vealed his fears for his friend. "It is Shields, Jack," cries one. "No," replies a voice of feeling self-congratulation, " I am here.""It is Jack O'Neill," exclaims another;" Aye, poor fellow,-it is Jack O'Neill." But a dripping stupor-struck sailor, clinging by the weather-rail, comes aft at the moment, and replies, " No, I am here." After a pause of suspense, one adds, "It is Chambers."-" Ah! it must be Sam Chambers," cries another; and no voice contradicted the assertion,-for his voice, poor sufferer, was already choked with the waters, and his spirit had fled to meet its GOD! Happily he was an excellent man; and there was no doubt with those who knew his habitual piety, and consistency of conduct, that he was prepared to die. His conduct, in every case, was worthy of his profession; and was a sufficient proof, if such proof could be necessary, that religion, when real, gives confidence and courage to the sailor, rather than destroys his hardihood and bravery. He was always one of the foremost in a post of danger, and met with his death in an exposed situation, to which duty called, where he had voluntarily posted himself.'

pp. 375-377.

The conclusion of the journal is most affecting. When Captain Scoresby reached port, he was stunned by the unexpected news of the death of his beloved wife. Our readers will be at no loss to conceive how so severe a blow would affect a man such as these pages have described.

Art. V. Matins and Vespers: with Hymns and occasional Devotional Pieces. By John Bowring. Foolscap 8vo. pp. 256. Price 6s.

London. 1823.

MR. Bowring's elegant and spirited translations from the Russian and the Spanish, entitle him to a higher rank among the poets of the day, than he would have obtained by his original compositions. The public are under obligations to him for having enlarged the range of our literature, by the new province of which he has, as it were, taken possession in the name of his country. He has struck out a new path for literary enterprise; and though the field upon which he has entered, is a very limited one, his importations are of a highly interesting character. Mr. Bowring's talents seem to qualify him more especially to succeed in poetical translation. He has great facility and command of language, great dexterity of imitation, and versatility of mind, together with no small portion of poetic feeling. But the instances are very rare, in which an able translator has distinguished himself as an original poet. The habit, and perhaps the turn of mind, required and exercised in translation, is not favourable to the cultivation of the self-dependent power of thinking and the native sources

of poetic emotion. Pope can scarcely be admitted to be an exception, for his Iliad is an original poem, rather than a translation. As a translation, it is a failure. The Author of the best poetical version in the English language, the Translator of Dante, is unknown as an original poet; and from the heaviness of his prose, we should not expect him to succeed in a different walk of composition. To excel as an engraver, requires genius, not less than to succeed as a painter, but genius of a different kind; and so it is with respect to poetical transcripts of the designs of others. The translator, like the engraver, deservedly ranks as an artist; and when we consider how extremely few are the instances of success in this species of composition, we can scarcely consider as inferior, though confessedly different, the talent which the art requires.

The present volume is of that mixed character which belongs equally to the departments of poetry and theology. Its Author would not be satisfied, nor could we satisfy ourselves, were we to treat it simply as poetry. These Hymns, he tells us,

were not written in the pursuit of fame or literary triumph. They are full of borrowed images, of thoughts and feelings excited less by my own contemplations than by the writings of others. I have not sought to be original. To be useful is my ambition—that obtained, I am indifferent to the rest.'

In reviewing works of taste, it is a rule which we are not aware that we can be accused of violating, to know nothing of the Author's private sentiments, either political or religious, beyond what appears in his performance. And had not Mr. Bowring come before us as a hymn-writer, we should not have felt it to be our business to take cognizance of his theological opinions. But, in this volume, he stands prominently forward as the poet of Unitarianism; and its literary merits become a quite subordinate consideration, when we view it as the anomalous product and rare specimen of Unitarian devotion. The impression it has left on our minds, is painfully decisive. Before, however, we offer any remarks on these compositions, we shall enable our readers to judge of them by a few speci

mens.

The Matins and Vespers consist of a series of morning and evening hymns, or addresses to the Deity, for four weeks; each week being a different season. We take the following from the first week: it is headed, Tuesday Morning.'

'When the arousing call of Morn

Breaks o'er the hills, and day new born
Comes smiling from the purple East,

And the pure streams of liquid light
Bathe all the earth-renew'd and bright,
Uprising from its dream of rest-

O how delightful then, how sweet,
Again to feel life's pulses beat;
Again life's kindly warmth to prove ;
To drink anew of pleasure's spring;
Again our matin song to sing

To the great Cause of light and love.

• To Him, whom comet, planet, star,
Sun, moon, in their sweet courses far,
Praise in eternal homage meet;
While thousand choirs of seraphs bring
Their sounding harps of gold-and fling
Their crowns of glory at his feet.

Thou! who didst wake me first from nought,
And lead my heaven-aspiring thought
To some faint, feeble glimpse of Thee:
Thou! who didst touch my slumbering heart
With Thy own hand-and didst impart
A portion of Thy deity :

O teach me, Father! while I feel
The impress of Thy glorious seal-
And whence I came-and whither tend:
Teach me to live-to act-to be

Worthy my origin, and Thee,

And worthy my immortal end.

O not in vain to me be given

The joys of earth-the hopes of heaven!
O not in vain may I receive

My master's talents-but, subdued
And tutored by the soul of good,
To God to bliss—to virtue live!

• Heaven's right-lined path may I discern,
Nor, led by pride or folly, turn

A handbreadth from the onward road;
Fight the good fight-the foe subdue,
And wear the heavenly garland too-
A garland from the hand of God!'

pp. 16-18.

Wednesday Evening' of the same week, has assigned to it the following lines.

Almighty Being! wise and holy,
Who hast to each his portion given;
To the poor worm his station lowly,
And to the choirs of angels-heaven;

My fate is in Thy righteous keeping,
Ruler of worlds! unbounded One!
While to weak man, in error sleeping,
Thy awful course is all unknown:
Far from Thy light immortal streaming,
From heaven, resplendently afar,
Man's ray is but the feeble gleaming
Of evening's palest, farthest star.
With hope upon his path descending,
Life's darkness soon gives way to light;
Some holy sunbeams hither tending,
Chase the dark clouds of doubt, of night.
O, had our journey, wasting, weary,
No ray like these to gild the gloom,
Life were a desert dark and dreary,
A midnight prison-house-a tomb!
Merciful Being! friend and father,
To Thee I look, to Thee I call;
On Thee I rest my spirit, rather
Than on this transient world, or all
The world's foundations. Thou, who kindly
Smil'st on my path, conduct me still;
Conduct me, while fatigued and blindly
I climb up life's deceitful hill;

Wave Thy pure wand of mercy o'er me;
And form me to Thy holy will:
Thy hope shall sweetly play before me,
Thy light my little lamp shall fill.
Could I control my future being,
No thought of pride should e'er rebel;
Thou, all-designing -guiding-seeing,
Wilt direct all things wisely, well.
Disturb not, dreams of care! to-morrow:
Enough the evil of to-day:

My destined sum of joy and sorrow
The scales of perfect wisdom weigh.

He, for ten thousand worlds providing,
Yet condescends to think of me!

My little skiff securely guiding

O'er Time's now still, now troubled sea;

Calm as the night, and soft and vernal

As the spring's breath, my bark shall move,
Till, launched into the gulf eternal,

It anchors in a port above.'

pp. 26-8.

We select from the third week, the hymn for Friday Morning, on account of its being one of the very few that contain any reference to the Saviour.

This is the day, when prejudice and guilt
The blood of innocence and virtue spilt!

'Twas in those orient Syrian lands afar,

O'er whose high mountains towers the morning star:
Lands now to tyranny and treachery given,
But then the special care and charge of heaven:
Lands, now by ignorance and darkness trod,
Then shining brightest in the light of God!

• Holiest and best of men! 'twas there thou walkedst,
There with thy faithful, privileged followers talkedst,
Privileged indeed, listening to truth divine,
Breath'd from a heart, and taught by lips, like thine!

He that from all life's strange vicissitude
Drew forth the living hidden soul of good;
And in the strength of wisdom, and the might
Of peaceful virtue fought, and won the fight:
His armour righteousness-his conquering sword
A spiritual weapon-his prophetic word,
The arms of truth,-his banners from above-
His conquests meekness, and his warfare love.
He stands a pillar 'midst his children; grace
And majesty and truth illume his face;
He bows his head, and dies! the very rock
Is rent, and Zion trembles at the shock!
But, tho' he dies, he triumphs-and in vain
Would unbelief oppose his conquering reign;
A reign o'erspreading nature-gathering in
Kindreds and nations from the tents of sin
To virtue's temple. O how calm, how great,
A death like this!-come, then, and venerate
Your Saviour and your King. All hail! All hail!
The songs of gratitude shall fill the vale,
And echo from the mountains, and shall rise

In one consenting tribute to the skies.

Sow then thy seed-that seed will spring, and give

Rich fruits and fairest flowers, that will survive

All chance, all change: and though the night may come, And though the deeper darkness of the tomb,

A sun more bright than ours shall bid them grow,

And on the very grave hope's buds will blow,

And blow like those sweet flowers that, pluck'd, ne'er lose Their freshness, or their fragrance, or their hues.

Now the day calls us with its eloquent ray;

O let us toil unwearied while 'tis day,
For the night cometh, all enveloping
But virtue, that on spiritual soaring wing
Flies to its rest! 'tis but a pilgrim here,
Shaping its course towards a better sphere,
Where its own mansion is; yet, in its flight,
Dropping from its pinions healing and delight;