said, That the Beast, and the Whore have Power over Tongues and Languages, and they are as Waters. Thus, I told him, he might see, the Whore and Beast have Power over the Tongues and the many Languages, which are in Mystery Babylon for they began at Babel; and the Persecutors of Christ Jesus set them over him, when he was Crucified by them but he is Risen over them all, who was before them all. Now (said I to this Man) Dost thou think to make Ministers of Christ by these natural, confused Languages which sprang from Babel, are admired in Babylon and set a top of Christ, the Life, by a Persecutor? Oh no! So the man confest to many of these things. Then we shewed him further, 'That Christ made his Ministers himself, and gave gifts unto them; and bid them Pray to the Lord of the Harvest, to send forth Labourers. And Peter and John, though unlearned and ignorant (as to Schoollearning) preached Christ Jesus the Word, which was in the beginning, before Babel was. Paul also was made an Apostle not of Man, nor by Man, neither received he the Gospel from Man, but from Jesus Christ; who is the same now, and so is his Gospel, as it was at that Day.' When we had thus discoursed with the Man, he became very loving and tender: and after he had considered further of it, he never set up his College."

Sewell who takes the matter in as simple a light as George Fox himself, says the man was " puzzled a little by this."

In every country, however poor, there is something of "free Nature's grace.”—p. 148.

That lively and gentle-hearted writer, Ligon, says in his History of Barbadoes, "there is no place so void and empty, where some lawful pleasure is not to be had, for a man that

hath a free heart, and a good conscience." (p. 3.) Poor fellow he wrote these words in a prison!

I care not, Fortune, what you me deny :
You cannot rob me of free Nature's grace ;
You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
Through which Aurora shows her brightening face;
You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve;
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,

And I their toys to the great children leave,

Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
Castle of Indolence. Canto 2. st. 3.

The origin of this beautiful and well known passage is, I think, to be found in Patrick's Parable of the Pilgrim, a book in which, though the Parable is poorly imagined and illsustained, there is a great deal of sound instruction conveyed in a sober, manly, and not unfrequently, a felicitous manner. The passage which Thompson probably had in his mind, is this the Pilgrims, "as they passed by a fair field, espied a poor man in very ragged clothes, under a large beech tree, who was listening to the music which the birds made in the neighbouring grove, and sometimes whistled himself to bear them company in their melodies. They were much taken with the innocence of his looks, and the contentment which they thought they read in his face”. . .. they enter into conversation with him, and he says..." this music which you saw me listening to, this music of God's own creating, gives me the greater ravishment, because I consider that none can rob me of it, and leave me my liberty and life. They that have taken away my goods, cannot hinder the earth from putting forth the flowers, nor the trees from yielding their fruit, nor the birds from singing among the branches; no,

nor me from entertaining myself with all these pleasures,... at least from being contented."-p. 406.

You feel as if in another region,...almost in another world.-p. 149.

This feeling is beautifully expressed in a very pleasing volume, which ought to send some of our tourists to Ireland. Describing a scene among the mountains of Donegal, the writer says, "you seemed lifted as it were out of the turmoil of the world into some planetary Paradise, into some such place as the Apostle in the Apocalypse was invited to, when the voice said come up hither! You might have supposed that sound had no existence here; were it not that now and then a hawk shrieked while cowering over the mountain top, or a lamb bleated beneath as it ran to its mother. I could have gone to sleep here, and dreamt of heaven purchased for poor sinners like me, by a Saviour's blood." I did at any rate praise the God of nature and of grace, and draw near to him in Christ, grateful for all his blessings, and all his wonders of creating and redeeming love!"

Sketches in Ireland: descriptive of interesting and hitherto unnoticed districts in the North and South.-p. 10.

Readers who have not seen this little volume may thank me for recommending it to their notice.

Llywarch Hen.—p. 151.

His remaining poems were published with a literal translation, by Mr. William Owen, in 1792. Their authenticity has been proved by Mr. Turner, and they are exceedingly curious, as some of the oldest remains of Keltic poetry.

They are also of some historical value. The loss of his sons he imputes to some indiscretion of his own, concerning which there is probably no tradition extant, as his translator has given no comment upon the passage.

Four-and-twenty sons, the offspring of my body;

By the means of my tongue they were slain :
Justly come is my budget of misfortunes.

The general strain of these poems is as melancholy as it is rude. He laments for his friends, his patrons, and his children, and complains of old age, infirmity, and sickness.

Before I appeared with crutches, I was eloquent,
Before I appeared with crutches I was bold,

I was admitted into the congress house.
Before I appeared on crutches I was comely;
My lance was the foremost of the spears;

My round back was first in vigour. I am heavy;

I am wretched.

My wooden crook be thou a contented branch
To support a mourning old man.

Llywarch accustomed much to talk,

My wooden crook, thou hardy branch,
Bear with me.—

My wooden crook be thou steady,

So that thou mayest support me the better.—

Feeble is the aged; slowly doth he move.

What I loved when I was a youth are hateful to me now, The stranger's daughter and the grey steed:

Am I not for them unmeet?

The four most hateful things to me through life,

They have met together with one accord,

The cough, old age, sickness and grief.

I am old, I am alone, I am decrepid and cold,

After the sumptuous bed of honour,

I am wretched, I am triply bent.

Those that loved me once, now love me not.

Young virgins love me not. I am resorted to by none.
I cannot move myself along.

Ah Death, why will he not befriend me?

I am befriended by neither sleep nor gladness.
Wretched is the fate that was fated

For Llywarch, on the night he was born,

Long pains without being delivered of his load of trouble.

I annex also some extracts from his verses on the Cuckoo.

Sitting to rest on a hill, cruelly inclined is my mind,
And yet it doth not impel me onward:

Short is my journey and my dwelling wretched.

Sharply blows the gale, it is base punishment to live, When the trees array themselves in their summer finery; Violent is my pain this day.

I am no follower of the chace, I keep no hound,

I cannot move myself abroad.

As long as it seemeth good to the Cuckoo, let her sing!

The loud-voiced Cuckoo sings with the dove
Her melodious notes in the dales of Cuawg;
"Better the liberal than the miser."

By the waters of Cuawg the Cuckoos sing
On the blossom-covered branches;

Woe to the sick that hears their contented notes!

By the waters of Cuawg Cuckoos are singing:

To my mind grating is the sound.

Oh

may others that hear not sicken like me!

* It seems, says Mr. Owen, that this proverb is to be considered a song of the Cuckoo,-Gwell corawg na cybydd.