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who would gladly escape from the payment of a morning or evening tribute to their heavenly Father, may hereafter rejoice, that once in every day, at least, they were obliged to listen to the word of God. Seed thus imperceptibly dropped, though choked for a season, may, at a future time, spring up, under the dew of His blessing, and bear fruit a hundred fold. Nor let it be deemed matter of reproach, that our piety requires such constant fanning to keep the flame alive. One of our most thoughtful moralists has told us, that religion, of which the rewards are distant, and which is animated only by Faith and Hope, will glide by degrees out of the mind, unless it be invigorated and reimpressed by external ordinances, by stated calls to worship, and the salutary influence of example. And if such an observation could hold in any degree of Milton, how much more powerfully must it apply to us. therefore, cheerfully and gladly, follow the footsteps of those who having fought the good fight in this life, have received a crown of glory in that which is to come—who speak to us from their tombs, but with no earthly voice, encouraging us by their example-telling us to be firm and of good cheer in this our pilgrimage—that beyond the dark portal to which we all are hurrying, there is a land of promise--and that treading in the steps where

Let us

they have trodden, and guided by the heavenly Hand which guided them, we ourselves may reach that land, and dwell with them in everlasting glory*.

* Professor Sedgwick's Discourse on the Studies of the University, 4th ed., p. 5.

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Vir perelegantis ingenii, et mollissima dulcedine carminum memorabilis.—Velleius Paterculus.

The conclusion of the eulogy bestowed upon the
old Grecian, Hesiod, quietis otiique cupidissimus,
must, I fear, be omitted from the motto. The
Carlton Club is dearer to the Member for Yar-
mouth than the Muses' Bower. Those days when
it was pleasant with Spenser to play with

The flowers of a golden tress,
are faded and past. He cons an estimate instead
of a sonnet, and prefers a gallop with Sir Francis
Head through a Poor Law Commission to a Mid-
summer Night's Dream on Parnassus. Political
life must have its charms, as it has its uses,-call it
advancement if you will; but to me it seems, as it
did to Shenstone while tying up his flowers at the
Leasowes, only an advancement from the pit to the
gallery,-a very noisy elevation! But Mr. Praed
has made his choice: yet he ought to remember
that one poet of rare sensibility and genius, after
serving fourteen years for Rachel, found himself
deprived even of Leah*

* See Cowley's Complaint.

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His name is to me associated with many delicious recollections. I have followed him from Eton to Trinity; from the Union to St. Stephen's; from his first onset in the Etonian, to his more finished efforts in Knight's Quarterly. I have laughed at his hits, truly “to the point,” in the London, with the “ Best Bat in the School;" and traced his retrograde movement through the Greek alphabet, from 0 to $; as the author of Lillian, or as Peregrine Courtney, as the Lyrist of the Gem, or the New Monthly; as the Wit of Cambridge, or of the Morning Post,—he has been equally lively and equally agreeable. But he is now mingling in the busy turmoil of political agitation; and I expect every day to lose him in the crowd. It is, indeed, too late to hope for a conversion ; but he may at least console us by collecting his rhymes. Having taken leave of the Muses, he may present us with his lyre; and though it does not rejoice in many strings, its tone is sweet and tender. Leaving to other bards to stir the soul, as with the sound of the trumpet, he satisfies his ambition with soothing and delighting his hearers. He combines the mirth, the grace, and the fancy of Marôt. 'He is a natural Moore. The following poems, the remembrances of happier years, may not support this commendation; but that will be the fault of my memory, not of Mr. Praed's genius.


Viens! on dirait, Madeleine,
Que le printemps, dont l'haleine
Donne aux roses leurs couleurs,
A cette nuit, pour te plaire,
Secoué sur la bruyère
Sa robe pleine de fleurs.--Victor Hugo.

COME forth, pretty Madeline,
Lo! the pleasant breath of May
Sweetens every field to day;
Never hath a fairer Night
Closed the dewy eyes of Light;
Come forth while the moon-beams shine
On the pale grass, Madeline.

Oh! that I were, sweet Madeline,
The happy Monk of Tombeline,
When half in hope, and half in fear,
Thy red lips breathe into his ear
Little trespasses that twine
Round thy meek heart, Madeline.

If I had, fair Madeline,
The soft eye of the evening star,
How quickly from my home afar,
Into thy chamber would I shine;
While from that snowy breast of thine
Rustles the white lawn, Madeline!

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