CAROLINE SYMMONS.

CAROLINE SYMMONS,-the beautiful, accomplished, and truly pious daughter of the Rev. Charles Symmons, D. D., and Elizabeth, his wife, sister of Rear-Admiral Foley, who so highly distinguished himself, under Lord Nelson, in the Battle of the Nile, and in that before Copenhagen, was born April 12th, 1789; and the date of her first Poem, Zelida,' is November 24th, 1800. To our astonishment of the mind and talents of a child of eleven years of age, may be superadded our surprise at the selection of one of her subjects-so sweetly characteristic of herself-so mournfully prophetic of her premature decay-"A faded rosebush."

She wrote several other Poems, which abound in beauty, all before she had completed her twelfth year. That she should delight in Poetry, may be easily imagined; but that her favourites, at so early an age, should be Milton and Spenser, is wonderful. As a proof of her devotion to Milton, it must not be omitted, that it was found necessary, in consequence of a defect in the sight of one eye, that Ware, the

celebrated oculist, should be consulted, who declared it necessary she should submit to an operation. With patience and resignation she acquiesced; and afterwards, when her sufferings became the subject of conversation, and a tender apprehension expressed for the possible danger to which the sight of the afflicted organ was exposed, she said, with a smile, that, to be a Milton, she would cheerfully consent to lose both her eyes.

She died on the first of June, 1803.

Works of the Rev. Francis Wrangham.

ADDISON DESIGNED FOR THE CHURCH.

"MR. ADDISON originally designed to have taken orders, and was diverted from that design, by being sent abroad in so encouraging a manner. It was from thence that he began to think of public posts; as being made Secretary of State, at last, and sinking in his

*He himself speaks of this design in the close of his verses to Sacheverel, written in 1694.

"I leave the arts of poetry and verse

To them that practise them with most success :
Of greater truths I'll now prepare to tell."

character by it, turned him back again to his first thought. He had latterly an eye toward the Lawn; and it was then that he began his Evidences of Christianity,' and had a design of translating all the Psalms, for the use of churches. Five or six of them that he did translate, were published in the Spectator.'

"Old Jacob Tonson did not like Mr. Addison. He had a quarrel with him; and, after his quitting the Secretaryship, used frequently to say of him,-One day or other, you will see that man a Bishop: I am sure he looks that way; and, indeed, I ever thought him a Priest in his heart.'

SPENCE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE is a name that will be imperishable in the records of precocious talent. Pious, amiable, and learned, yet struggling against numerous evils which his limited means could not fail to entail on him, his fate awakens our regret, while the variety and the solidity of his acquirements excites exhaustless admiration for his genius, and the profoundest respect for his unwearied application and moral virtues.

His effusions breathe the pure spirit of Poetry. Many of his Poems are sacred, and eminently distinguished by fervent piety. He contemplated, and, indeed, commenced, a long "Divine Poem," entitled, "The Christiad," in the Spenserian stanza; and, from the specimen before us, we regret he did not live to conclude what he so well began.

If we may judge from the few productions which he left behind him, his genius was of the highest order, and he promised to be one of the brightest ornaments of British literature. The following short Poem possesses great beauty and simplicity.

"It is not that my lot is low,

That bids the silent tear to flow;
It is not this that makes me moan,-
It is that I am all alone.

In woods and glens I love to roam
When the tired hedger hies him home;
Or by the woodland pool to rest,
When pale the star looks on its breast.

Yet, when the silent ev'ning sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies,

My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.

VOL. III.

The autumn leaf is sear and dead:
It floats upon the water's bed.

I would not be a leaf to die

Without recording sorrow's sigh.

The woods and winds, with sullen wail,
Tell all the same unvaried tale.

I've none to smile when I am free,
And, when I sigh, to sigh with me.

Yet, in my dreams, a form I view, That thinks on me, and loves me, too; I start, and when the vision's flown,