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ORIGINAL POETRY.

THE DESOLATE VILLAGE.

A Reverie.

SWEET village! on thy pastoral hill
Arrayed in sunlight sad and still,
As if beneath the harvest-moon,
Thy noiseless homes were sleeping!
It is the merry month of June,
And creatures all of air and earth
Should now their holiday of mirth
With dance and song be keeping.
But loveliest Village! silent Thou,

As cloud wreathed o'er the Morning's brow,
When light is faintly breaking,
And Midnight's voice afar is lost,
Like the wailing of a wearied ghost,
The shades of earth forsaking.

'Tis not the Day to Scotia dear,
A summer Sabbath mild and clear!
Yet from her solemn burial-ground,
The small Kirk-Steeple looks around,
Enshrouded in a calm

Profound as fills the house of prayer,
E'er from the band of virgins fair
Is breathed the choral psalm.
A sight so steeped in perfect rest
Is slumbering not on nature's breast
In the smiles of earthly day!
"Tis a picture floating down the sky,
By fancy framed in years gone by,
And mellowing in decay!

That thought is gone!-the Village still
With deepening quiet crowns the hill,
Its low green roofs are there!
In soft material beauty beaming,
As in the silent hour of dreaming
They hung embowered in air!

Is this the Day when to the mountains
The happy shepherds go,

And bathe in sparkling pools and fountains
Their flocks made white as snow?
Hath gentle girl and gamesome boy,
With meek-eyed mirth or shouting joy,
Gone tripping up the brae?

Till far behind their town doth stand,
Like an image in sweet Faery Land,
When the Elves have flown away!
-O sure if aught of human breath
Within these walls remain,
Thus deepening in the hush of death,
'Tis but some melancholy crone,
Who sits with solemn eyes
Beside the cradle all alone,
And lulls the infant with a strain
Of Scotia's ancient melodies.

What if these homes be filled with life?
'Tis the sultry month of June,
And when the cloudless sun rides high
Above the glittering air of noon,

All nature sinks opprest,-
And labour shuts his weary eyo
In the mid-day hour of rest.
Yet let the soul think what it will,
Most dirge-like mourns that moorland rill !
How different once it flow!
When with a dreamy motion gliding
Mid its green fields in love abiding,
Or leaping o'er the mossy linn,
And sporting with its own wild din,
Seemed water changed to snow.
Beauty lies spread before my sight,
But grief-like shadows dim its light,
And all the scene appears

Like a church-yard when a friend is dying,
In more than earthly stillness lying,
And glimmering through our tears!

Sweet Woodburn! like a cloud that name
Comes floating o'er my soul !
Although thy beauty still survive,
One look hath changed the whole.
The gayest village of the gay
Beside thy own sweet river,
Wert Thou on week or sabbath day!
So bathed in the blue light of joy,
As if no trouble could destroy
Peace doomed to last for ever.
Now in the shadow of thy trees,
On a green plat, sacred to thy breeze,
The fell Plague-Spirit grimly lies
And broods, as in despite

Of uncomplaining lifelessness,

On the troops of silent shades that press
Into the church-yard's cold recess,
From that region of delight.

A

Last summer, from the school-house door,
When the glad play-bell was ringing,
What shoals of bright-haired elves would

pour,

Like small waves racing on the shore,
In dance of rapture singing!
Oft by yon little silver well,
Now sleeping in neglected cell,
The village maid would stand,
While resting on the mossy bank,
With freshened soul the traveller drank
The cold cup from her hand;
Haply some soldier from the war,
Who would remember long and far
That Lily of the Land.

And still the green is bright with flowers,
And dancing through the sunny hours
Like blossoms from enchanted bowers

On a sudden wafted by,

Obedient to the changeful air
And proudly feeling they are fair
Glide bird and butterfly.

But where is the tiny hunter-ront
That revelled on with dance and shout
Against their airy prey?

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On-on-through woful images
My spirit holds her way!

Death in each drooping flower she sees;
And oft the momentary breeze
Is singing of decay.

-So high upon the slender bough
Why hangs the crow her nest?
All undisturbed her young have lain
This spring-time in their nest,
Nor as they flew on tender wing
E'er feared the cross-bow or the sling.
Tame as the purpling turtle-dove,
That walks serene in human love,
The magpie hops from door to door;
And the hare, not fearing to be seen,
Doth gambol on the village green
As on the lonely moor.

The few sheep wandering by the brook
Have all a dim neglected look,
Oft bleating in their dumb distress
On her their sweet dead shepherdess.
The horses, pasturing through the range
Of gateless fields, all common now,
Free from the yoke enjoy the change,
To them a long long Sabbath-sleep!
Then gathering in one thunderous band,
Across the wild they sweep,

Tossing the long hair from their eyes-→→→
Till far the living whirlwind flies
As o'er the desert sand.

From human let their course is free

No lonely angler down the lea

Invites the zephyr's breath

And the beggar far away doth roam,
Preferring in his hovel-home

His penury to death.

On that green hedge a scattered row

Now weather-stained-once white as snow-
Of garments that have long been spread,
And now belong unto the dead,
Shroud-like proclaim to every eye,
"This is no place for Charity !"

O blest are ye! unthinking creatures!
Rejoicing in your lowly natures
Ye dance round human tombs!
Where gladlier sings the mounting lark
Then o'er the churchyard dim and dark!
Or where, than on the churchyard wall,
From the wild rose-tree brighter fall
Her transitory blooms!
What is it to that lovely sky
If all her worshippers should die !
As happily her splendours play

On the grave where human forms decay,

As o'er the dewy turf of Morn,
Where the virgin, like a woodland Fay
On wings of joy was borne.
-Even now a soft and silvery haze
Hill-Village-Tree-is steeping
In the loveliness of happier days,
Ere rose the voice of weeping!
When incense-fires from every hearth,
To heaven stole beautiful from earth.

Sweet spire! that crown'st the house of God!
To thee my spirit turns,

While through a cloud the softened light
On thy yellow dial burns.

Ah, me! my bosom inly bleeds
To see the deep-worn path that leads
Unto that open gate!

In silent blackness it doth tell
How oft thy little sullen bell

Hath o'er the village tolled its knell,
In beauty desolate.

Oft, wandering by myself at night,
Such spire hath risen in softened light
Before my gladdened eyes,-
And as I looked around to see
The village sleeping quietly
Beneath the quiet skies,-
Methought that mid her stars so bright,
The moon in placid mirth,
Was not in heaven a holier sight
Than God's house on the earth.
Sweet image! transient in my soul!
That very bell hath ceased to toll
When the grave receives its dead-
And the last time it slowly swung,
"Twas by a dying stripling rung
O'er the sexton's hoary head!
All silent now from cot or hall
Comes forth the sable funeral !
The Pastor is not there!

For yon sweet Manse now empty stands,
Nor in its walls will holier hands
Be e'er held
in prayer.

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ITALY.

N.

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'Tis like a cobweb o'er the breast, That binds the giant while asleep, Or curtain hung upon the east,

The day-light from the world to keep!

Come, jaw your glasses to the brim!

Gar in the air your bonnets flee! "Our gude auld king!" I'll drink to him, As lang as I hae drink to pree.

This to the arms that well upbore

The Rose and Shamrock blooming stillAn' here's the burly plant of yore,

"The Thristle o' the Norlan' hill!"

Auld Scotland !-land o' hearts the wale! Hard thou hast fought, and bravely won: Lang may thy lions paw the gale,

And turn their dewlaps to the sun!

H.

REVIEW OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.

A Series of Discourses on the Christian Revelation, viewed in Connexion with the Modern Astronomy. By THOMAS CHALMERS, D. D. 8vo.

pp. 275. Third edition. Glasgow, Smith & Son; Edinburgh, William Whyte; 1817.

ONE of the worst features of the present times is the separation that has taken place between science and religion. During the early part of the history of English literature, we find great talents combined with a sublime piety, and the most enlightened philosophy with a fervent and glowing devotion; and they who explained to us the system of nature, defended the cause, and venerated the authority, of revelation. The piety of Milton, of Boyle, and of Newton, was not less remarkable than the superiority of their other endowments; and it will ever be regarded as a striking circumstance, that those giant minds, who have exalted the glory of English literature above that of all other nations, and whom we are accustomed to consider as an honour to the species itself, were distinguished above all other men for their habitual and solemn veneration of religion.

Since the age of these distinguished writers the connexion between science and religion seems gradually to have been becoming less intimate. We are unwilling to arrange ourselves with those gloomy individuals who are found in every age to declaim against the peculiar depravity of their own times; but it is impossible not to see, that the profound reverence for sacred things, which distinguished the illustrious characters of a former age, is not now the characteristic of those by whom science is promoted, and knowledge extended. An enlarged acquaintance with the works of nature is no longer the assured token of that deep-toned and solemn piety, which elevated the character, and purified the manners, of the fathers of our philosophy. Science is now seen without religion, and religion without science; and the consequence is, that the saered system of revelation, however VOL. I.

magnificent and beautiful in itself, is in danger of being considered as fitted ed minds, and of failing in some meaonly to be the creed of less enlightento produce those important effects upsure, from this unfortunate opinion, on mankind, for the accomplishment of which it is so pre-eminently adapted.

The volume before us is calculated, we think, in no common degree, to counteract this unhappy declension. It is written with an enthusiasm and an eloquence, to which we scarcely know where to find any parallel; and there is, at the same time, so constant a reference to the improved philosophy of modern times, that it possesses an air of philosophical grandeur and truth, which the productions of a more popular and declamatory eloquence can never attain. Were the taste of the author equal to his genius, and his judgment always sufficient to control the fervours of his imagination, the labours of Dr Chalmers could not fail to be infinitely beneficial. But here lies our author's chief deficiency. His genius is of the kind that is marked by its peculiarities as much as by its superiority; and this circumstance, we think, is the more to be regretted, as there is manifestly no necessary connexion between the excellencies and defects by which his works are characterised. The natural relations of the intellectual powers might have been more correctly maintained in his mind, while all his faculties continued to be exerted with the same constancy and vigour,and the same originality and invention might have been combined with greater dignity, and more uniform elegance.-We have therefore but a short process to institute, in order to admit our readers into a knowledge of the character of our author's mind. our intercourse with the world, we often meet with persons in whom what we call genius predominates over every other feature; and who, though not superior to their fellows in taste, judgment, or understanding, are yet infinitely superior to them in the capacity of forming striking combinations of ideas, or in the endowments of an excurK

In

sive or elevated imagination. This is precisely the case with the author whose works we are considering. Genius in him shines paramount to every other quality of his mind. In every page of the volume, which has suggested these observations, there is something bold, original, and striking; and yet there is every now and then some peculiarity of expression that offends a cultivated taste, or some wildness of sentiment that excites astonishment and wonder rather than sympathy.

The author of these discourses is so well known to our readers in this part of the island, that it would be quite superfluous on their account to say any thing of his private history; but for the sake of our readers in the south, we suspect it may be necessary to tell, in a single sentence, who Dr Chalmers is, and how he has attained that uncommon celebrity he now enjoys among us.

Till within these few years, Dr Chalmers was scarcely known beyond the circle of his personal friends. He obtained, at an early period, a living in an obscure part of the country; and being naturally of an inquisitive and active disposition, he devoted himself, in the leisure of his professional engagements, to an ardent prosecution of scientific knowledge. Accident, according to report, led him, some few years ago, to examine with more than ordinary attention the foundations of the Christian faith; and as the result of his investigations was a deep impression of the strength of the evidence by which it is supported, he now brought to the illustration and defence of religion a double portion of the enthusiasm he had already devoted to science. Hitherto he had been attached to that party in our church which aspires to the title of moderate or liberal-he now connected himself with those who wish to be thought more strict and apostolic. His reputation as a preacher, as might have been expected from the warmth and fervour of his cloquence, began now rapidly to extend itself; and the whole country was soon filled with the fame of his eloquence and his merits. The reputation he had thus acquired was not diminished but enhanced, by his occasional appearances in the congregations of this metropolis. His speeches last year in the General Assembly of the Scottish Church, and his sermons before the

Lord High Commissioner and for the sons of the clergy, made known his merits to most of the eminent men in this part of the kingdom, and will be long remembered in this quarter as the most brilliant display of cloquence and of genius which we have ever had the good fortune to witness.

Such is our author's brief and simple story, previous to the publication of the present volume. We must not induce our readers, however, to believe that the public were as yet all agreed in their opinion of Dr Chalmers merits. His former publications had been distinguished rather by a fertility of imagination than by a deliberate and cool judgment. He had been accustomed, it was said, to take up an opinion as it were by accident, and to defend it with enthusiastic ingenuity and energy, though at the same time he was overlooking something so obvious and palpable, that the most simple novice might detect the fallacy of his argument. He had written on the national resources, and had attributed every thing to agriculture, demonstrating our perfect independence of the luxu ries of trade and commerce. He had published a treatise on the Evidences of Christianity, and had denied that the internal evidence was of any importance. Some detached sermons which he had given to the public had been deformed by an austerity at which the polite world revolted; and it was thought that the new work which was announced would be found obnoxious to the same censures. With respect to this work, now that it has been published, we conceive that there can be but one opinion-that it is a piece of splendid and powerful eloquence, injured indeed by many peculiarities of expression, by provin cial idions and colloquial barbarisms, but, at the same time, more free froin the author's peculiar blemishes than any of his former productions, and forming, notwithstanding its many faults, a work likely to excite almost universal admiration. That it would be improved, we think, every one will likewise allow, were there less sameness of sentiment and of expressionwere there fewer words of the author's own invention-were the purity of the English language, in short, as much attended to as its power and energy. If the author would only cultivate his taste as much as his imagination, he

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