Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapt In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capt, "Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed ;-
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interposed too often makes ;-
And this still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honours to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine,

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here ?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)

THE PRIMROSE.

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brigher seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ;-
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar,"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.
But me scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distrest-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tost,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
But oh! the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise-
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

1. What part of speech is last? 2. What they?

3. Ellipsis in this line.

4. Case of wretch?

5. Case of jouryney?

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COWPER.

6. In what sense is maidens here used?

LVI. THE PRIMROSE.

"THE thunder, the pestilence, and the tempest, awe and humble us into dismaying recollections of God's tremendous omnipotence and possible visitations, and of our total inability to resist or avert them; but the beauty and benefactions of his vegetable creations-the flowers and the fruits more especially-remind and assures us of His unforgetting care, of His condescending sympathy, of His paternal attentions, and of the same affectionate benignity still actuating His mind, which must have influenced it to design and execute such

lovely and beneficent productions, that display the minutest thought, most elaborate compositions, and so much personal kindness."Turner's Sacred History of the World.

THE milk-white blossoms of the thorn
Are waving o'er the pool,

Moved by the wind that breathes along
So sweetly and so cool.

The hawthorn clusters bloom above,
The primrose hides below,
And on the lonely passer by

A modest glance doth throw!

The humble primrose' bonnie face
I meet it everywhere;

Where other flowers disdain to blow
It comes and nestles there.

Like God's own light, on every place
In glory it doth fall:

And where its dwelling-place is made,
It straightway hallows all !

Where'er the green-winged linnet sings
A primrose bloometh 'lone;
And love it wins-deep love-from all
Who gaze its sweetness on.
On field-paths narrow, and in woods,
We meet thee near and far,
"Till thou becomest prized and loved,
As things familiar are!

The stars are sweet at eventide,
But cold, and far away;

The clouds are soft in summer time,
But all unstable they :

The rose is rich-but pride of place
Is far too high for me-

God's simple, common things I love-
My primrose such as thee!

I love the fireside of my home,
Because all sympathies,
The feelings fond of every day
Around its circle rise;

And while admiring all the flowers

That summer suns can give,

Within my heart the primrose sweet,
In holy love doth live!

NICOLL.

THE VICTORY OF FAITH.

LVII. ALL MEN ARE BRETHREN.

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"THE ties of family and of country were never intended to circumscribe the soul. Man is connected at birth with a few beings, that the spirit of humanity may be called forth by their tenderness; and whenever domestic or national attachments become exclusive, engrossing, clannish, so as to shut out the general claims of the human race, the highest end of Providence is frustrated, and home, instead of being the nursery, becomes the grave of the heart."-Channing. Children we are all

Of one Great Father, in whatever clime

His providence hath cast the seed of life,

All tongues, all colours: neither after death
Shall we be sorted into languages

And tints,-white, black, and tawny, Greek and Goth,
Northmen and offspring of hot Africa:

The all-seeing Father,-He in whom we live and move,
He, the impartial judge of all, regards

Nations, and hues, and dialects alike.
According to their works shall they be judged,

When even-handed justice in the scale
Their good and evil weighs.

SOUTHEY.

LVIII. WEAK IS THE WILL OF MAN.

"THE faculty of imagination is the great spring of human activity, and the principal source of human improvement. As it delights in presenting to the mind scenes and characters more perfect than those which we are acquainted with, it prevents us from ever being completely satisfied with our present condition, or with our past attainments; and engages us continually in the pursuit of some untried enjoyment, or of some ideal excellence. Hence the ardour of the selfish to better their fortune, and to add to their personal accomplishments; and hence the zeal of the patriot and the philosopher to advance the virtue and the happiness of the human race. Destroy this faculty, and the condition of man will become as stationary as that of the brutes. *** While it adds a double relish to every enjoyment, it blunts the edge of all our sufferings; and even when human life presents to us no object on which our hopes can rest, it invites the imagination beyond the dark and troubled horizon, which terminates all our earthly prospects, to wander unconfined in the regions of futurity."-Stewart's Philosophy.

"WEAK is the will of man, his judgment blind;
"Remembrance persecutes and hope betrays;
Heavy is woe; and joy, for human kind,

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"A mournful thing, so transient is the blaze!"

Thus might he paint our lot of mortal days
Who wants the glorious faculty assigned
To elevate the more-than-reasoning mind,
And colour life's dark cloud with orient rays.
Imagination is that sacred power,

Imagination lofty and refined;

"Tis hers to pluck the Amaranthine flower
Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind
Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower,
And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.
WORDSWORTH.

LIX. THE VICTORY OF FAITH.

"I ENVY no quality of the mind or intellect in others; not genius, power, wit, or fancy: but if I could choose what would be most delightful, and I believe most useful to me, I should prefer a firm religious belief to every other blessing: for it makes life a discipline of goodness, creates new hopes when all earthly hopes vanish, and throws over the decay-the destruction of existence, the most gorgeous of all lights; awakens life even in death, and from corruption and decay calls up beauty and divinity; makes an instrument of torture and of shame the ladder of ascent to Paradise; and, far above all combinations of earthly hopes, calls up the most delightful visions of palms and amaranths, the gardens of the blest, the security of everlasting joys, where the sensualist and the sceptic view only gloom, decay, annihilation, and despair."-Sir H. Davy.

ONE adequate support

For the calamities of mortal life
Exists-one only; an assured belief
That the procession of our fate, howe'er
Sad or disturbed, is ordered by a Being
Of infinite benevolence and power;
Whose everlasting purposes embrace
All accidents, converting them to good.
The darts of anguish fix not where the seat
Of suffering hath been thoroughly fortified
By acquiescence in the Will Supreme
For time and for eternity; by faith,
Faith absolute in God, including hope,
And the defence that lies in boundless love
Of His perfections; with habitual dread
Of aught unworthily conceived, endured
Impatiently; ill done, or left undone,
To the dishonour of His holy name.

WORDSWORTH.