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I've adored the God of nature

Yea, the universal Lord,
In the closet, at the altar,

On the sea, and on the sward ; And I stood beneath these pillars

'Twas a Sabbath morn in May, And I felt-ah! who can tell it ?

Never, never lips of clay! 'Twas that heaving heart-devotion

That hath neither sigh nor pray'r,
But a swelling and a rushing

In the inmost spirit, where
Ten thousand springs were gushing

It had ne'er been dreamt were there ;-
And the on and upward springing
Of a faint and dreamy ringing,
As if of the passions singing
Through each fibre of the brain,--

The battle-ground of many thoughts That reeled and wheeled again;

Then seethed in rushing roll,

Like fire-drops through the soul,
With a wildly-winning pain ;
Then a gazing up to heaven

Seeming less in life than death,
'Mid a quickening of the pulses,
And a shortening of the breath ;

Then a bending towards the sodSighing, “light enough is given--

Let us bow before our God !"
Oh ! beneath the proudest altar

Consecrated to his name,-
Though I might have felt his presence,

I could ne'er have felt the same
As between those warring waters

Where our northern land is lost, And that pillared pile, the glory

Of old Dalriada's coast.


There is grandeur in your city,

Where the sculptured columns soar, And the sea of human beauty

Heaveth, heaveth evermore. There is grandeur in yon mountain, When beneath the burning West

Ten thousand tiny torches

At as many pearly porches
O'er that mountain's heathery breast

Flash and twinkle--flash and twinkle,

As the dying day-beams sprinkle
Their red life-drops o'er its crest-
O'er that showery, fiowery crest;

While the rosy vapour, rising
Round the tomb of Light supernal,

Floats and tinges - Hoats and tinges
Feathery clouds with snowy fringes,

Till they meet the musing eye,
Like the locks of the Eternal

Op that silvery waste of sky.

There is grandeur--there is grandeur

When the red sun disappears, And the mourning face of heaven

Waxeth bright with starry tears. Yea, above, below is grandeur,

When the dazzling day comes down, Till each distant atom sparkles

Like some passing seraph's crown. There is grandeur in the valley, When along the shores of light

Floats a sea of twilight vapour,

Till the pine grove, tall and taper, Wears the gloom of coming night;

And the silent blast descendeth,

Swimming-skimming through the haze,
Till the tasselled grass-stalk bendeth

As if trodden by your gaze;
While across the ripening meadow
Fleeth shadow after shadow ;---
Gloomy spirits seem they passing,
O'er the sward their sadness tracing,

Where each unseen light-foot plays.
Oh! there's beauty--oh! there's beauty,

Seek we, turn we where we will, But a vision haunts my spirit

Of sublimer beauty still. Be it mine to live and listen,

Where the stormy echoes ring, -
When the angel of the tempest

O'er these waters flaps his wing ;
And the waves, like white-robed choristers,

Wild hallelujahs sing,--
Wild hallelujahs utter,
Or their deeper worship mutter

To the All, of all revered,
Underneath each kingly column


Stark and grizzled,
Of the stately, stern and solemn,

Huge and mystic, wild and weird,

Caverned, clouded, cleft and seared
Temple of the Form of wonder,
By the mystic sons of thunder
Amid storm and darkness reared.



“ The most valuable collections of catches, rounds, and canons, for three or four voices, were cautiously circulated during the Protectorate; and deep in the retirement of many such a bouse as Woodstock the prayers for the Restoration and the practice of profano music, were kept up together."

“ The merry monarch loved a tune, and small blame to him."-Quarterly Reriece.


Cavalier music! Shirley Chase,

Hidden deep amid oak-trees royal,
Is the noble home of a knightly race

Old as the oak-trees-proud and loyal.
Snow has fallen on the White King's bier-

Cromwell lords it, late and early,
But as yet his troopers come not here :

At home in his hall sits Sir Everard Shirley.


Moonlight pours through the painted oriels,

Firelight flickers on pictured walls ;
Full of solemn and sad memorials

Is the room where that mingled glimmer falls.
There is the banner of Arthur Shirley,

Who died for CHARLES on a misty wold :
There is his portrait-an infant curly --

Whose corse in an unknown grave lies cold.


Hot and sudden swoop'd Rupert's horse

Down on the villanous Roundhead churls,
But they left young Arthur a mangled corse,

With the red mire clotting his chesnut curls :
Only son of an ancient race

As any that dwells in England's realm-
Ah, a shadow sleeps on Sir Everard's face

When he thinks of his soldier's snow-plumed helm.

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Under the moon on the cool sea shore
The wind walks over the spacious floor,
Kissing the snowy bosom'd sails,
Daintily dipping through azure vales,
And over the crisp foam bearing along
The musing mariner's midnight song ;
As by the rising helm with hands
Lit in the compass lamp he stands,
Thinking of those he left at noon,
Sad on the green shore under the moon.


Under the moon by the dusty road
Pace we on to the old abode ;
Over its sycamore'd roof and walls
The listless splendour floating falls ;
Peering into the casement nook,
Piled with many a brown old book :
Spirits are they whose pages teem
With thoughtful ditty and pictured dream ;
Spirits amid whose silence soon
Our own shall slumber, under the moon.

T. J.


ALL young men conscious of possessing or who think they possess talents above mediocrity are ambitious; but only a few-a very few-succeed in realizing their youthful aspirations. To most of them the gates of advancement refuse to turn on their golden hinges. Of the rest, the majority, if they do get an entrance, are so soured by the repeated refusals of the churlish porter whom men call Fate or Luck, that they have no spirit remaining to enjoy those Elysian plains which they had so often dreamed of; or having lost zest for the pomp of those marble halls, the revels of which they so often longed to enjoy, though the gate be open, they do not wish to enter, and prefer setting up their tabernacle outside the adamantine walls. But there are still in all ages, a few who rise to the summit

of their most extravagant hopes, who even win an entrance before the chills of age have deprived them of the power of enjoyment, or who, carrying the zest of youth with them throughout life, strive as eagerly and enjoy as keenly in the frosts of December as amidst the

soms of May, What is it that distinguishes those favorites of nature from the rest of her children? What is the secret of that fascination before which even the powers of nature seem to yield ? We speak not of those who are born with the silver spoon, who have been brought up in the marble palaces, and have sported as children in the Elysian fields, but of the few among the outer tenants, the cottars and squatters of the great common,

who force their entrance into the palace grounds. There can be no mistake as

* Contributions to the Edinburgh Review, by Henry, Lord Brougham, F.R.S., Member of the National Institute of France, and of the Royal Academy of Naples. In 3 vols. London and Glasgow : Richard Griffin and Co Publishers to the University of Glasgow, 1856.

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