Nor ask they idly, for uncounted lies Uncursed by doubt our earliest creed we take; Too oft the light that led our earlier hours Faith loves to lean on Time's destroying arm, The gay can weep, the impious can adore From morn's first glimmerings on the chancel floor Yet there are graves whose rudely-shapen sod Of hooded, mitred or tiaraed clay! Deal meekly, gently with the hopes that guide What though the champions of thy faith esteem Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life? Let my free soul expanding as it can Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan ; True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled Grieve as thou must o'er History's reeking page; I conclude with the following genial stanzas, worth all the temperance songs in the world, as inculcating temperance. They really form a compendium of the History of New England: ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL. This ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times, A Spanish galleon brought the bar,- -so runs the ancient tale,— 'Twas purchased by an English squire, to please his loving dame, But changing hands, it reached at length a Puritan divine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, perhaps, He went to Leyden, where he found conventicles and schnaps. And then, of course, you know what's next,-it left the Dutchman's shore, With those that in the Mayflower came,-a hundred souls and more,Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes,— To judge by what is still on hand,—at least a hundred loads. 'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim, He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared,— That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew, A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows, “Drink, John,” she said, "'twill do you good,—poor child, you'll never bear This working in the dismal trench out in the midnight air; And if,-God bless me !-you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill." So John did drink,—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill! I tell you there was generous warmth in good old English cheer; I love the memory of the past,-its pressed yet fragrant flowers,— Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me; That dooms one to those dreadful words-"My dear, where have you been ?" S Dr. Holmes is still a young man, and one of the most eminent physicians in Boston. He excels in singing his own charming songs, and speaks as well as he writes; and, after reading even the small specimens of his poetry that my space has enabled me to give, my fair readers will not wonder to hear that he is one of the most popular persons in his native city. He is a small, compact little man (says our mutual friend), the delight and ornament of every society that he enters, buzzing about like a bee, or fluttering like a humming-bird, exceedingly difficult to catch, unless he be really wanted for some kind act, and then you are sure of him. XXXII. LETTERS OF AUTHORS. SAMUEL RICHARDSON BESIDES the rich collection of State Papers and Historical Dispatches which have been discovered in the different public offices, and the still more curious bundles of family epistles (such as the Paxton correspondence) which are every now and then disinterred from the forgotten repositories of old mansions, there is no branch of literature in which England is more eminent than the letters of celebrated men. From the moment in which Mason, by a happy inspiration, made Gray tell his own story, and by dint of his charming letters contrived to produce, from the uneventful life of a retired scholar, one of the most attractive books ever printed, almost every biographer of note has followed his example. The lives of Cowper, of Byron, of Scott, of Southey, of Charles Lamb, of Dr. Arnold, works full of interest and of vitality, owe their principal charm to this source. Nay, such is the reality and identity belonging to letters written at the moment, and intended only for the eye of a favorite friend, that it is probable that any genuine series of epistles, were the writer ever so little distinguished, would, provided they were truthful and spontaneous, possess the invaluable quality of individuality which so often causes us to linger before an old portrait of which we know no more than that it is a Burgomaster by Rembrandt, or a Venetian Senator by Titian. The least skillful pen, when flowing from the fullness of the heart, and untroubled by any misgivings of after publication, shall often paint with as faithful and life-like a touch as either of those great masters. Of letter-writers by profession we have indeed few, although Horace Walpole, bright, fresh, quaint, and glittering as one of |