love and thee! So let thy children live!

THOMAS.

THOU art not dead, my son! my son!
But God hath hence removed thee:
Thou canst not die, my buried boy,

While lives the sire who loved thee.
How canst thou die, while weeps for thee

The broken heart that bore thee; And e'en the thought that thou art not Can to her soul restore thee? Will grief forget thy willingness To run before thy duty ? The love of all the good and true, That fill'd thine eyes with beauty? Thy pitying grace, thy dear request, When others had offended, That made thee look as angels look, When great good deeds are ended? The strength with which thy soul sustain'd Thy woes and daily wasting ? Thy prayer, to stay with us, when sure That thou from us wast hasting?

And that last smile, which seem'd to say

"Why cannot ye restore me ?"
Thy look'd farewell is in my heart,
And brings thee still before me.
What though the change, the fearful change,
From thought, which left thee never,

To unremembering ice and clay,
Proclaim thee gone for ever?

Thy half-closed lids, thy upturn'd eyes,
Thy still and lifeless tresses;

Thy marble lip, which moves no more,
Yet more than grief expresses ;
The silence of thy coffin'd snow,

By awed remembrance cherish'd;
These dwell with me, like gather'd flowers,

That in their April perish'd.
Thou art not gone, thou canst not go,
My bud, my blasted blossom!

The pale rose of thy faded face
Still withers in my bosom.

O Mystery of Mysteries,

That took'st my poor boy from me! What art thou, Death? all-dreaded Death!

If weakness can o'ercome thee?
We hear thee not! we see thee not,
E'en when thy arrows wound us;
But, viewless, printless, echoless,
Thy steps are ever round us.
Though more than life a mystery
Art thou, the undeceiver,
Amid thy trembling worshippers
Thou seest no true believer.
No! but for life, and more than life,
No fearful search could find thee:

Tremendous shadow! who is He
That ever stands behind thee?
The Power who bids the worm deny
The beam that o'er her blazes,
And veils from us the holier light
On which the seraph gazes,
Where burns the throne of Him, whose name
The sunbeams here write faintly;
And where my child a stranger stands

Amid the blest and saintly,
And sobs aloud-while in his eyes
The tears, o'erflowing, gather-
"They come not yet!-until they come,
Heaven is not Heaven, my father!
Why come they not? why comes not she
From whom thy will removes me?
Oh, does she love me love me still?
I know my mother loves me!
Then send her soon! and with her send

The brethren of my bosom!
My sisters too! Lord, let them all
Bloom round the parted blossom!
The only pang I could not bear

Was leaving them behind me:
I cannot bear it. Even in heaven
The tears of parting blind me!"

SLEEP.

SLEEP! to the homeless, thou art home;
The friendless find in thee a friend;

And well is he, where'er he roam,
Who meets thee at his journey's end.
Thy stillness is the planet's speed;

Thy weakness is unmeasured might;
Sparks from the hoof of death's pale steed-
Worlds flash and perish in thy sight.
The daring will to thee alone-

The will and power are given to theeTo lift the veil of the unknown,

The curtain of eternity

To look uncensured, though unbidden,
On marvels from the seraph hidden!
Alone to be-where none have been !
Alone to see what none have seen!
And to astonish'd reason tell

The secrets of the Unsearchable!

1

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

A VOICE of grief and anger-
Of pity mix'd with scorn-
Moans o'er the waters of the west,
Through fire and darkness borne;
And fiercer voices join it-
A wild triumphant yell!
For England's foes, on ocean slain,
Have heard it where they fell.

What is that voice which cometh
Athwart the spectred sea ?

The voice of men who left their homes

To make their children free;

Of men whose hearts were torches

For freedom's quenchless fire;

Of men, whose mothers brave brought forth
The sire of Franklin's sire.

They speak!-the Pilgrim Fathers
Speak to ye from their graves!
For earth hath mutter'd to their bones
That we are soulless slaves!
The Bradfords, Carvers, Winslows,
Have heard the worm complain,
That less than men oppress the men
Whose sires were Pym and Vane!
What saith the voice which boometh
Athwart the upbraiding waves ?
"Though slaves are ye, our sons are free,
Then why will you be slaves?
The children of your fathers
Were Hampden, Pym, and Vane!"
Land of the sires of Washington,
Bring forth such men again!

I think, I feel-but when will she
Awake to thought again?
A voice of comfort answers me,
That God does nought in vain:
He wastes nor flower, nor bud, nor leaf,
Nor wind, nor cloud, nor wave;
And will he waste the hope which grief
Hath planted in the grave ?

CORN LAW HYMN.

LORD! call thy pallid angel-
The tamer of the strong!

And bid him whip with want and wo

The champions of the wrong!
Oh say not thou to ruin's flood,
"Up sluggard! why so slow?"
But alone let them groan,

The lowest of the low;

And basely beg the bread they curse,
Where millions curse them now!

No; wake not thou the giant

Who drinks hot blood for wine;
And shouts unto the east and west,
In thunder-tones like thine;
Till the slow to move rush all at once,
An avalanche of men,

While he raves over waves

That need no whirlwind then; Though slow to move, moved all at once, A sea, a sea of men!

A GHOST AT NOON.

THE day was dark, save when the beam
Of noon through darkness broke;

In gloom I sate, as in a dream,
Beneath my orchard oak;

Lo! splendour, like a spirit, came,

A shadow like a tree!

While there I sat, and named her name,
Who once sat there with me.

I started from the seat in fear;
I look'd around in awe;
But saw no beauteous spirit near,
Though all that was I saw;
The seat, the tree, where oft, in tears,
She mourn'd her hopes o'erthrown
Her joys cut off in early years,

Like gather'd flowers half-blown.
Again the bud and breeze were met,

But Mary did not come;

And e'en the rose, which she had set,

Was fated ne'er to bloom!

The thrush proclaim'd, in accents sweet,

That winter's rain was o'er;

The bluebells throng'd around my feet,

But Mary came no more.

FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

FLOWERS! winter flowers! -the child is dead,
The mother cannot speak:
Oh softly couch his little head,
Or Mary's heart will break!
Amid those curls of flaxen hair

This pale pink ribbon twine,
And on the little bosom there

Place this wan lock of mine.
How like a form in cold white stone,

The coffin'd infant lies!

Look, mother, on thy little one!
And tears will fill thine eyes.
She cannot weep-more faint she grows,
More deadly pale and still:
Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,
That tiny hand to fill.

Go, search the fields! the lichen wet
Bends o'er the unfailing well;
Beneath the furrow lingers yet
The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,
Where never froze the spring!

A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower!

The half-blown daisy bring!

Yes, lay the daisy's little head

Beside the little check;

Oh haste! the last of five is dead!

The childless cannot speak!

THIS eminent prelate and accomplished scholar was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the twenty-first of April, 1783, and in his seventeenth year was sent to Brazen Nose College, Oxford. While here he obtained the Chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and greatly distinguished himself by a poem in English entitled Palestine. Unlike the mass of undergraduate prize poems, Palestine attained at once a high reputation which promises to be permanent. On receiving his bachelor's degree, Mr. HEBER travelled in Germany, Russia, and the Crimea, and wrote notes and observations, from which many curious passages are given in the well-known journals of Dr. EDWARD DANIEL CLARKE. On his return, he published Europe, a Poem, and was elected to a fellowship in All Soul's College. He was soon after presented with a living in Shropshire, and for several years devoted himself with great assiduity to his profession. He however found time, while discharging his parochial duties, to make some admirable translations from Pindar, and to write many of his beautiful hymns and other brief poems, a volume of which was published in 1812. Three years afterward, he was appointed to deliver the Bampton Lectures, and fulfilled the duty in so able a manner as to add greatly to his literary reputation. In 1822 he was elected to the important office of preacher of Lincoln's Inn; in the same year appeared his edition of the works of JEREMY TAYLOR, with notes and an elaborate memoir; and in 1823 he embarked for the East Indies, having accepted the appointment to the bishopric of the see of Calcutta, made vacant by the death of Dr. Middleton. He held his first visitation in the Cathedral of the capital of Hindostan, on Ascension day, 1824, and from that time devoted himself with great earnestness and untiring industry to missionary labours. He left Calcutta to visit the different presidencies of his extensive diocese, and while at Tirutchinopoli, on the second of April, 1826, was seized with an apoplectic fit, which on the following day ter

minated his life, in the forty-third year of his age. He was a man of the most elevated character, whose history was itself a poem of stateliest and purest tone, and most perfect harmony. In the church he was like MELANCTHON, the healer of bruised hearts, the reconciler of all differences, the most enthusiastic yet the most placid of all the teachers of religion. In society he was a universal favourite, from his varied knowledge, his remarkable colloquial powers, and his unvarying kindness. India never lost more in a single individual than when HEBER died.

The lyrical writings of HEBER Possess great and peculiar merits. He is the only Englishman who has in any degree approached the tone of PINDAR, his translations from whom may be regarded as nearly faultless; and his hymns are among the sweetest which English literature contains, breathing a fervent devotion in the most poetical language and most melodious verse. I doubt whether there is a religious lyric so universally known in the British empire or in our own country, as the beautiful missionary piece beginning "From Greenland's icy mountains." The fragments of Morte d'Arthur, the Mask of Gwendolen, and the World before the Flood, are not equal to his Palestine, Europe, or minor poems; but they contain elegant and powerful passages. The only thing unworthy of his reputation which I have seen is Blue Beard, a seriocomic oriental romance, which I believe was first published after his death.

The widow of Bishop HEBER, a daughter of Dean Shipley, of St. Asaph, and a woman whose gentleness, taste, and learning made her a fit associate for a man of genius, has published his Life, and his Narrative of a Journey through the Upper Provinces of India from Calcutta to Bombay, each in two volumes quarto. A complete edition of his Poetical Works has been issued by Lea and Blanchard of Philadelphia, and his Me-li moirs, Travels, Sermons, and other prose writings, have also been reprinted in this country.

יו CHRISTMAS HYMN.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning!
Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid!
Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid!
Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining,
Low lies his head with the beast of the stall;
Angels adore Him in slumber reclining,
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all!
Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,
Odours of Edom, and offerings divine?
Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine?
Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gifts would His favour secure :
Richer by far is the heart's adoration;

Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

THE WIDOW OF NAIN.

WAKE not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! Weep not, O widow! weep not hopelessly! Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation, Strong is the Word of God to succour thee! Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall: Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widow'd and childless, she has lost her all! Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping?

Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delay'd? "Set down the bier, he is not dead but sleeping! Young man, arise!" -He spake, and was obey'd!

Change, then, O sad one! grief to exultation: Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation; Strong was the Word of God to succour thee!

THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.

THOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee,

Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;

Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee,

And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom!

Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee,

Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died !

Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking,

Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the seraphim's song!

Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy ransom, thy guardian and guide;

He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died!

SONG.

THERE is, they say, a secret well,
In Ardennes' forest gray,
Whose waters boast a numbing spell,
That memory must obey.

Who tastes the rill so cool and calm
In passion's wild distress,
Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm
Of deep forgetfulness.

And many a maid has sought the grove,

And bow'd beside the wave;

But few have borne to lose the love

That wore them to the grave.

No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smart

My reason chides in vain;

By all the secret of a heart
That never told its pain.

By all the walks that once were dear,
Beneath the green-wood bough;
By all the songs that soothed his ear
Who will not listen now.

By every dream of hope gone by
That haunts my slumber yet,-
A love-sick heart may long to die,
But never to forget!

FAREWELL.

WHEN eyes are beaming

What never tongue might tell;

When tears are streaming
From their crystal cell,
When hands are link'd that dread to part,
And heart is met by throbbing heart,
Oh bitter, bitter is the smart,

Of them that bid farewell!

When hope is chidden

That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden

In the breast to dwell,
When, fetter'd by a viewless chain
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh, death were mercy to the pain
Of those that bid farewell!

MISSIONARY HYMN.

FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver

Their land from error's chain!

What though the spicy breezes
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile :
In vain with lavish kindness
The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen in his blindness
Bows down to wood and stone!

Can we, whose souls are lighted
With wisdom from on high,
Can we to men benighted
The lamp of life deny?
Salvation! oh, Salvation!
The joyful sound proclaim,
Till each remotest nation

Has learn'd Messiah's name!

Waft, waft, ye winds his story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory,

It spreads from pole to pole! Till o'er our ransom'd nature, The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign!

THE BRITISH BOW.

YE spirits of our fathers,

The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy!

From us who love your sylvan game, To you the song shall flow,

To the fame of your name

Who so bravely bent the bow.

'Twas merry then in England,
(Our ancient records tell,)
With Robin Hood and Little John
Who dwelt by down and dell;
And yet we love the bold outlaw
Who braved a tyrant foe,
Whose cheer was the deer,

And his only friend the bow!

'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill

To hear the bugle-horn. And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth

In garb of green did go

The shade to invade

With the arrow and the bow.

Ye spirits of our fathers!
Extend to us your care,

Among your children yet are found

The valiant and the fair!
'Tis merry yet in Old England,
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow.

VERSES TO MRS. HEBER.

Ir thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,
How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!
I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,
But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,

O'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,

Nor wild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bright, they say, Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay

As then shall meet in thee!