"O well," says Darky, "then I'll go,
As the cars are whirling by—

For a mouthful of Boston air or so,
And a bite of pumpkin pie."

Could our forefathers quit their shrouds,
How would the good folks stare,
To see their sons, in countless crowds,
Driven on by heated air.

To see the stately steamboat glide,
Encumbered by no sail;
Regardless of the opposing tide,
The fair or adverse gale.

Yet boast we not-the power of mind, Must onward, onward, go,

Our sons will stare in turn to find

How little is all we know.

But off!-hurrah! away we rattle,
On the wings of the red-hot wind,

And scare the fish, and kill the cattle,
And leave all care behind.

SCRAPS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.

Thomson's Hymn, at the conclusion of his poem of the Seasons, is a popular production, much read by the young, and familiar to most readers. It was formerly a favourite with me, but of late, has not pleased me so well; much of it I think might have been advantageously omitted, and for aught that appears, it might have been written before the Christian dispensation had been heard of; and although this is a subject of too sacred and awful a nature, perhaps, to be much dwelt upon in a poetical way, yet in a work professing to celebrate the goodness of the Divine Being, to omit all allusion to the most signal instance thereof seems rather amiss. The following lines were occasioned by a late perusal of it.

But can I muse in silence? Can a being
Though fallen, and unworthy, and encompassed
With evil, self-induced, but yet the object,
Almighty Father! of thy care and love,
Endowed by thee with a reflecting mind,
And power to utter what that mind conceives
Can he muse on thy goodness, and be mute?

Though glorious thy creation-this fair world, And countless worlds around, arrayed in beauty,

Harmoniously their several tracks pursuing
Through regions of unmeasured space, evincing
Infinite wisdom and Almighty power;

So great and glorious all! that well might David,
When pondering their immensity, and feeling
The utter nothingness of man, exclaim,

Lord! what is he, that thou art mindful of him;
The son of man, that thou shouldst visit him?

And though thy throne, high o'er the heaven of heavens,
In glory inconceivable, be placed,

Yet art thou mindful of the poor in spirit-
The contrite one that trembleth at thy word.

And these stupendous monuments of power,
Walking in brightness, shall decay and vanish ;
For matter, howsoe'er sublime in form,
Must yield obedience to the laws of nature,
By thee ordained, and be dissolved and perish.

Not so the spirit thou hast breathed in man!
The undying principle of life—the power
Through endless ages to enjoy or suffer
The immortality which thou hast given-
Is of more value than a thousand worlds;
Yea, infinitely precious in thy sight!

So infinitely precious as to lead thee,

Even Thee, the Eternal One! from realms of light,
To assume the nature of thy poor, lost creature;
Descend to walk on earth- —a man of sorrows-

And die, to rescue from eternal ruin

The guilty hopeless being thou hadst made.

Yes, I must muse in silence;-vain are words: There is no power in language to express The deep emotion of the adoring spirit,

When contemplating such unbounded love!

[The following fragment-apparently the commencement of a subject to be filled up—was found in the pocket-book of the author after his decease, and is believed to be the last he ever wrote.]

A friendless stranger on the bleak world thrown,
Has stern misfortune marked thee for her own,
Has falsehood fixed dishonour on thy name,
Does hopeless anguish rack thy wasted frame,
Has Death's dark angel his sad visit paid,
Has thy heart's treasure low in earth been laid;
Ah! then how drear the cheerless world appears--
A desert shrouded in a mist of tears;-
Then, hapless mourner, will thy soul incline
To wish the pinions of the dove were thine,
To wing thy way to some far distant shore,
Where sin and sorrow shall disturb no more.