ODE TO JEHOVAH, IN high JEHOVAH's praise, my strain Our father's GOD! THY name we raise Beyond the bounds of mortal praise, The Chieftain and the Lord of war. Far in the caverns of the deep Their chariots sunk to rise no more; What lambent lightnings round THEE gleam, The bosom of the abyss reveal'd, "Swift, steeds of Egypt, speed your course, When, like a ponderous mass of lead, Resistless might and mercy dwell, With grateful hearts THY praises swell! Outstretch'd we saw Tar red right hand, The earth her solid jaws expand; Adown the gulf alive they sink :While we, within the incumbent main, Beheld the tumbling floods in vain Storm on our narrow pathway's brink. But, far as fame's shrill notes resound, With dire dismay the nations hear; Old Edom's sons with laurels crown'd, And Moab's warriors melt with fear. The petrifying tale disarms The might of Canaan's countless swarms, Appall'd their heroes sink supine; No mail'd band with thrilling cries The might of Jacob's sons defies, That moves to conquer Palestine. Nor burning sands our way impede, Where nature's glowing embers lie; But, led by THEE, we safely tread Beneath the furnace of the sky. To fields, where fertile olives twine Their branches with the clustering vine Soon shalt THOU Jacob's armies bring; To plant them by Tax mighty hand Where the proud towers of Salem stand; And ever reign their God and King. Far in the deep's unfathom'd caves Lie strew'd the flower of Mazur's land, Save when the surge, that idly raves, Heaves their cold corses on the sand. With courage unappall'd, in vain They rush'd within the channell'd main; Their heads the billows folded o'er : While THOU hast Israel's legions led Through the green ocean's coral bed, To ancient Edom's palmy shore. ODE TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. WRITTEN IN CHERICAL, MALABAR. SLAVE of the dark and dirty mine! So bright, whom I have bought so dear?— The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave ! Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade!- The daring thoughts that soar'd sublime A gentle vision comes by night My lonely widow'd heart to cheer; Her eyes are dim with many a tear, That once were guiding stars to mine: Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! I cannot bear to see thee shine. For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, I cross'd the tedious ocean-wave, To roam in climes unkind and new. STAR of the wide and pathless sea, We call'd no other name but thine, Star of the vast and howling main! Star of the dark and stormy sea! Bright rising o'er the hoary wave, The surging seas recede to pave Star of the desert waters wild, On that chaste bosom loves to lie; And angel voices name on high The mother of the heavenly king. THE MEMORY OF THE PAST. For still the memory of our tender years, And softer tints than ever nature wears.Lo! now, to fancy, Teviot's vale appears Adorn'd with flowers of more enchanting hue And fairer bloom than ever Eden knew, With all the charms that infancy endears. Dear scenes! which grateful memory still employ, Why should you strive to blast the present joy? A MORNING SCENE. Lo! in the vales, where wandering rivulets run, While on their chalky summits glimmering dance K CHANGES OF HOME. As every prospect opens on my view, I seem'd to live departed years anew; When in these wilds a jocund, sportive child, Each flower self-sown my heedless hours beguiled; The wabret leaf, that by the pathway grew, The wild-briar rose, of pale and blushful hue, The thistle's rolling wheel, of silken down, The blue-bell, or the daisy's pearly crown, The gaudy butterfly, in wanton round, That, like a living pea-flower, skimm'd the ground! Again I view each rude romantic glade, Where once with tiny steps my childhood stray'd To watch the foam-bell of the bubbling brook, Or mark the motions of the clamorous rook, Who saw her nest, close thatch'd with ceaseless toil, At summer eve become the woodman's spoil! Green down ascending drink the moorish rills, And yellow corn-fields crown the heathless hills, Where to the breeze the shrill brown linnet sings, And prunes with frequent bill his russet wings. High and more high the shepherds drive their flocks, And climb with timid step the hoary rocks; From cliff to cliff the ruffling breezes sigh, Where idly on the sun-beat steeps they lie, And wonder, that the vale no more displays The pastoral scenes that pleased their early days. No more the cottage roof, fern-thatch'd and gray, Invites the weary traveller from the way, To rest, and taste the peasant's simple cheer, Repaid by news and tales he loved to hear; The clay-built wall, with woodbine twisted o'er, The house-leek clustering green above the door, While through the sheltering elms, that round them grew, The winding smoke arose in columns blue;- Gone are the peasants from the humble shed, Or else, too proud where once he loved to fawn, TEVIOTDALE. LAND of my fathers!-though no mangrove here O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear, Nor scaly palm her finger'd scions shoot, Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit, Nor golden apples glimmer from the treeLand of dark heaths and mountains! thou art free. Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot! runs, With unatoned blood of Gambia's sons: No drooping slave, with spirit bow'd to toil, Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and barter'd, as the flock he feeds. Free, as the lark that carols o'er his head, At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And whistling loud directs the mining share; Free, as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right, And vain of Scotia's old unconquer'd might. Dear native valleys! may ye long retain And still be duly heard at twilight calm fade, And time lay bare each lofty colonnade, SERENITY OF CHILDHOOD. In the sweet morn of life, when health and joy Which fans the wild-wood music on the ear; CHARLES LAM B. THE author of "Elia" was the son of JoHN LAMB, a scrivener, and was born in the Inner Temple, London, on the eighteenth of February, 1775. In 1782 he was admitted to the school of Christ's Hospital, where he remained until he had entered into his fifteenth year, from which time he was employed in the South-Sea House, under his elder brother, until 1792, when he obtained an appointment in the office of the accountant-general of the East India Company. He was in the Indiahouse thirty-five years, rarely absent from his post a single day, and fulfilling his duties with most exact fidelity. He lived meantime with his "gentle sister Mary"-neither of them being ever married-and had at all times a circle of ardent friends, embracing some of the most eminent persons of the country, as COLERIDGE, who was his schoolfellow, WORDSWORTH, HAZLITT, SOUTHEY, and Sergeant TALFOURD, his biographer. He continued nearly all his life in London, regarding it, with a sort of Chinese exclusiveness, as the only scene in which existence could be enjoyed, until within two or three years of his death, when he wrote to a friend that the town, with all his native hankering after it, was not what it had been in his earlier life. "The streets, the shops," he says, “are left, but all old friends are gone: I was frightfully convinced of this as I passed houses and places, empty caskets now. I have ceased to care almost about anybody; the bodies I cared for are in graves, or dispersed; my old chums that lived so long and flourished so steadily, are crumbled away." next year, "Rosamund Gray," a story after the manner of MACKENZIE, which was more popular. In 1807 appeared "John Woodvil, a Tragedy;" in 1808 "The Adventures of Ulysses," and at intervals came out his "Essays of Elia," the most remarkable of his compositions, which established his reputation on good and lasting grounds. Besides the works already mentioned, LAMB wrote a farce entitled "Mr. H," which was acted at Drury Lane. Though ELLISTON personated the hero, it was for some reason unsuccessful. In America, however, it afterward had a great run, and was performed by Mr. WOOD, in Philadelphia, as many nights, perhaps, as any piece of its nature ever brought out by that excellent comedian. 66 LAMB's poems, excepting the tragedy which we have named, are few and brief, and of less merit than his prose writings. "John Woodvil," however, contains passages which would not have done dishonour to the great dramatists of SHAKSPEARE'S golden age; and "The Farewell to Tobacco," in these pages, is such a piece of verse as one might imagine "Elia" would write. His letters and his essays belong to that small and slowly increasing body of works constituting the standard literature of the English language. Their bonhomie, exquisite humour, and tenderness, will make them as great favourites with successive generations of readers, as the living CHARLES LAMB was with his personal friends. Speaking of the "Farewell to Tobacco," reminds us of the most melancholy subject in LAMB's history-his intemperance. So far as we know, it was his only frailty, and it was one which he shared with COLERIDGE, the most intimate, as well as the greatest of his friends. Such infirmities of genius warn us of the necessity of preserving every guard to virtue, and teach the duty of charity and forbearance. Mr. LAMB died suddenly at Edmonton, on the 27th of December, 1831, in the sixtieth year of his age. FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. MAY the Babylonish curse Half my love, or half my hate : Sooty retainer to the vine, 'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay While thou suck'st the labouring breath Thou in such a cloud dost bind us, While each man, thro' thy heightening steam, Thou through such a mist dost show us, Bacchus we know, and we allow Brother of Bacchus, later born, His true Indian conquest art; Scent to match thy rich perfume Stinking'st of the stinking kind, Nay, rather Plant divine, of rarest virtue; Or, as men, constrain❜d to part For I must (nor let it grieve thee, And but seek to extend my days |