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JOHN BOWRING.

JOHN BOWRING was born in Exeter, October 17, 1792. He began the study of languages at an early age, and translated many of the popular poems of various European countries. He edited the Westminster Review from 1825 till 1830. He travelled at various times on the Continent, once with a commission from the British Government relative to commercial affairs. He was twice a member of the House of Commons, and in 1849 was appointed British consul at Canton. He returned to England in 1853, and in 1854 was knighted and made Gov- |

ernor of Hong-Kong. In 1856 he produced a sensation, and caused a ministerial crisis, by ordering an attack on the Chinese forts, in consequence of an insult to a Chinese vessel under British protection. For this action he was recalled. He published books of travels in Siam and the Philippine Islands, and a volume of poems entitled "Matins and Vespers" in 1833, which was republished in this country. He was the author of some of our best and most familiar hymns. He died November 22, 1872. His religious belief was Unitarian.

THE WATCHMAN.

WATCHMAN! tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are.-
Traveller! o'er yon mountain's height,
See that glory-beaming star!-
Watchman! does its beauteous ray

Aught of hope or joy foretell ?-
Traveller! yes; it brings the day-
Promised day of Israel.

Watchman! tell us of the night,

Higher yet that star ascends.Traveller! blessedness and light, Peace and truth, its course portends!Watchman! will its beams alone

Gild the spot that gave them birth ?Traveller! ages are its own;

See, it bursts o'er all the earth!

Watchman! tell us of the night,

For the morning seems to dawn.Traveller! darkness takes its flight,

Doubt and terror are withdrawn.Watchman! let thy wanderings cease; Hie thee to thy quiet home.Traveller! lo! the Prince of Peace, Lo! the Son of God is come!

FROM THE RECESSES OF A LOWLY SPIRIT.

FROM the recesses of a lowly spirit,
Our humble prayer ascends; O Father! hear it.
Upsoaring on the wings of awe and meekness,
Forgive its weakness!

We see thy hand-it leads us, it supports us;
We hear thy voice-it counsels and it courts us;
And then we turn away; and still thy kindness
Forgives our blindness.

Oh, how long-suffering, Lord! but thou delightest To win with love the wandering: thou invitest, By smiles of mercy, not by frowns or terrors, Man from his errors.

Father and Saviour! plant within each bosom The seeds of holiness, and bid them blossom In fragrance and in beauty bright and vernal, And spring eternal..

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF GIL VINCENTE.

THE rose looks out in the valley,
And thither will I go!

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The virgin is on the river-side,
Culling the lemons pale:
Thither-yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

The fairest fruit her hand hath culled, 'T is for her lover all:

Thither-yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

In her hat of straw, for her gentle swain,
She has placed the lemons pale:
Thither-yes! thither will I go,

To the rosy vale, where the nightingale
Sings his song of woe.

THE NIGHTINGALE.

FROM THE DUTCH OF MARIA TESSELSCHADE VISSCHER.

PRIZE thou the nightingale,

Who soothes thee with his tale,
And wakes the woods around;

A singing feather he-a winged and wandering sound;

Whose tender carolling Sets all ears listening

Unto that living lyre,

They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,

Whence flow the airy notes his ecstasies inspire; All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.

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What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light

A glorious company of golden streams-
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright-

Music of thousand tongues, formed by one tongue Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?

alone.

O charming creature rare!

Can aught with thee compare?
Thou art all song-thy breast

Thrills for one month o' the year-is tranquil all the rest.

Thee wondrous we may call

Most wondrous this of all,

That such a tiny throat

But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost :
What are ten thousand worlds compared to
Thee?

And what am I then?-Heaven's unnumbered host,

Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance, weighed

Should wake so loud a sound, and pour so loud Against Thy greatness-is a cipher brought

a note.

GOD.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF GABRIEL ROMANOWITCH
DERZHAVIN.

O THOU eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide-
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight!
Thou only God-there is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One,
Whom none can comprehend and none explore!
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone-
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er-
Being whom we call God, and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean-deep-may count
The sands or the sun's rays-but, God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try ́
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark;
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence-Lord! in Thee
Eternity had its foundation; all
Sprung forth from Thee-of light, joy, harmony,
Sole Origin-all life, all beauty Thine;
Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine;
Thou art, and wert, and shalt be! Glorious!
Great!

Light-giving, life-sustaining potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround-
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze,
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from
Thee;

And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.
A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss-

Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly
Eager toward Thy presence-for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell; aspiring high,
Even to the throne of Thy divinity.

I am, O God! and surely Thou must be !

Thou art!-directing, guiding all-Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;
Though but an atom 'midst immensity,
Still I am something, fashioned by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth-
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
Close to the realms where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land!

The chain of being is complete in me—
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is spirit-deity!

I can command the lightning, and am dust!
A monarch and a slave-a worm, a god!
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously
Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod
Lives surely through some higher energy;
For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me! Thou source of life and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its source-to Thee-its author there.

O thoughts ineffable! O visions blest!
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee,
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to Thy deity.

God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek Thy presence-Being wise and good!
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.

JOHN CLARE.

JOHN CLARE was born at Helpstone, Northamptonshire, July 13, 1793. His father was a farm-laborer. John worked "over-hours" to get money to pay for schooling, and it took the savings of two months to pay for the schooling of one. When he had learned to read he bought a second-hand copy of Thomson's "Seasons," and when he had become familiar with that he began to compose poetry. It is said that he was too poor to buy paper to write his poetry on, and was obliged to carry it in his memory. His themes were naturally the scenes and characters around him. Thus he passed thirteen years, working in the fields and making poems, until in 1818 his sonnet to the setting sun attracted

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the attention of a bookseller at Stamford and led to the publication of his "Collection of Original Trifles," followed in 1820 by his "Poems descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery." His subsequent publications were "The Village Minstrel, and other Poems" (1821), and "The Rural Muse" (1836). He received numerous gifts from admirers of his peasant poetry, and an annuity of £45 was purchased for him. He married, and had a large family. But he finally fell into pecuniary difficulties, became mildly in sane, was confined for several years in an asylum, and died on May 19, 1864. His "Life and Remains," edited by J. L. Cherry, was published in London in 1873.

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FIRST LOVE'S RECOLLECTIONS. FIRST love will with the heart remain When its hopes are all gone by,

As frail rose-blossoms still retain

Their fragrance when they die : And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With the shades 'mid which they sprung; As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung.

Mary, I dare not call thee dear,
I've lost that right so long;
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memory's idle song.

I felt a pride to name thy name,

But now that pride hath flown, And burning blushes speak my shame That thus I love thee on.

How loath to part, how fond to meet,
Had we two used to be;

At sunset with what eager feet
I hastened unto thee!
Scarce nine days passed us ere we met
In spring, nay, wintry weather;
Now nine years' suns have risen and set,
Nor found us once together.

Thy face was so familiar grown, Thyself so often nigh,

A moment's memory when alone Would bring thee in mine eye; But now my very dreams forget That witching look to trace; Though there thy beauty lingers yet, It wears a stranger's face.

When last that gentle cheek I prest,
And heard thee feign adieu,

I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true.
A fate like this hath oft befell

Even loftier hopes than ours; Spring bids full many buds to swell, That ne'er can grow to flowers.

THE PRIMROSE.

Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew
The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through,
'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green.
How much thy presence beautifies the ground!
How sweet thy modest, unaffected pride
Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side!
And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found,
The schoolboy roams enchantedly along,
Plucking the fairest with a rude delight;
While the meek shepherd stops his simple song,
To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight;

O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring.

JUNE.

THERE with the scraps of songs, and laugh, and tale,

He lightens annual toil, while merry ale

Goes round, and glads some old man's heart to praise

The threadbare customs of his early days:
How the high bowl was in the middle set
At breakfast-time, when clippers yearly met,
Fill'd full of furmety, where dainty swum
The streaking sugar and the spotting plum.
The maids could never to the table bring
The bowl, without one rising from the ring
To lend a hand; who, if 'twere ta'en amiss,
Would sell his kindness for a stolen kiss.
The large stone pitcher in its homely trim,
And clouded pint-horn with its copper rim,
Were there; from which were drunk, with spirits
high,

Healths of the best the cellar could supply; While sung the ancient swains, in uncouth rhymes,

Songs that were pictures of the good old times.

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Though praise and pomp, to eke the strife,
Rave like a mighty wind;
What are they to the calm of life -

A still and quiet mind?

I mourn not that my lot is low,
I wish no higher state;

I sigh not that Fate made me so,
Nor tease her to be great.

I am content for well I see

What all at last shall find,That life's worst lot the best may be, If that's a quiet mind.

I see the world pass heedless by,
And pride above me tower;

It costs me not a single sigh

For either wealth or power: They are but men, and I'm a man

Of quite as great a kind,— Proud, too, that life gives all she can, A calm and quiet mind.

I never mocked at beauty's shrine,
To stain her lips with lies;
No knighthood's fame or luck was mine,
To win love's richest prize:
And yet I've found in russet weed,

What all will wish to find,
True love and comfort's prize indeed,
A glad and quiet mind.

And come what will of care or woe,
As some must come to all;
I'll wish not that they were not so,
Nor mourn that they befall:
If tears for sorrows start at will,

They're comforts in their kind;
And I am blest, if with me still
Remains a quiet mind.

When friends depart, as part they must,
And love's true joys decay,
That leave us like the summer dust,
Which whirlwinds puff away:
While life's allotted time I brave,

Though left the last behind;
A prop and friend I still shall have,
If I've a quiet mind.

MARY LEE.

I HAVE traced the valleys fair
In May morning's dewy air,
My bonny Mary Lee!
Wilt thou deign the wreath to wear,
Gather'd all for thee?

They are not flowers of pride,
For they graced the dingle-side;
Yet they grew in heaven's smile,

My gentle Mary Lee!

Can they fear thy frowns the while, Though offered by me?

Here's the lily of the vale.
That perfumed the morning gale.

My fairy Mary Lee!

All so spotless and so pale,

Like thine own purity.
And, might I make it known,
'Tis an emblem of my own
Love-if I dare so name

My esteem for thee.

Surely flowers can bear no blame, My bonny Mary Lee!

Here's the violet's modest blue,

That 'neath hawthorns hides from v.ew, My gentle Mary Lee,

Would show whose heart is true,

While it thinks of thee.

While they choose each lowly spot,
The sun disdains them not;
I'm as lowly, too, indeed,

My charming Mary Lee;

So I've brought the flowers to plesi,
And win a smile from thee.

Here's a wild rose just in bud;
Spring's beauty in its hood,
My bonny Mary Lee!
'Tis the first in all the wood

I could find for thee.
Though a blush is scarcely seen,
Yet it hides its worth within,
Like my love; for I've no power,
My angel, Mary Lee,
To speak, unless the flower
Can make excuse for me.

Though they deck no princely halls,
In bouquets for glittering bails,
My gentle Mary Lee!
Richer hues than painted walls

Will make them dear to thee;
For the blue and laughing sky
Spreads a grander canopy,
Than all wealth's golden skill,
My charming Mary Lee!

Love would make them dearer still,
That offers them to thee.

My wreathed flowers are few,
Yet no fairer drink the dew,
My bonny Mary Lee!
They may seem as trifles too-

Not I hope to thee.

Some may boast a richer prize Under pride and wealth's disguise: None a fonder offering bore

Than this of mine to thee; And can true love wish for more? Surely not, Mary Lee!

JULY.

LOUD is the Summer's busy song,
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size
Grow teasing with their melodies,
Till noon burns with its blistering breath
Around, and day dies still as death.
VOL. II.-47

The busy noise of man and brute
Is on a sudden lost and mute;
Even the brook that leaps along
Seems weary of its bubbling song,
And so soft its waters creep,
Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep;
The cricket on its bank is dumb,
The very flies forget to hum;
And, save the wagon rocking roura,
The landscape sleeps without a sound.
The breeze is stopp'd, the lazy bough
Hath not a leaf that dances now;
The taller grass upon the hill,

And spiders' threads are standing still;
The feathers dropp'd, from moorhen's wing,
Which to the water's surface cling,
Are steadfast, and as heavy seem,
As stones beneath them in the stream;
Hawkweed and groundsels' fanning downs
Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;
And in the oven-heated air,
Not one light thing is floating there,
Save that to the earnest eye,
The restless heat seems twittering by.
Noon swoons beneath the heat it made,
And flowers e'en within the shade,
Until the sun slopes in the west
Like weary traveller, glad to rest,
On pillow'd clouds of many hues;
Then Nature's voice its joy renews,
And chequered field and grassy plain
Hum with their summer songs again,
A requiem to the day's decline,
Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine,
As welcome to day's feeble powers,
As falling dews to thirsty flowers.

A SUMMER MORNING.

THE Cocks have now the morn foretold,
The sun again begins to peep,
The shepherd, whistling to his fold,
Unpens and frees the captive sheep.
O'er pathless plains at early hours

The sleepy rustic slowly goes;

The dews, brush'd off from grass and flowers, Remoistening sop his hardened shoes;

While every leaf that forms a shade,
And every floweret's silken top,
And every shivering bent and blade,

Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And, stretching o'er the mountain tops, Is gilding sweet the village spire.

'Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the gurgling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees
Peruse and pause on Nature's book,
When Nature every sweet prepares
To entertain our wish'd delay,-
The images which morning wears,
The wakening charms of early day!

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