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ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

SABBATH MORNING.

Dear is the hallow'd morn to me,

When village bells awake the day ;
And, by their sacred minstrelsy,

Call me from earthly cares away.
And dear to me the winged hour,

Spent in thy hallow'd courts, O Lord !
To feel devotion's soothing power,

And catch the manna of thy word.

And dear to me the loud Amen,

Which echoes through the blest abode,
Which swells and sinks, and swells again,

Dies on the walls, but lives to God.

And dear the rustic harınony,

Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heavenly melody,

The music of a thankful heart.

In secret I have often pray'd,

And still the anxious tear would fall;
But on thy sacred altar laid,

The fire descends, and dries them all.

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Oft when the world, with iron hands,

Has bound me in its six-days' chain,
This bursts them, like the strong man's bands,

And lets my spirit loose again.

Then dear to me the Sabbath morn;

The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn,

And always bid that heart rejoice.

Go, man of pleasure, strike thy lyre,

Of broken Sabbaths sing the charms;
Our's be the prophet's car of fire,

That bears us to a Father's arms.

WILLIAM KNOX.

DIRGE OF RACHEL.

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GENESIS, xxxv. 19.

And Rachel lies in Ephrath's land,

Beneath her lonely oak of weeping :,
With mouldering heart, and withering hand,

The sleep of death forever sleeping.

The spring comes smiling down the vale,

The lilies and the roses bringing :
But Rachel never more shall hail

The flowers that in the world are springing.

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The Summer gives his radiant day,

And Jewish dames the dance are treading ;
But Rachael on her couch of clay,

Sleeps all unheeded and unheeding.
The Autumn's ripening sunbeam shines,

And reapers to the field is calling ;
But Rachel's voice no longer joins

The choral song at twilight's falling.
The Winter sends his drenching shower,

And sweeps his howling blast around her;
But earthly storms possess no power

To break the slumber that hath bound her.

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CHARLES WOLFE. “ His poetical pieces are few in number, but they are of great excellence, though subordinate to the much loftier qualities of a zeal truly apostolic, and a vigorous and manly intellect, devoted unremittingly to the noblest cause, to which the human faculties can be devoted. It was not to crowded cities, nor to fashionable audiences, that Mr Wolfe dedicated his labours

, In a miserable curacy in the province of Armagh, he suffered nearly as great privations as a missionary in heathen lands, labouring with zeal, to which he fell an early victim, to promote in all things the spiritual and temporal welfare of the poor people of his extensive parish. In the year 1821, when the typhus fever made such ravages in Ireland, the fatigue which Mr Wolfe encountered in visiting the sick-a duty to which he was peculiarly devoted—and his zeal in administer

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ing both to the spiritual and temporal wants of his poor flock, considerably affected his health. His gradual decay became visible to his parishioners, and some of them made affectionate private representations to his friends, who tried to withdraw him from the laborious duties of his parish for the recovery of his health.

His character as a parish-priest will be contemplated with more delight than his genius as a poet, or eloquence as a preacher. It is thus delineated by a friend :— As he passed by, all the poor people and children ran to the doors to wel. come him with looks and expressions of the most ardent affection, and with all that wild devotion of gratitude so characteristic of the Irish peasantry. Many fell on their knees, invoking blessings on him, and making the most anxious inquiries about his health. He was sensibly moved by this manifestation of feeling, and met it with all that heartiness of expression, and that affectionate simplicity of manner, which made him as much an object of love as his exalted virtues rendered him an object of respect. The intimate knowledge he seemed to have of all their domestic histories, appeared from the short but significant questions he put to each individual as he hurried along, while at the same time he gave a sketch of the particular characters of several who presented themselves, pointing with a sigh to one, and to another with looks of satisfaction and fond congratulations. It was indeed impossible to behold a scene like this, which can scarcely be described without the deepest but most pleasing emotions. It seemed to realize the often-imagined picture of a primitive minister of the gospel of Christ living in the hearts of his flock, willing to spend and to be spent upon them, enjoying the happy interchange of mutual affection, and affording a pleasing proof that a faithful and firm discharge of duty, when accompanied by kindly sympathies and gracious manners, can scarcely fail to gain the hearts of the humble ranks of the people.'

It was with extreme reluctance that Mr Wolfe, on the entreaty of his friends, left this poor and affectionate peop.e to seek the restoration of his health in the south of Franee. He made a short recovery, but relapsed on his return to Ireland, and died in 1823, in the 32d year of his age, of deep consumption. What better blessing can be desired for Ireland, than that each of its parishes possessed a Charles Wolfe !"

ODE ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning ;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
. And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they 'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun

That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-

But we left him alone with his glory!

VERSES.

IF I had thought thou couldst have died,

I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,

The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,

And thou shouldst smile no more !

And still upon that face I look,

And think 't will smile again ;
And still the thought I will not brook,

That I must look in vain !

But when I speak-thou dost not say,

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid ;
And now I feel, as well I may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,

All cold and all serene-
I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,

Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-

And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,

Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee :
Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore !

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. Bryant's poetry displays a chastened delicacy and simplicity, both in the expression and sentiment, which is equally uncommon and delightful. He possesses a refined fancy and a pure, exquisite taste. His descriptions from nature are executed with a quiet accuracy, and with great freshness and originality. He is soft and sweet in the colouring of his language, graceful in his inagery, and not being profuse of ornament, whatever he uses is select and appropriate, and gives a native richness to his compositions which we would not wish to see diminished or increased.

Thanatopsis is the finest specimen of his genius. Its spirit is like that of Wordsworth, but yet richer; and it

may

rank with the most elevated productions of the English poet.

Bryant's strains are all of them beautifully pure in their moral influence, inspiring the heart with a true love of nature, and a reverence for religion.

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