lights. There might be pleasure in every act; in a day well spent; in a life of growth; in a mission of usefulness, We do not seek, and so fail to find. We do not knock, and therefore the door remains closed against us. The Great Shepherd is ever at his post ready and willing to wait on his own; to hear their prayers, answer their petitions, unlock the treasures of his kingdom, and to give grace, strength and will. He will not force his gifts, but stands ready to detect the slightest aspiration after goodness and excellence.

To equipoise the outer and inner world should be the special work of every one endowed with intelligence. Others may place materials in our way and assist us; but the management of our own sphere and the settlement of our daily accounts, is something which no one can do for We must remain stationary, or advance by our own efforts.

us.

ARTICLE CL.

Protest.

WE, the undersigned, solemnly protest against the intended execution of Washington Goode, as a crime in which we would under no circumstances participate, which we would prevent, if possible, and in the guilt of which we will not, by the seeming assent of silence, suffer ourselves to be implicated.

We believe the execution of this man will involve all who are instrumental in it in the crime of murder-of the murder in cold blood of a helpless fellow being.

The arguments by which executions are generally defended are wholly wanted here. The prisoner is not one who in spite of good instruction and example, for purposes of avarice, revenge or lust, deliberately planned the murder of a fellow-being. The intended victim of law was a man of misfortune from birth, made by his social position, and still more by the color which God gave him, the victim of neglect, of oppression, of prejudice, of all the evils inflicted upon humanity by man. If in a paroxysm of drunken rage, he killed his opponent, (and this is the utmost alleged against him,) his case comes far short of premeditated murder.

But even this fact is extremely doubtful. It is supported only by the most suspicious testimony, and such as, even if honest, was, from the nature of the case, extremely liable to mistake, and such as would not have weighed with any jury to touch the life of a white man. And since the trial, facts have come to light materially lessening the credibility of the evidence which led to conviction.

The glaring unfairness of his mode of trial is of itself sufficient ground for this protest. The maxim which gives to the accused a trial by his peers was essentially violated. In a community where sympathy with a colored man is a rare and unpopular sentiment, the prisoner should have been tried by a jury composed partly, at least, of his own race. violation of the principles of equal justice demands our solemn pro

test.

This

We claim also that the petition of more than 20,000 of our fellow-citizens to have this man's life spared, demands respect. Such a number of voluntary petitioners, all upon one side, indicates the will of the sovereign people of the State, that the penalty should be commuted. Our respect for the right of the people to a voice and a just influence in the administration of public justice, also demands this solemn protest against the legal murder of Washington Goode.

SELECT POEMS,

BY REV. S. G. BULFINCH.

MARY STUART.

BY SCHILLER.

SCENE The park at Fotheringay. Trees in the fore-ground; a distant prospect behind. Ma ry advances from between the trees at a quick pace; Jean Kennedy slowly following her.

KENNEDY.

Stay, stay, dear lady! you are hurrying on
As though you'd wings;-I cannot follow you.

MARY.

Let me renew the dear days of my childhood!

Come, rejoice with me in Liberty's ray!

O'er the gay-pansied turf, through the sweet scented wild wood,
Let's pursue, lightly bounding, our fetterless way!

Have I emerged from the dungeon's.deep sadness?

Have I escaped from the grave's yawning light?

Oh, let me sweep on, in this flood tide of gladness,

Drinking full, thirsty draughts of fresh freedom and light!

KENNEDY

Your prison only is enlarged a little,

Yon thicket of deep trees alone prevents you

From seeing the dark walls that stretch around us.

MARY.

Thanks to those trees which thus in dim seclusion
Conceal my prison, I may dream I'm free,
Why wouldst thou wake ine from the dear illusion?
Why call me back to thought and misery?
Does not heaven hold me in its soft embrace ?

Do not these eyes, once more unfettered, rove

Far through immeasurable realms of space,

To greet each object of their earlier love?

There, northwards, are my kingdom's bounds appearing,-
There, where yon hills their misty tops advance;
And these light clouds, with the mid-way careering,
Seek the far ocean of thine empire, France !

Hastening clouds, ships of the sky,

(Ah, could I sail in your ocean on high !)

Greet with a blessing my youth's cherish'd land!

An exile I weep, in fetters I languish,

None nigh, but you, to bear note of my anguish.
Free is your course over billow and strand;
You are not subject to this queen's command.

KENNEDY.

Alas! dear lady, your beside yourself;

This long-withholden freedom makes you dream.

MARY.

A bark a bark is in the gale!
She scuds down yonder bay!

How swiftly might that slender sail
Transport us far away!

The owner starves;-what wealth he'd get,
Were he to waft us o'er!

'He'd have a catch within his net
No fisher had before.

KENNEDY.

O, forlorn wishes! See you not from far
The spies that dodge us? A dark prohibition
Has scared each pitying creature from our path.

MARY.

No, Jean! Believe me, it is not without
An object that my prison-doors are opened.
This little favor is the harbinger

Of greater happiness. I do not err.

It is Love's active hand I have to thank ;

I recognize Lord Leicester's influence in it.

Yes! by degrees they will enlarge my prison,

Though little boons accustom me to greater,
Until, at length, I see the face of him

Who'll loosen with his hand these bonds forever.

KENNEDY.

I cannot reconcile these contradictions,

But yesterday condemn'd to death, and now

To live, and in the enjoyment of such freedom!

Even so, I've heard, the chain is loosed from those
Whom an eternal freedom is awaiting.

MARY.

Heard'st thou the hunters? Through thicket and mead,
Hark, how their bugles ring out!

Ah, could I vault on my spirted steed!

Ah, could I join the gay rout!

Sounds of sweet, bitter-sweet recollections,

How glad were ye once to my ear,

When the rocks of my native Schihallion
Exultant sent back your loud cheer!

FROM "THE ADMIRAL GUARINOS."

LOCKHART, FROM THE SPANISH. 1

WROTH Waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say,
And all for ire commanded he should be led away,

Away unto the dungeon keep, beneath its vaults to lie.
With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.

With iron bands they bound his hands; that sore, unworthy plight Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to fight. Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore, Which signified the knight should ride on charger never more.

Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom
To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon gloom;
Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago,
Before the Moorish rabble rout to be a sport and show.

On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be,-.
The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity,

And on that morn, more solemn yet, when maidens strip the bowers,
And gladden mosque and minaret with the firstlings of the flowers.

488

Poetry.

THE CONVICT AND HIS CHILD.

BY CAMPBELL.

WHAT plaintive sobs thy filial spirit drew,
What sorrow check'd thy long and last adieu!
Daughter of Conrad! when he heard his knell,
And bade his country and his child farewell!
Doom'd the long isles of Sydney-cove to see,
The martyr of his crimes, but true to thee.
Thrice the sad father tore thee from his heart,
And thrice returned, to bless thee, and to part;
Thrice from his trembling lips he murmur'd low
The plaint that own'd unutterable woe;
Till Faith, prevailing o'er his sullen doom,
As bursts the morn on night's unfathomed gloom,
Lured his dim eye to deathless hopes sublime,
Beyond the realms of Nature and of Time!

"And weep not thus," he cried, "young Ellenore,
My bosom bleeds, but soon shall bleed no more!
Short shall this half-extinguish'd spirit burn,
And soon these limbs to kindred dust return!
But not, my child, with life's precarious fire
The immortal ties of Nature shall expire;
These shall resist the triumph of decay,
When time is o'er, and worlds have passed away!
Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie,
But that which warmed it once shall never die ;
That spark unburied in its mortal frame
With living light, eternal, and the same,
Shall beam on Joy's interminable years,
Unveil'd by darkness-unassuaged by tears!

"Yet on the barren shore and stormy deep,
One tedious watch is Conrad doom'ed to weep;
But when I gain the home without a friend,
And press the uneasy couch where none attend,
His last embrace, still cherished in my heart,
Shall calm the struggling spirit ere it part!
Thy darling form shall seem to hover nigh,
And hush the groan of life's last agony !

"Farewell when strangers lift thy father's bier,
And place my nameless stone without a tear ;
When each returning pledge hath told my child
That Conrad's tomb is on the desert piled;
And when the dream of troubled fancy sees

Its lonely rank grass waving in the breeze;

Who then will soothe thy grief, when mine is o'er?
Who will protect thee; helpless Ellenore?
Shall secret scenes thy filial sorrow hide,
Scorn'd by the world, to factious guilt allied?
Alas! no; methinks the generous and the good
Will woo thee from the shades of solitude!
O'er friendless grief compassion shall awake,
And smile on Innocence, for Mercy's sake!"

Think ere you Speak.

THINK ere you speak, for a word lightly spoken,
Of wakens a pang which has slumbered for years;
And memory's repose, when once it is broken,

May turn a sweet smile into sadness and tears.

No pleasure can then chase the gloom from the mind,
Or recall the sweet smile which has played on the cheek,
With the heart's deepest sorrow that word may be twined;
Then strike not the chord-but think ere you speak.

[July

Journal of a Poor Vicar.

(Continued from page 444.)

Jan. 2.-Fortune is heaping her favors upon me. This morning I again received a packet of money, £12, by the post, with a letter from Mr. Fleetman. It is too much. For a shilling he returns me a pound. Things must have gone well with him. He says as much. I cannot, alas! thank him, for he has forgotten to mention his address. God forbid I should be lifted up foolishly with my present riches I hope now in time to pay off honestly my bond to Mr. Withell.

When I told my daughters that I had received a letter from Mr. Fleetman, there was a new occasion for joy. I do not exactly understand what the girls have to do with this Mr. Fleetman. Jenny colored, and Polly laughingly, and held up both her hands before Jenny's face, and Jenny behaved as if she was seriously vexed with the playful girl. I read Fleetman's letter; but I could scarcely do it, for the young man is an enthusiast. He writes many flattering things which I do not deserve; exaggerating everything, even indeed when he speaks of the good Jenny. I pitied the poor girl while I read. I did not dare to look at her. The passage, however, which relates to her is worthy of note, and run thus:

"Excellent sir, when I went from your door, I felt as if I were quitting a father's roof for the bleak and inhospitable world. I shall never forget you, never forget how happy I was with you; I see you now before me, in your rich poverty, in your Christian humility, in your patriarchal simplicity. And the lovely, fascinating Polly; and ah! for your Jenny I have no words! In what words shall one describe the heavenly loveliness by which everything earthly is transfigured? Forever shall I remember the moment whea she gave me the twelve shillings and the gentle tone of consolation with which she spoke to me. Wonder not

that I have the twelve shillings still. I would not part with them for a thousand guineas. I shall soon, perhaps, explain everything to you personally. Never in my life have I been so happy or so miserable as I now am. Cominend me to your sweet daughters, if they still bear me in remembrance."

I conclude from these lines, that he intends to come this way again; and the prospect gives me pleasure. In his unbounded gratitude, the young man has perhaps sent me his all, because I once lent him half of my ready money. That grieves me; he seems to be a thoughtless youth, and yet he has an honest heart."

We have great delight in the little Alfred. The little thing laughed to-day upon Polly as Jenny was holding him, like a young mother, in her arms. The girls are more handy with the little citizen of the world than I anticipated; but it is a beautiful child. We have bought it a handsome cradle, and provided abundantly for all his little wants. The cradle stands at Jenny's bedside. She watches day and night like a guardian spirit over her tender charge.

Jan. 3.-To-day Mr. Curate Thomson arrived with his young wife, and sent for me. I accordingly went to him immediately at the inn. He is an agreeable man and very polite. He informed me that he was

N. S. VOL. I. NO. XI.-0. 8. VOL. III. NO. XLV.

$9.