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TRUE KNOWLEDGE.

What is true knowledge?-Is it with keen eye
Of lucre's sons to thread the mazy way?
Is it of civic rights, and royal sway,
And wealth political, the depths to try?
Is it to delve the earth, or soar the sky;

To marshal nature's tribes in just array;
To mix, and analyze, and mete, and weigh
Her elements, and all her powers descry?
These things, who will may know them, if to know
Breed not vain-glory: but o'er all to scan
God, in his works and word shown forth below;
Creation's wonders, and Redemption's plan,
Whence came we, what to do, and whither go-
This is true knowledge, and "the whole of man."

THE LORD'S DAY.

Hail to the day which He who made the heaven,
Earth, and their armies, sanctified and blest,
Perpetual memory of the Maker's rest!
Hail to the day when He by whom was given
New life to man, the tomb asunder riven,

Arose! That day His church hath still confest,
At once Creation's and Redemption's feast,
Sign of a world call'd forth, a world forgiven.
Welcome that day, the day of holy peace,

The Lord's own day! to man's Creator owed,
And man's Redeemer; for the soul's increase
In sanctity, and sweet repose bestow'd;
Type of the rest when sin and care shall cease,
The rest remaining for the loved of God!

THE CHURCH BELLS.

What varying sounds from yon gray pinnacles
Sweep o'er the ear and claim the heart's reply!
Now the blithe peal of home festivity,

Natal or nuptial, in full concert swells;
Now the brisk chime, or voice of alter'd bells,
Speaks the due hour of social worship nigh:
And now the last stage of mortality

The deep dull toll with lingering warning tells.
How much of human life those sounds comprise-
Birth, wedded love, God's service, and the tomb!
Heard not in vain, if thence kind feelings rise,

Such as befit our being, free from gloom Monastic-prayer that communes with the skies, And musings mindful of the final doom.

PRAYER.

Ere the morning's busy ray
Call you to your work away;
Ere the silent evening close

Your wearied eyes in sweet repose

To lift your heart and voice in prayer
Be your first and latest care.

He, to whom the prayer is due,

From heaven, His throne, shall smile on you;
Angels sent by Him shall tend,

Your daily labor to befriend,

And their nightly vigils keep

To guard you in the hour of sleep.

When through the peaceful parish swells

The music of the Sabbath-bells,

Duly tread the sacred road

Which leads you to the house of God;

The blessing of the Lamb is there,

And God is in the midst of her."

And, oh! where'er your days be pass'd,
And, oh! howe'er your lot be cast,
Still think on Him whose eye surveys,
Whose hand is over all your ways.

Abroad, at home, in weal, in wo,
That service which to heaven you owe,
That bounden service duly pay,
And God shall be your strength alway.

He only to the heart can give

Peace and true pleasure while you live;
He only, when you yield your breath,
Can guide you through the vale of death.

He can, he will, from out the dust
Raise the blest spirits of the just;
Heal every wound, hush every fear;
From every eye wipe every tear;
And place them where distress is o'er,
And pleasures dwell for evermore.

HORACE SMITH, 1780-1849.

HORACE SMITH, the brother of James, and co-author with him of the famous "Rejected Addresses," was born in London, in the year 1780. Besides his share

See under biography of James, page 373. Of the "Rejected Addresses," Horace wrote No. 1. "Loyal Effusion," by W. T. F., (William Thomas Fitzgerald;) No. 3, "An Address without a Phoenix," by S. T. P., (anonymous;) No. 4, "Cui Bono," by Lord B.. (Byron: Na 6, "The Living Lustres," by T. M., (Moore;) No. 8, "Drury's Dirge," by Laura Matildə,

of the "Addresses," he has distinguished himself by his novels and historical romances, and was a frequent contributor to the periodicals and annuals, and in light literature was one of the most entertaining writers of his day. He died at Tunbridge Wells, whither he had gone for his health, on the 12th of July, 1849.

A TALE OF DRURY LANE.

*

*

BY W. S. (SCOTT.)

*

As Chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flash'd upon her eyes-
So London's sons in nightcap woke,
In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,
"The playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tail its lustre lends

To every window-pane :

Blushes each spout in Martlet Court,

And Barbican, moth-eaten fort,
And Covent Garden kennels sport

A bright ensanguined drain;

Meux's new brewhouse shows the light,
Rowland Hill's chapel, and the height
Where patent shot they sell:
The Tennis Court, so fair and tall,
Partakes the ray, with Surgeons' Hall,
The Ticket Porters' house of call,
Old Bedlam, close by London Wall,
Wright's shrimp and oyster shop withal,
And Richardson's hotel.

Nor these alone, but far and wide
Across red Thames's gleaming tide,
To distant fields the blaze was borne;
And daisy white and hoary thorn,
In borrow'd lustre seem'd to sham
The rose or red sweet Wil-li-am.

To those who on the hills around
Beheld the flames from Drury's mound,
As from a lofty altar rise;

It seem'd that nations did conspire,
To offer to the god of fire

Some vast stupendous sacrifice!
The summon'd firemen woke at call,
And hied them to their stations all.

(anonymous;) No. 9, "A Tale of Drury Lane," by W. S., (Scott;) No. 10, "Johnson's Ghost;" No. 11, "The Beautiful Incendiary," by Hon. W. S., (William Spencer;) No. 12, “Fire and Ale," by M. G. L., (Matthew Gregory Lewis, otherwise called Monk Lewis;) No. 15, "Architectural Atoms," by Dr. B., (Buɛby ;) and No. 21, "Punch's Apotheosis," by T. H., (Theodore Hook.)

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The firemen, terrified, are slow
To bid the pumping torrent flow,
For fear the roof should fall.
Back, Robins, back! Crump, stand aloof!
Whitford, keep near the walls!
Huggins, regard your own behoof,
For, lo! the blazing rocking roof
Down, down in thunder falls!

An awful pause succeeds the stroke,
And o'er the ruins volumed smoke,
Rolling around its pitchy shroud,

Conceal'd them from the astonish'd crowd.

At length the mist awhile was clear'd,
When lo! amid the wreck uprear'd,
Gradual a moving head appear'd,
And Eagle firemen knew

'Twas Joseph Muggins, name revered,
The foreman of their crew.
Loud shouted all in signs of wo,
"A Muggins to the rescue, ho!"
And pour'd the hissing tide;
Meanwhile the Muggins fought amain,
And strove and struggled all in vain,
For rallying but to fall again,
He totter'd, sunk, and died!
Did none attempt before he fell
To succor one they loved so well?
Yes, Higginbottom did aspire
(His fireman's soul was all on fire)
His brother chief to save;
But ah! his reckless generous ire
Served but to share his grave!

'Mid blazing beams and scalding streams, Through fire and smoke he dauntless broke,

Where Muggins broke before.

But sulphury stench and boiling drench
Destroying sight, o'erwhelm'd him quite;
He sunk to rise no more.

Still o'er his head, while Fate he braved,
His whizzing water-pipe he waved;
"Whitford and Mitford, ply your pumps;
You, Clutterbuck, come, stir your stumps;
Why are you in such doleful dumps?

A fireman, and afraid of bumps!

What are they fear'd on? fools-'od rot 'em!"
Were the last words of Higginbottom.'

**

Of the prose addresses, the following portion of that spoken by "Johnson's Ghost" is an admirable imitation of the style of the author of the "Rambler." [Ghost of DR. JOHNSON rises from trap-door P. S., and Ghost of BOSWELL from trap-door O. P. The latter bows respectfully to the House, and obsequiously to the Doctor's Ghost, and retires.]

Doctor's Ghost loquitur.

That which was organized by the moral ability of one has been executed by the physical efforts of many, and Drury Lane Theatre is now complete. Of that part behind the curtain, which has not yet been destined to glow beneath the brush of the varnisher, or vibrate to the hammer of the carpenter, little is thought by the public, and little need be said by the committee. Truth, however, is not to be sacrificed for the accommodation of either; and he who should pronounce that our edifice has received its final embellishment, would be disseminating falsehood without incurring favor, and risking the disgrace of detection without participating the advantage of success.

Professions lavishly effused and parsimoniously verified are alike inconsistent with the precepts of innate rectitude and the practice of external policy: let it not then be conjectured, that because, we are unassuming, we are imbecile; that forbearance is any indication of despondency, or humility of demerit. He that is the most assured of success will make the fewest appeals to favor, and where nothing is claimed that is undue, nothing that is due will be with

A swelling opening is too often succeeded by an insignificant conclusion. Parturient mountains have ere now produced muscipular abortions; and the auditor who compares incipient grandeur with final vulgarity is reminded of the pious hawkers of Constantinople, who solemnly perambulate her streets, exclaiming, "In the name of the Prophet-figs!"

"A Tale of Drury Lane," by Walter Scott, is, upon the whole, admirably executed, though the introduction is rather tame. The burning is described with the mighty minstrel's characteristic love of localities.-Edinburgh Review.

"I certainly must have written this myself," said Sir Walter, pleasantly, to one of the authors, pointing to the description of the Fire," although I forget upon what occasion."

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