6 Qu. (37) By the same.
66
There is an apparent inconsistency in the two following passages: according to St. Matthew the woman whose daughter was vexed with a devil," was a native of Canaan. Matt. chap. xv. 22. In St. Mark's Gospel it is said she was a Syrophenician. Mark, chap. vii. 26. How is this seeming contradiction to be reconciled?
7 Qu. (38) By Mr. A. Hirst, of Marsden.
The manufacture of cotton has of late years been so much improved, that cotton yarn has been introduced into silk articles, and made to pass for silk, to which it bears so close a resemblance, as almost to deceive the best judges-required an easy and practical method of detecting this piece of ingenious fraud?
8 Qu. (39) By Mr. J. Baines, jun.
It is remarked that from the creation of the world to the present time, the length of the life of man, and also his bodily strength, have been continually diminishing. How is this to be accounted for?
9 Qu. (40) By the same.
What is the meaning of the word "Urim," mentioned 1 Sam. xxviii. 6. ?
10 Qu. (41) By Mr. M. Phoston.
Are what are called reason in man, and instinct in the animal creation, different principles, or are they one and the same, differing in degree only?
11 Qu. (42) By Mr. J. C., Boston.
Is commerce or agriculture the greater advantage to this country?
POETRY,
ORIGINAL AND SELECT.
SONG,
ADAPTED TO A FAVOURITE WELSH AIR.
EV'NING Zephyr, wildly floating,
Whisper my love!
Paint my heart with passion doating,
Whisper my love!
Breathe thy murmurs, falt'ring, dying,
Prompt the tender wish complying,
Bid her think that I am sighing,
Whisper my love!
Idle streamlet, gently gliding,
Whisper my love!
With soft fall, indiff'rence chiding,
Whisper my love!
As she views thy current going
O'er thy channel, brightly glowing,
Bid her think my tears are flowing,
Whisper my love!
Willow, drooping o'er the fountain,
Whisper my love!
Absent moments say I'm counting,
Whisper my love!
Rust'ling midst the moon-beams shining,
As thy branches wave reclining,
Bid her think 'tis me repining,
Whisper my love!
Flitting bat, on night-wind flying,
Whisper my love!
Say that I, through scorn, am dying,
Whisper my love!
As thy faint form flutters over,
While deep gloom the world doth cover,
Say my spirit soon shall hover,
Guarding my love!
Stamford.
ON THE KING'S ILLNESS*.
"REST, rest afflicted spirit; quickly pass
Thy hour of bitter suffering! rest awaits thee,
There, where, the load of weary life laid down,
The peasant and the king repose together.
There peaceful sleep, thy quiet grave bedew'd
With tears of those who loved thee-Not for thee,
In the dark chambers of the nether world,
Shall spectre kings rise from their burning thrones,
And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say,
'Art thou become like us?' Oh! not for thee:
For thou hadst human feelings, and hast walked
A man with men, and kindly charities,
Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine,
And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used
To gaze on kings with admiration fond :
And thou hast knelt at meek religion's shrine
With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights
Sacred in every breast; and therefore rise
Affectionate, for thee, the orisons
And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes
Whence the loud organ peals, and rafter'd roofs
Of humbler worship; still, remembering this,
A nation's pity, and a nation's love
Linger beside thy couch, in this the day
Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults
Of erring judgment, and not will perverse.
Yet, oh that thou hadst closed the wounds of war!
That had been praise to suit a higher strain.
Farewell, the years roll'd down the gulf of time!
Thy name has chronicled a long bright page
Of England's story, and perhaps the babe
Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes
On this eventful world, when aged grown,
Musing on times gone by, shall sigh and say,
Shaking his thin grey hairs, whitened with grief,
'Our father's days were happy!'-Fare thee well!
*These beautiful lines are extracted from the Monthly Repository for October.
My thread of life has even run with thine
For many a lustre, and thy closing day
I contemplate, not mindless of my own,
Nor to its call reluctant."
LINES
WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF CHARLOTTE SMITH'S POEMS.
WHENCE are those strains that to the midnight air
Responsive echo Philomela's woe,
Soothing the rugged brow of wan despair
To soft repose? And can they not bestow,
Sweet songstress, one alleviating charm,
To still the breast whence their sweet sorrows flow? Yet though the human lyre affords no balm T'allay the griefs thou hast endured below, Thy faithful guide, religion! steadfastly
Points to the courts where concerts ceaseless chime, In concord sweet of heavenly melody:
Partaking happiness to dateless time,
May thy soul rest in that bright sphere sublime, Beyond th' oppressor's scourge, the proud man's conG.
tumely.
LINES
WRITTEN DURING A SEA-STORM. 1811.
BEHOLD, where from yon low'ring cloud
The winged lightnings swiftly fly;
And hark! the thunder, pealing loud,
Re-echoes through the vaulted sky!
Behold each undulating wave
Is crested with the whit'ning foam;
And murmurs yon drear rocks to lave,
Or o'er the sandy beach to roam !
See where, with harsh discordant cry,
The sea-mews cleave the lurid air,
And as from cliff to cliff they fly,
Seem of the coming storm aware.
No other sound attention draws,
But every breeze is hush'd and still;
All nature makes a solemn pause,
A pause portentuous of ill.
But hark! in one tremendous crash
The briny waves, impetuous driv❜n,
Against the shore with fury clash,
Impell'd by every wind of heav'n.
Soon back with dire commotion roll'd,
They in the deep embosom'd lie,
Then swift their ponderous size unfold,
And foaming seek the blacken'd sky.
Should such a scene, when woe betides,
Present its dread terrific form,
Then raise thy soul to him who rides
The whirlwind, and directs the storm.
LOVE.
COMMUNICATED BY MR. C. DE WEIGHT, PARSON-DROVE.
LOVE is honey mix'd with gall,
A thraldom free, a freedom thrall,
A bitter sweet, a pleasant sour,
Got in a year, lost in an hour;
A peaceful war, a warlike peace,
Whose wealth brings want, whose wants increase,
Full long pursuits, and little gain,
Uncertain pleasure, certain pain;
Regard of neither right or wrong,
For short delights, repentance long.
Love is a sickness of the thought,
Conceit of pleasure dearly bought,
A restless passion of the mind,
A labyrinth of errors blind;
A sugared poison, fair deceit,
A bait for fools, a furious heat,
A chilling cold, a wondrous passion
Exceeding man's imagination,
Which none can tell in whole nor part,
But only he that feels the smart.
1736,
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