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Seems like a temple, while you soft lamp sheds

A faint and starry radiance through the gloom

And the sweet stillness, down on fair young heads,
With all their clust'ring locks, untouch'd by care,
And bow'd, as flowers are bow'd with night, in prayer.
Gaze on 'tis lovely!-childhood's lip and cheek,

Mantling beneath its earnest brow of thought-
Gaze-yet what seest thou in those fair, and meek,
And fragile things, as but for sunshine wrought?
Thou seest what grief must nurture for the sky,
What death must fashion for eternity!

O! joyous creature! that will sink to rest

Lightly, when those pure orisons are done,
As birds with slumber's honey-dew opprest,
'Midst the dim folded leaves, at set of sun-
Lift up your hearts! though yet no sorrow lies
Dark in the summer-heaven of those clear eyes.
Though fresh within your breasts th' untroubled springs
Of hope make melody where'er ye tread,
And o'er your sleep bright shadows, from the wings
Of spirits visiting but youth, be spread;
Yet in those flute-like voices, mingling low,
Is woman's tenderness-how soon her woe!

Her lot is on you-silent tears to weep

And patient smiles to wear through suffering's hour,
And sumless riches, from affection's deep,

To pour on broken reeds-a wasted shower!
And to make idols, and to find them clay,
And to bewail that worship-therefore pray!

Her lot is on you-to be found untired,

Watching the stars out by the bed of pain,
With a pale cheek, and yet a brow inspired,

And a true heart of hope, though hope be vain;
Meekly to bear with wrong, to cheer decay,
And, oh! to love through all things-therefore pray!
And take the thought of this calm vesper time,

With its low murmuring sounds and silvery light,
On through the dark days fading from their prime,
As a sweet dew to keep your souls from blight!
Earth will forsake-O! happy to have given
Th' unbroken heart's first fragrance unto Heaven.

BRING FLOWERS.

Bring flowers, young flowers, for the festal board,
To wreathe the cup ere the wine is poured:
Bring flowers! they are springing in wood and vale:
Their breath floats out on the southern gale;
And the touch of the sunbeam hath waked the rose,
To deck the hall where the bright wine flows.

Bring flowers to the captive's lonely cell,
They have tales of the joyous woods to tell;
Of the free blue streams, and the glowing sky,
And the bright world shut from his languid eye:
They will bear him a thought of the sunny hours,

And the dream of his youth-bring him flowers, wild flowers!
Bring flowers, fresh flowers, for the bride to wear!
They were born to blush in her shining hair.
She is leaving the home of her childhood's mirth,
She hath bid farewell to her father's hearth;
Her place is now by another's side-

Bring flowers for the locks of the fair young bride!

Bring flowers, pale flowers, o'er the bier to shed,
A crown for the brow of the early dead!
For this through its leaves hath the white rose burst,
For this in the woods was the violet nursed!

Though they smile in vain for what once was ours,
They are love's last gift-bring ye flowers, pale flowers!
Bring flowers to the shrine where we kneel in prayer,
They are nature's offering, their place is there!

They speak of hope to the fainting heart,

With a voice of promise they come and part;
They sleep in dust through the wintry hours,

They break forth in glory-bring flowers, bright flowers!

THE HOUR OF PRAYER.

Child, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest work to leave,
Pray, ere yet the dark hours be-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!
Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor on the darkening sea-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain
Weeping on his burial-plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie,
Heaven's first star alike ye see-
Lift the heart and bend the knee!

THE AGONY IN THE GARDEN.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and prayed,
When but his Father's eye

Looked through the lonely garden's shade
On that dread agony;

The Lord of All above, beneath,

Was bowed with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour,

The stars might well grow dim,

When this mortality had power

So to o'ershadow HIM!

That He who gave man's breath might know
The very depths of human woe.

He proved them all!-the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,

The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All gathered round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray-
Yet passed it not, that cup, away!

It passed not-though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;

It passed not-though to him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.

But there was sent him from on high
A gift of strength for man to die.

And was the sinless thus beset

With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet
In the dark narrow way?

Through Him-through Him, that path who trod-
Save, or we perish, Son of God!

NATHAN DRAKE, 1766-1836.

DR. NATHAN DRAKE, the distinguished essayist, was born in the city of York, on the 15th of January, 1766, and, after completing his collegiate and professional education at the University of Edinburgh, finally settled at Hadleigh, in the county of Suffolk, in 1792, where he practiced as a physician for forty-four years. In 1807, he married Miss Rose, of Brenttenham, in Suffolk, by whom he had several children, three of which died young. He himself departed this life, on the 7th of June, 1836, in his seventy-first year.

a medical practitioner, Dr. Drake was deservedly respected and esteemed by his professional brethren for his courtesy and skill; and yet more endeared to all whom he attended by the urbanity of his manners and the unaffected kindness of his heart. "It may be said of him," says a contemporary," with perfect truth, that, in a professional and literary career of near half a century, amid all the turmoils of mere party strife and contentious rivalry, he so pursued the even tenor of his way as never to have lost, by estrangement, a single friend, or made one enemy."

But it is with the literary character of Dr. Drake that we have mainly to do in this work, and here I must express my deep and lasting gratitude to him for the great entertainment and the valuable instruction his writings afforded me in years long gone by. Indeed, if I were called to name the writer in the lighter walks of English literature who, by his essays and ingenious illustrations of our standard authors, is most calculated to refine the taste and to excite an ardent thirst for reading and literary pursuits, I should name Dr. Nathan Drake. His "Literary Hours," in three volumes, contain a series of most instructive papers upon various authors and subjects of a literary character; while his "Essays on the 'Tatler,' 'Guardian,' 'Spectator,' 'Rambler,' and 'Idler,'" embody a mass of interesting and

"Gentleman's Magazine" for August, 1836, p. 216.

valuable information, such as can nowhere else, to my knowledge, be found in our language. Another of his valuable works is entitled "Shakspeare and his Times:" this includes a biography of the poet; criticisms on his genius; a new chronology of his plays; and throws much light upon the manners, customs, amusements, superstitions, poetry, and elegant literature of that age. His "Winter Nights," in two volumes; "Evenings in Autumn," two volumes; and "Mornings in Spring," two volumes, contain essays of a miscellaneous character-critical, narrative, biographical, and descriptive. They are pleasing and elegant in their style, and evince great delicacy and discrimination of taste, unvarying kindness of heart, and purity of moral feeling. In all his criticisms, he seemed to look chiefly at what was beautiful or pleasing, deeming it quite as much the province of the critic to hold up the beauties of an author for imitation and admiration as to detect his faults and expose them for censure. Indeed, both as an author and as a man, Dr. Drake was kindness, courtesy, and candor personified, and no one can read his eminently instructive writings without feeling that they are the productions of a pure and benevolent, as well as a well-stored mind, united to a highly refined and delicate taste.

THE MORAL TENDENCY OF ADDISON'S WRITINGS.

The great object which Addison ever steadily held in view, and to which his style, his criticism, his humor and imagination are alike subservient, was the increase of religious, moral, and social virtue. Perhaps to the writings of no individual, of any age or nation, if we except the result of inspiration, have morality and rational piety been more indebted than to those which form the periodical labors of our author.

That he was enabled to effect so much improvement, and to acquire a kind of moral dominion over his countrymen, must be ascribed, in a great measure, to that suavity of disposition and goodness of heart so visible throughout all his compositions, and which give to his reproof and censure, his precepts and admonitions, the air of parental affection and monitory kindness.

Upon this principle are all the moral and critical essays of our author conducted, whether they assume the severer features of preceptive wisdom, or beam with the smiles of gayety and humor. He has consequently reprobated in strong terms that spirit of defamation and revenge, of recrimination and abuse, which sullies and destroys all the beneficial effect of satire, and converts the man who has recourse to such weapons into little better than an assassin.

With equal consistency and propriety he exposes that false zeal which, whether in the cause of religion or politics, hesitates not

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