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And ne'er to fail? Shall that blest day arrive
When they, whose choice or lot it is to dwell
In crowded cities, without fear shall live
Studious of mutual benefit; and he,

For you, in presence of this little band
Gather'd together on the green hill side,
Your pastor is imbolden'd to prefer
Vocal thanksgivings to th' Eternal King;

Whom morning wakes, among sweet dews and Whose love, whose counsel, whose commands have flowers

made

Of every clime, to till the lonely field,

Your very poorest rich in peace of thought
And in good works; and him, who is endow'd

Be happy in himself? The law of faith,

Working through love, such conquest shall it gain, With scantiest knowledge, master of all truth
Such triumph over sin and guilt achieve?
Which the salvation of his soul requires.
Almighty Lord, thy further grace impart!
Conscious of that abundant favour shower'd
And with that help the wonder shall be seen On you, the children of my humble care,
Fulfill'd, the hope accomplish'd: and thy praise And this dear land, our country while on earth
Be sung with transport and unceasing joy.
We sojourn, have I lifted up my soul,
Joy giving voice to fervent gratitude.
These barren rocks, your stern inheritance;
These fertile fields, that recompense your pains;
The shadowy vale, the sunny mountain top;
Woods waving in the wind their lofty heads,
Or hush'd; the roaring waters, and the still;
They see the offering of my lifted hands-
They hear my lips present their sacrifice-
They know if I be silent, morn or even:

For, though in whispers speaking, the full heart
Will find a vent; and thought is praise to Him,
Audible praise, to Thee, Omniscient Mind,
From whom all gifts descend, all blessings flow!"

This vesper service closed, without delay,
From that exalted station to the plain
Descending, we pursued our homeward course,
In mute composure, o'er the shadowy lake,
and Beneath a faded sky. No trace remain'd

Of those celestial splendours; gray the vault,
Pure, cloudless ether; and the star of eve
Was wanting; but inferior lights appear'd
Faintly, too faint almost for sight; and some
Above the darken'd hills stood boldly forth
In twinkling lustre, ere the boat attain'd
Her mooring place; where to the sheltering tree
Our youthful voyagers bound fast her prow,
With prompt yet careful hands. This done, we
paced

"Once," and with mild demeanour, as he spake,
On us the venerable pastor turn'd
His beaming eye that had been raised to heaven,
"Once, while the name, Jehovah, was a sound
Within the circuit of the seagirt isle
Unheard, the savage nations bow'd the head
To gods delighting in remorseless deeds;
Gods which themselves had fashion'd, to promote
Ill purposes, and flatter foul desires.

Then, in the bosom of yon mountain cove,
To those inventions of corrupted man
Mysterious rites were solemnized: and there,
Amid impending rocks and gloomy woods,
Of those terrific idols, some received
Such dismal service, that the loudest voice
Of the swoln cataracts (which now are heard
Soft murmuring) was too weak to overcome,
Though aided by wild winds, the groans
shrieks

Of human victims, offer'd up t' appease
Or to propitiate. And, if living eyes
Had visionary faculties to see

The thing that hath been as the thing that is,
Aghast we might behold this crystal mere
Bedimm'd with smoke, in wreaths voluminous,
Flung from the body of devouring fires,
To Taranis erected on the heights
By priestly hands, for sacrifice perform'd
Exultingly, in view of open day
And full assemblage of a barbarous host;
Or to Andates, female power! who gave
(For so they fancied) glorious victory.
A few rude monuments of mountain stone
Survive; all else is swept away. How bright
Th' appearances of things! From such, how
changed

Th' existing worship! and with those compared,
The worshippers how innocent and blest!
So wide the difference, a willing mind,
At this affecting hour, might almost think
That Paradise, the lost abode of man,
Was raised again: and to a happy few,
In its original beauty, here restored.
Whence but from Thee, the true and only God,
And from the faith derived through Him who bled
Upon the cross, this marvellous advance
Of good from evil; as if one extreme
Were left the other gain'd?-O ye, who come
To kneel devoutly in yon reverend pile,
Call'd to such office by the peaceful sound
Of Sabbath bells; and ye, who sleep in earth,
All cares forgotten, round its hallow'd walls!

The dewy fields; but ere the vicar's door
Was reach'd, the solitary check'd his steps;
Then, intermingling thanks, on each bestow'd
A farewell salutation,—and, the like
Receiving, took the slender path that leads
To the one cottage in the lonely dell;
But turn'd not without welcome promise given,
That he would share the pleasures and pursuits
Of yet another summer's day, consumed

In wandering with us through the valleys fair,
And o'er the mountain wastes. "Another sun,"
Said he, "shall shine upon us ere we part,—
Another sun, and peradventure more;
If time, with free consent, is yours to give,-
And season favours."

To enfeebled power,
From this communion with uninjured minds,
What renovation had been brought; and what
Degree of healing to a wounded spirit,
Dejected, and habitually disposed

To seek, in degradation of the kind,
Excuse and solace for her own defects;
How far those erring notions were reform'd;
And whether aught, of tendency as good

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On a friendly deck reposing,

They at length for Venice steer;

There, when they had closed their voyage,
One, who daily on the pier

Watch'd for tidings from the east, beheld his lord, Fell down and clasp'd his knees for joy, not uttering word.

Mutual was the sudden transport;
Breathless questions follow'd fast,
Years contracting to a moment,

Each word greedier than the last; "Hie thee to the countess, friend! return with

speed, And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was freed.

"Say that I, who might have languish'd,
Droop'd, and pined till life was spent,
Now before the gates of Stolberg
My deliverer would present

For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.
"Make it known that my companion
Is of royal Eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,

Innocent, and meek, and good,

Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will Holy Church disperse by beams of gospel

light."

Swiftly went that gray-hair'd servant,
Soon return'd a trusty page

Charged with greetings, benedictions,
Thanks and praises, each a gage

For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way, Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.

Fancy (while, to banners floating
High on Stolberg's castle walls,

Deafening noise of welcome mounted,
Trumpets, drums, and atabols)

The devout embraces still, while such tears fell As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.

Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,

Look'd the beautiful deliverer
On that overpowering sight,

While across her virgin cheek pure blushes stray'd,
For every tender sacrifice her heart had made.

On the ground the weeping countess
Knelt, and kiss'd the stranger's hand;
Act of soul-devoted homage,
Pledge of an eternal band:

Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,

Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.

Christian meekness smooth'd for all the path of life, Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.

Constant to the fair Armenian,

Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit
Reverenced, like a sister loved.

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A pleasure house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is the word used in the Lake District for waterfall.

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WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

comparison with those of Dr. Watts, and which are admirably calculated to answer the benevolent purpose for which they are designed.

Mr. Bowles some years ago attracted considerable attention by his controversy with Byron on the subject of the writings of Pope. He advanced certain opinions which went to show that he considered him "no poet," and that, according to the

WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES, of an ancient family in the county of Wilts, was born in the village of King's-Sutton, Northamptonshire-a parish of which his father was vicar-on the 24th of September, 1762. His mother was the daughter of Dr. Richard Grey, chaplain to Nathaniel Crew, Bishop of Durham. The poet received his early education at Winchester school; and he rose to be the senior boy. He was entered at Trinity Col-"invariable principles" of poetry, the century of lege, Oxford, where he obtained the Chancellor's fame which had been accorded to the " Essay on prize for a Latin poem, and where, in 1792, he took Man" was unmerited. Campbell opened the dehis degree. On quitting the university he entered fence; and Byron stepped forward as a warm and into holy orders, and was appointed to a curacy in somewhat angry advocate. A sort of literary warWiltshire; soon afterwards he was preferred to a fare followed; and a host of pamphlets on both living in Gloucestershire; in 1803 he became a sides were rapidly issued. As in all such cases, prebend of Salisbury; and the Archbishop Moore the question remains precisely where it did. presented him with the rectory of Bremhill, Wilts, Bowles, however, though he failed in obtaining a where he has since constantly resided,-only now victory, and made, we imagine, few converts to and then visiting the metropolis,-enjoying the his "invariable principles," manifested during the country and its peculiar sources of profitable de-contest so much judgment and ability, that his light; performing with zeal and industry his paro- reputation as a critic was considerably enhanced. chial duties; and beloved by all who dwell within or approach the happy neighbourhood of his residence.

The Sonnets of Bowles (his first publication) appeared in 1793. They were received with considerable applause; and the writer, if he had obtained no other reward for his labours, would have found ample recompense in the fact that they contributed to form the taste and call forth the genius of Coleridge, whom they "delighted and inspired." The author of "Christabel" speaks of himself as having been withdrawn from seve ral perilous errors" by the genial influence of a style of poetry, so tender, and yet so manly, so natural and real, and yet so dignified and harmonious, as the Sonnets of Mr. Bowles." He was not, how-lent passions of human kind; but he keeps an

ever, satisfied with expressing in prose his sense of obligation, but in poetry poured out his gratitude to his first master in minstrel lore:

"My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles, for those soft strains,
Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of spring."

The poetry of Bowles has not attained a high degree of popularity. He is appreciated more for the purity of his sentiments than for any loftiness of thought or richness of fancy. He has never dealt with themes that "stir men's minds;" but has satisfied himself with inculcating lessons of sound morality, and has considered that to lead the heart to virtue is the chiefest duty of the Muse. His style is, as Coleridge described it nearly fifty years ago, "tender yet manly;" and he has undoubtedly brought the accessories of harmonious versification and graceful language to the aid of "right thinking" and sound judgment. His poems seldom startle or astonish the reader: he does not labour to probe the heart, and depict the more vio-.

In 1805 he published the "Spirit of Discovery by Sea." It is the longest of his productions, and is by some considered his best. The more recem of his works is the "Little Villagers' Verse Book ;" a collection of hymns that will scarcely suffer by

" even tenor," and never disappoints or dissatisfies by attempting a higher flight than that which he may safely venture.

The main point of his argument against Pope will best exhibit his own character. He considers that from objects sublime or beautiful in themselves, genius will produce more admirable creations than it can from those which are comparatively poor and insignificant. The topics upon which Mr. Bowles has employed his pen are such only as are naturally excellent.

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