His learning ?-let him nurse and guard it well,
For though no Porson, he at least can spell;
His labours?-he no doubt reclaim'd the stray,
"Allured to brighter worlds and led the way,"
Bade Faith and Charity around him spread,
And led such life as sainted Heber led!
Can troubled springs a hallow'd stream afford?
Go ask my lady; ask her Courtier Lord-
(Whose meek forgiveness fills us with surprise,
While Rome's first Cato stalks before our eyes.)
Ask if acquaintance with such scenes polite,
Gives to the sacred lawn a purer white,
If lengthen'd prayers can hide Apostate shame,
Or Pride can flourish 'neath Religion's name!

Scorn'd by the good and pitied by the wise,
He soothes his spleen with Pomp's poor vanities,
Flies for relief to wands and gilded state,
While on each nod a dingy rabble wait,
An oily, lank, and methodistic train,

As Crookshanks' self could paint or fancy feign,
All Christian brothers, by his kindness gain'd,
Self-righteous, self-sufficient, self-ordain'd.

Hark! to the long-drawn hymn! The nasal drawl
Sounds from the zealous crowd in yonder hall,
Breathing not less of piety than gin,

And not more wash'd from filthiness than sin.

The enraptured prayer comes next-a long half hour
Proves both the teacher's wind, and spirit's pow'r;
Oh grudge him not his stamp, his sigh, his roar,
No English Bishop heard the like before-
The righteous Reverend friend concludes, and then,
Their meek Right Reverend brother sighs—Amen!

The mob grows calm;-the few vile parsons there
Gather in holy awe around his chair,

While Independents bend their list'ning ear
To catch those sounds to true seceders dear,
And strut in their high calling's sacred pride,
(Thieves, weavers, paupers, all the week beside)
Pleas'd on that platform's elevated board
To shew how little now they fear " My Lord.”

Oh for a Mawworm's tongue and Judas' heart
To deal full justice to his glorying part,

To tell the force with which his Lordship prays,
The trait'rous kiss which points where he betrays!

Deserting thus the cause he vow'd to guard,
Admitting foes by his own oath debarr'd,
False to his God, he joins the ranks of those
To England's faith, to Christ's own Cross the foes,
Yet wears the robe he desecrates,-and then,
Gives thanks to God" he's not as other men."

Well may the Church to watch and arm begin,
Not less 'gainst knaves without than fools within.
When Brougham and Connel gather round her wall,
Anxious to burn, and spoil, and plunder all,
Their open malice from their arts defends;
But who shall guard her from pretended friends?

Lo! at a wink from Minister or peer
Bishops themselves desert their posts in fear,
Break down her barriers to assist the foe,
And, having once disgrac'd her, overthrow.

Oh, wise and apron'd, wigg'd and sinless tribe!
Good all your aim, and heav'n your only bribe:
No hopes were yours, methinks ye all exclaim,
That change of vote might lead to change of name.
But on that instant that the Premier spoke,
Light broke on you, as once on Paul it broke,
Fill'd the dull soul of's fatted calf,
And gilt the brazen forehead of

Hard is the fate that girdles thousands in,
Believing God, yet fetter'd slaves to sin,

Whose clouded Faith, which nought can quite destroy,
Robs life of bliss, and sin of all its joy-

Whose mastering sins obscure each brighter hour,
Rob Heav'n of hope, and Faith of all her power.
But not more hard than's ruthless fate,

Whose soaring pride would urge him to be great;
But (oh! Ambition, what a woful fall)

Whose empty dulness dooms him to be small!
Fit brother he for 's brainless Lord,

With equal honour, equal wisdom stored,
Raised by the same chaste Dame to equal height,
And all three-" darken'd through excess of light."

Woe on the logic that can teach the quill
To fence and foil with dialectic skill,

That proves a Jesuit black, then, quick as light,
Turns round again, and proves a Jesuit white;
But freed from sin like this, if sin it be,
Guiltless of logic as of wit is he,

A weak, dull man, exceeding Dogb'ery's rule,
Who shews his love and" writes himself a fool."

Oft 'mongst our friends, one sillier than the rest,
Whose want of sense provokes the sneering jest,
Strives from such jeers his character to save,
And just to hide the fool assumes the knave:
Oft too the practised rogue, inured to sin,
To shield his crimes affects the idiot's grin;
And though his murderous hand in blood be red,
Trusts for full safety to his fatuous head.
This latter plea might's Judas plead,
Such want of brains would sanction any deed;
But pride remains, and party's abject tool
Proses, to prove himself more knave than fool.
Poised thus between, to bend to either loth,
Impartial Justice deems the Traitor both.

But let not fools alone usurp the scene;
Let's Bishop yield to 's Dean.
For virtue loved, for vigorous mind admired,
Which solid learning graced, and genius fired,
Has
left the cause that raised his name,
And for Court favour barter'd honest fame?
Like mean deserters, is his influence borne,
From friends who trusted once, to foes who scorn?

No powerful aids from

- may they seek,—

The act that proved him faithless, made him weak.

VOL. XXVII. NO. CLXIII.

2 A

Unnerved to hurt or help, his alter'd state
Awakes our pity. 'Twere unkind to hate.

Thus may some chief, by bribes and promise gain'd,
Desert the friends whose power he once sustain'd,
Whose warlike stores with arms his wisdom fill'd,
Whose bold example taught those arms to wield;-
He gains the traitor's meed,-dissembled praise,-
While the curl'd lip the deep contempt betrays;
From his own stores a thousand spears are found,
Which goad his venal heart with ceaseless wound.

When paltry bridge racks his brain of lead,
Looks wondrous wise, and shakes his ponderous head,
Both sides disdain his twaddling speech to note,
And scorn alike the blockhead-and his vote.
Thus may the meaner of the mitred crowd,
Proclaim their folly or their guilt aloud;

The

The

-, or, more ignoble still,

-s and

-

-s, give what vote they will.
No shout from foes their worthless change attends,
No soft regret invades deserted friends,

One truth restrains the joy, the grief controls,-
They sold their honour, and would sell their souls.
Yet vain such bargain; it is seen too well,
Such recreant drones have scarce a soul to sell.

One, fair with smiles, and one with frowning black,—
And then by faint resistance courts attack,

Such dubious conduct fails his name to save-
By some a Traitor deem'd,-by all a Slave.
Has deep research no better aim than this?
Oh blest are we,-for Ignorance is bliss.
Can learning's toils no worthier pow'r bestow,
Than after arguing Aye, to answer, No?
Does Grecian lore no higher object seek,
Than thus to teach us, what's a Rat in Greek?
O that a wish that evening could revoke

And leave that shame unknown, that speech unspoke;
When fear and duty weigh'd the opposing scale,
And conscience trembled 'twixt his God and Baal,
Till soothing both, a middle path he trod,
And gave his knee to Baal,-his tongue to God!

In good old times, when England's Church uprear'd
Her matron form, to England's heart endear'd;
When sober priests were at her altars found
In action honest, and in doctrine sound,
Whose blameless lives in one calm current ran
Of love to God, and charity to man,—
While yet the Bible was the preacher's guide,
And Faith and Works walk'd humbly side by side,
Her chasten'd worship, simple yet severe,
Awed while it sooth'd, and mingled love with fear,
No frantic crew ran slavering through the land,
Denouncing wrath with sacrilegious hand;

No self-dubb'd saints God's mercy dared to hide,
No tracts, the spawn of ignorance and pride,-
No deep damnation lurk'd in simple mirth,
To no "red sins" the modest dance gave birth,-
No darken'd creed deceived the unletter'd mind,-
No blinded leaders led astray the blind-

Truth, undefiled, stretch'd forth the blest control,
And Hope and Gladness cheer'd the poor man's soul,
How changed that joyous scene! The "unco good"
Preach to be wonder'd at, not understood.

On points of faith with wondrous depth they dwell,
Of which to doubt awakes the fires of hell,-
Which to believe eternal safety brings,

And rapes, thefts, robberies are trivial things;
Faith-faith alone-will bear them to the skies!
And Zeal increases while Religion dies.

Is no way left to bring those days again,
Ere heaven's pure light was hid by impious men;
When each was pleas'd, without the zealot's aid,
To pray devoutly, as his fathers pray'd—
To worship God, and love his neighbour too,
And as he would be done by, that to do—
To think no ill-no untried paths to try;
But humbly trusting in his God-to die?
Some still remain our Church's best defence,
Blest with that truest wisdom, Common Sense;
Howley, in virtue firm, in worth approv'd—
For sinless life admired-for meekness lov'd;-
And learned Burgess, whose just, honest mind,
True to his God-to erring man is kind.

These are our hopes. To them and Lords like them
We look, the current of our woes to stem-

To cleanse the Church, and raise her once again
A guide to heaven, and not a curse to men-
To plant Religion in her courts once more,
And bid men's hearts not question, but adore,

Then Peace shall cheer the souls which Cant beguil❜d-
God's word no more be twisted and defil'd-

Apostate Prelates be with scorn displaced,

Nor rule the Church their truckling tongues disgraced; Dismitred knaves to build a barn shall club,

And either

snuffle in a tub.

ONCE UPON A TIME.

SUNNY locks of brightest hue
Once around my temples grew,—
Laugh not, Lady! for 'tis true;
Laugh not, Lady! for with thee
Time may deal despitefully;
Time, if long he lead thee here,
May subdue that mirthful cheer;
Round those laughing lips and eyes
Time may write sad histories;
Deep indent that even brow,
Change those locks, so sunny now,
To as dark and dull a shade,
As on mine his touch hath laid.

Lady! yes, these locks of mine
Cluster'd once, with golden shine,
Temples, neck, and shoulders round,
Richly gushing if unbound,
If from band and bodkin free,
Half way downward to the knee.
Some there were took fond delight,
Sporting with those tresses bright,

To enring with living gold
Fingers, now beneath the mould,
(Woe is me!) grown icy cold.

One dear hand hath smooth'd them too,
Since they lost the sunny hue,

Since their bright abundance fell
Under the destroying spell.

One dear hand! the tenderest
Ever nurse-child rock'd to rest,
Ever wiped away its tears.
Even those of later years
From a cheek untimely hollow,
Bitter drops that still may follow,
Where's the hand will wipe away?
Her's I kiss'd-(Ah! dismal day,)
Pale as on the shroud it lay.
Then, methought, youth's latest gleam
Departed from me like a dream-
Still, though lost their sunny tone,
Glossy brown these tresses shone,
Here and there, in wave and ring
Golden threads still glittering;
And (from band and bodkin free)
Still they flow'd luxuriantly.

Careful days, and wakeful nights,
Early trench'd on young delights.
Then of ills, an endless train,
Wasting languor, wearying pain,
Fev'rish thought that racks the brain,
Crowding all on summer's prime,
Made me old before my time.

So a dull, unlovely hue
O'er the sunny tresses grew,
Thinn'd their rich abundance too,
Not a thread of golden light,
In the sunshine glancing bright.

Now again, a shining streak
'Gins the dusky cloud to break ;—
Here and there a glittering thread
Lights the ringlets, dark and dead,-
Glittering light!-but pale and cold-
Glittering thread!—but not of gold.

Silent warning! silvery streak!
Not unheeded dost thou speak.
Not with feelings light and vain—
Not with fond regretful pain,
Look I on the token sent

To announce the day far spent ;-
Dark and troubled hath it been-
Sore misused! and yet between
Gracious gleams of peace and grace
Shining from a better place.

Brighten-brighten, blessed light!
Fast approach the shades of night,-
When they quite enclose me round,
May my lamp be burning found!

C.