For aiming at a world. 'Creatures,' he said,
'Creatures of clay! I number ye amongst
My subjects and adorers: Live ye here
For ever, and for ever.'-Then his orb,
Receding from the presence of the damned,
Shrunk to a point of light, and as it shrunk
The hearts of his believers withered, and burned
Internally (as he had left behind

A portion of his fire)—and on their souls
Came darkness and dismay: and all knew then
The unconsuming flame was come; and each
Hated himself and fellow. Thus they lived
For ages and for ages, a sad prey

To fires perpetual-and endless fear

Sorrow although they loved not-hot desires,
That never could be quelled-hunger and thirst-
Fierce jealousy-and groundless doubt and hate-
And blasting envy-and ('midst other ills)
Sense of contempt in others. Thus they lived:
And not one creature ever after knew

What 'twas to hope.

Literary Gazette.

A REFLECTION.

LIKE some faint light that shines along the deep,
Joy to the watchful-peace to those who sleep-
Its blaze expanding, as each heart draws near
The home where sparkles every smile that's dear,
"Till from its splendour, welcomed in at last-
Fades all reflection on the gloomy past!
So in its birth glows man's pale beam of life,
The spark of sorrow, then the flame of strife-
Dazzling awhile, until its glare be spent
On thoughts of madness, and of dark intent ;—
Next, a bright beacon on his troubled sea-
Bursting at length into Eternity!

B.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN THE CHURCH-YARD OF RICHMOND,

YORKSHIRE.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three Tabernacles, one for thee, one for Moses, and one for Elias.

METHINKS it is good to be here,

ST. MATTHEW.

If thou wilt let us build-but for whom?

Nor Elias nor Moses appear;

But the shadows of Eve that encompass with gloom
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away,—

For see, they would pin him below

In a dark narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
The charms which She wielded before;

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets

The skin that but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride,

The trappings which dizen the proud ?

Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment allowed

Save the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain ;

Who hid in their turns have been hid;

The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid

Save the tinsel that shines on the dark coffin lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love?

Ah, no! They have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above:

Friends, brothers and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which Compassion itself could relieve.

Ah sweetly they slumber, nor love, hope, or fear,
Peace! peace! is the watchword, the only one here.

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold head, and around the dark stone,
Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown.

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise!

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. Carlisle's Grammar Schools.

EPITAPH

ON AN IDEOT GIRL.

IF the innocent are favourites of Heaven ;-
And God but little asks where little's given,
Thy great Creator hath for thee in store
Eternal joys. What wise man can have more?

THE MOSSY SEAT.

BY J. MOIR, ESQ.

THE landscape hath not lost its look;
Still rushes on the sparkling river;—
Nor, hath the gloominess forsook

These granite crags, that frown for ever;
Still hangs, around, the shadowy wood,—
Whose sounds but murmur solitude;
The raven's plaint, the linnet's song,
The stock-dove's coo, in grief repining,

In mingled echoes steal along;

The setting sun is brightly shining, And clouds above, and hills below, Are burning in his golden glow!

It is not meet-it is not fit

Though fortune all our hopes hath thwarted, Whilst on the very stone I sit,

Where first we met, and last we parted,
That absent from my soul should be
The thought that loves and looks to thee!
Each happy hour that we have proved,

While love's delicious converse blended,
As 'neath the twilight star we roved,
Unconscious where our progress tended,—
Still brings my mind a soft relief;
And bids it love the joys of grief.'

What soothing recollections throng,
Presenting many a mournful token,
That heart's remembrance to prolong,
Which then was blest-but now is broken!

I cannot-Oh! hast thou forgot

Our early loves this hallowed spot?

I almost think I see thee stand!

I almost dream I hear thee speaking!—

I feel the pressure of thy hand!

Thy living glance in fondness seeking,— Here, all apart by all unseen—

Thy form upon my arm to lean!

Though beauty bless the landscape still,
Though woods surround, and waters lave it,
My heart feels not the vivid thrill
Which long ago thy presence gave it.
Mirth,music,-friendship, have no tone
Like that which with thy voice hath flown!
And Memory only now remains

To whisper things that once delighted;
Still still I love to tread these plains,
To seek this sacred haunt benighted-

And feel a something sadly sweet In resting on this MOSSY SEAT. Blackwood's Magazine.

SONNET.

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.

NOT love, nor war, nor the tumultuous swell
Of civil conflicts, nor the wrecks of change,
And duty struggling with afflictions strange,
Not these alone inspire the tuneful shell;
But where untroubled peace and concord dwell,
There also is the muse not loth to range
Watching the blue smoke of the elmy grange
Skyward ascending from the twilight dell;
Meek aspirations please her lone endeavour,
And sage content and placid melancholy,
She loves to gaze upon a crystal river,
Diaphonous, because it travels slowly :
Soft is the music that would please for ever,
The flower of sweetest smell is shy and lowly.