who is the resurrection and the life, saying, "Into thine hands I commend my spirit, for thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth."

IOTA.

HYMNS AND POETICAL RECREATIONS.

HASTINGS CASTLE.

WE'VE seen, my Love, full many a season
Pass o'er yon ruined towers-
Still its lines remain unaltered,
Mindless of the passing hours.

Alike in Summer's garish day,
Alike in dreary Winter found-

Its beauties eyer are the same,
Unchanged, when all is changing round.

Might I tell of what is like it,

"Tis the friendship felt by those
Whose love from nature's impulse budding,
Dies not with that nature's close.

Adverse fortune cannot change it-
Age can never check its bloom-
Surviving nature to embellish,
A bright eternity to come.

HYMN.

INCENSE Sweet I fain would bring
To the altar of my King;

Rich perfumes I fain would give

To the God in whom I live;

But where are the spices, and where the perfume?
And where do the citron and olive tree bloom?

My garden is barren, my garden is dry,

And my heart can no flame for the altar supply.

I would shed repentant tears
For the guilt my bosom bears-
I would utter songs of love

For the benefits prove;

But where is the tear-drop, and where are the sighs?
And whence shall the accents of gratitude rise?
My heart it is selfish, my heart it is cold,
By kindness unsoften'd, by fear unappall'd.

I have nothing then to plead
But my poverty and need—
I have nothing left to pay,
Yet there is, there is a way.

The citron and olive on Calvary bloom;
In Gethsemane's garden I'll steal my perfume;
From the temple of Zion I'll rifle the fire ;
And the prayer he will answer my God will inspire.

THE REPLY.

WEEP not, Mother, for the babe

Cold at thy heart that lies;
Gaze not upon his marble brow,
To wonder why he dies.

Nature did not mock thee, Mother,

When in a form so fair,

She wrapt the spirit of thy babe,
And gave him to thy prayer.

That form of manhood is not worn
In idle mimickry—

Eternal love his being gave

But, Mother, not for thee.

For thee, it were indeed no more
But a sad and sorry boon,
To look upon a thing so fair,
And fancy. it thine own.

Alas! this cold and sinful world
Had been no home for him-

Made for eternity at once,

And destined not for time.

Thy baby was not born to die-
Mother, he has not died-
'Twas but a garment that he wore
And lays it now aside;

Lest that by sin or sorrow soiled,
Or by passion haply riven,
The longer wearing should pollute
A dress prepared for heaven.

Mother, the coronet had proved
Too heavy for that brow;
And left a furrow on the skin,
So smooth, so spotless now.

Mother, while earthly halls had rung
Glad pæans for thy boy,

There had been tears in heaven, perhaps,
O'er their unhallowed joy.

Nay, gaze again upon thy babe,
As thou wert used to do,
And read upon his cold, cold front,
A brighter promise now.

Fancy celestial glory hung

Upon that lovely brow-
Fancy the love that angels feel

Kindling that breast of snow.

The musick of immortal joy,
How richly it will flow

From feelings that were never struck
To sound the notes of woe.

Nay, smile upon thy babe again,
To God and glory given—
Should there be sadness on the earth
When there is joy in heaven?

MOONLIGHT MUSINGS.

SILENTLY, slowly up the clear blue sky
The moon is stealing in tranquility :

There is no sound save when the passing breeze
Wakes a faint whisper in the yielding trees,
And heaven is cloudless as the solitude
Snatched from this Babel-of the wise and good.

The stars are peeping through that vault of blue,
As redolent of peace and calmness too;
Not as when brooding o'er creation's birth,
They sang together, and the sons of earth
'Shouted for joy,' but mournfully serene,
As though they wept that sin should intervene,
And death and woe spread round destruction there,
To mar a prospect so divinely fair.

The breeze is chill, and yet I love to stray
Whiling in thought the twilight hours away,
Where the grey yew, by time and tempest riven,
Courts a last glimmer from the western heaven,
With solemn step the church-yard's gloom to tread,
And pass an hour in converse with the dead.

*

*

'Look to yourselves'-as o'er the silent grave 'You mark with wandering eyes the wild grass wave, 'And if the thought of death may start a tear, 'Moisten with it his tomb who moulders here

*

I knew him and have watched his wandering feet,
Seek from the blaze of day some cool retreat
Where he might lay him on the grass green sod,
Communing thro' his works, with nature's God,
While down his cheek a faultering tear would steal,
And a faint sigh his troubled thoughts reveal,
For he would read in earth, sea, air, and sky
'Thanksgiving, and the voice of melody'—
He was alone ungrateful; all around
Even "mute nature" made a joyful sound:
Aud tho' while musing, in his troubled breast
The fire might kindle, it was soon supprest;
For sin spread round it such a tainted air,
The flame of love could not burn brightly there.

A.

364

REVIEW OF BOOKS.

Selections from the Works of the Latin Poets, with English Notes. Parts I. and II.-Baker & Fletcher. 1825.

We know a great many of our young female friends are learning Latin-we wish that all were so—and we are assured they will be obliged to us for the mention of books in which they may amuse themselves with the best productions of the language, without risk of meeting with any thing the careful parent might object to place in the hands of his children. The first part contains Selections from Horace, the second from Virgil, with English Notes of explanation of proper names, mythological references, &c. in the form of a school-book, and one that we do not doubt will be found very useful. Our opinion of this study for young ladies we have already more than once expressed, and it is becoming every day more general among well-educated girls. That "a little learning is a dangerous thing," is a longstanding maxim; and the advocates for idleness and ignorance, either on their own behalf or on that of others, have brought it to bear alike on the Latin Grammar of polite education, and the Primer of the National School. It may be doubted whether the original propounder of this sentiment would not be much surprised at its application, and confess there is a minimum of learning so extremely small as to be below the reach of the danger. If this be not so, women are under a necessity of being absolutely ignorant, or excessively learned, neither of which extremes we believe to be good for them-therefore in opposition to this established maxim, we venture to think that a little learning, and a great deal of good