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POETRY.

Fragment of a Version of the Twenty-second Psalm.

BY HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

My God, my God -Oh! why dost thou forsake me?
Why art thou distant in the hour of fear?
To thee, my wonted help, I still betake me,
To thee I clamour, but thou dost not hear.
The hour of morning witnesses my sighing,
The lonely night hour views me weep in vain;
Yet thou art holy - and on thee relying,

Our fathers were released from grief and pain:
To thee they cried, and thou didst hear their wailing;
On thee they trusted, and their trust was sure;
But I, poor, wretched, undone son of failing,

I, without hope, must scorn and hate endure.

Me they revile, with many ills molested,

They bid me seek from thee, my Lord, redress;
On God, they say, his hope and trust he rested,
Let God relieve him in his deep distress.
To me, Almighty, in thy mercy shining,

Life's dark and dangerous portals thou didst ope;
And softly on my mother's lap reclining,

Breath'd through my breast the lively soul of hope.
E'en from the womb, thou art my God, my father;
And me, now trouble weighs me to the ground,
Me, heavy ills have worn; and faint, and feeble,
The bulls of Bashan have beset me round.
My heart is melted, and my soul is weary;

The wicked ones have pierced my hands and feet:
Lord, let thy influence cheer my bosom dreary;
My help, my strength, let me thy presence greet.
Save me, oh! save me, from the sword dividing;
Give me my darling from the jaws of death;
Thee will I praise, and, in thy name confiding,
Proclaim thy mercies with my latest breath.

STANZAS.

OH, Father! unto thee we fly,

When earthly raptures lose their zest,
When Pleasure shakes her wings on high,
In heaven to seek her native nest;
When vanished is the cherub guest,
And earth cannot the void supply,
In thy parental arms to rest,
Oh, Father! unto thee we fly.
When young affections are forgot,

And Love itself hath ceased to be,
Oh! dark indeed would be their lot,
If they could not ascend to thee.
From grosser love our spirits flee,
To share in that which cannot die;

From beauty earthly beauty-free,
Oh, Father! unto thee we fly.

When friends on whom the heart reposed,
To shed around a guiding ray,
In bitterness their souls have closed
Upon the light which led the way;
When false alluring meteors play,
The downward easy paths to try,
To walk in thine unclouded day,
Oh, Father! unto thee we fly.
The mingled cup we all must share,

But there are some to whom the bowl

Is doubly drugged-yet these must bear
Their lot, and deeply drain the whole.
How freshly heaven's sweet waters roll,
Their bitter draught to purify;

And rests how calmly rests the soul,
Oh, Father! when to thee they fly.

B. B. W.

ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.

Di me non pranger tu; che miei di fersi,
Morendo, eterni.

Oн, yes! she was dear to us all, and in dying

Her love was more tenderly twined in the breast; For she looked like a saint from this cold region flying, To wing her glad way to the walls of the blest.

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We will mourn not or weep, for her pathway of light
Through a wearisome world was uncloudedly fair;
To her heavenly home hath she taken her flight,
And no shadow can sully her purity there.

Who can say, had the will of Omnipotence spared

Her young years, that their course had been spotlessly trod; E'en the angels of light, when they foolishly dared To repose on themselves, were forsaken of God. Yes, affection and friendship shall cease to repine

At the loss which hath left them benighted and dim; For she dwells in the soul-searching light of his shrine, Offering up, offering up grateful incense to him.

B. B. W.

A THEME FOR A POET.

STANZAS, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1814, IN CONTEMPLATION OF A POEM, WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN EXECUTED.

"What shall I do to be for ever known ?”

THE arrow, that shall lay me low,
Was shot from Fate's unerring bow,
The hour I first drew breath;
And every footstep I proceed,
It tracks me with increasing speed;
I turn, it meets me; Death
Has given such impulse to that dart,
It points for ever at my heart.

And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived,—that I am dead :
Of all I leave behind

A few may weep a little while,
Then bless my memory with a smile:
What monument of mind
Can I bequeath to deathless fame,
That after times may love my name

Let Southey sing of war's alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,
The glory and the guilt

Of nations treacherously enslaved,
Or realms by patriot-martyrs saved:
Of blood insanely spilt,

And millions sacrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great,

?

COWLEY.

Let Scott, in wilder strains, delight
To chant the lady and the knight,

The tournament, the chase,
The wizzard's deed without a name,
Perils by ambush, flood, and flame;
Or picturesquely trace

The hills that form a world on high,
The lake that seems a downward sky.

Let Wordsworth weave, in mystic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably sublime,

And sympathies unknown;

Yet so our yielding breasts enthrall,
His soul shall transmigrate through all,
His thoughts become our own;
And strangely pleased, we smile to find
Such hidden treasures in our mind.
Let Campbell's sweeter numbers flow
Through every change of joy or woe,
Hope's morning dreams display,
The Pennsylvanian cottage wild,
The frenzy of O'Connor's child,
Or Linden's dreadful day;

And still in each new theme appear,
Το
every Muse and Grace more dear.
Let Byron, with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot, and fiery brand
Lit at the flames of hell,

Go down, and search the human heart,
Till fiends from every corner start,
Their crimes and plagues to tell;
Then, let him fling his torch away,
And sun his soul in heaven's pure day.
Transcendent Masters of the Lyre!
Not to your honours I aspire,
Humbler yet higher views
Have touch'd my spirit into flame;
pomp of Fiction I disclaim;
Fair TRUTH! be thou my Muse;
Reveal in splendour deeds obscure;
Abase the proud, exalt the poor.
I sing the men, who left their home,
Amidst barbarian clans to roam;
Who land and ocean crossed,
Led by a star, discerned on high
By Faith's unseen, all-seeing eye,
To seek and save the lost;

The

Where'er the curse on Adam spread,

To call his children from the dead.

Strong in the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the cross, despised the shame;
And, like their Master here,
Wrestled with danger, pain, distress,
Hunger, and cold, and nakedness,
And every form of fear;

To taste his love their only joy,
To tell that love their best employ.

O Thou, of old in Bethlehem born,
A Man of sorrows, and of scorn,
Jesus, the Sinner's Friend!
O THOU, enthroned, in filial right,
Above all creature power and height;
Whose kingdom shall extend,
Till earth, like heaven, thy name shall fill,
And men, like angels, do thy will:

THOU, whom I love, but cannot see;
My Lord! my God! look down on me,
My low affections raise;

Thy Spirit of life and light impart,
Enlarge, inspire, inflame my heart;
And while I spread thy praise,

Shine on my path, in mercy shine,
Prosper my work, and make it thine.

Sheffield.

J. M.

PHILOSOPHICAL AND LITERARY
INTELLIGENCE.

Alleged Important Invention in Hydraulics.-A prospectus has lately been circulated in Paris, of a new machine, which, if we may believe its inventors, will entirely overturn the present system of hydraulics. They engage to supply a small portable steam-engine, which will raise water to the height of 60 feet, at the rate of 15 quarts per minute. The machine will, it is said, consume but a pennyworth of coals in an hour, in which time it will raise 900 quarts to the specified height. It is to cost 600 francs (£25), and to last more than a hundred years. No payment is required until the engine has been tried and given satisfaction; until it is fixed and raises the water from the well to the roof of the house, which will thus be secured against the destructive ravages of fire. The proprietors likewise offer, at a progressive advance, machines which will raise double, triple, and decuple

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