nine months after his accession to the English throne, and he took his seat resolved to teach the Puritan doctors that in him they had to deal with a prince of logicians and a master in theology. There were present, to back the wisdom of the British Solomon and applaud his eloquence, some twenty bishops and high clergy of the Church of England, the lords of the Privy Council, and many courtiers; while to speak in the cause of needed change there were only four-two doctors from Oxford, and two from Cambridge. It would be out of place here to describe how, during the three days of conference, amid the titters of the courtiers and the gratified smiles of the clergy, the conceited king called the Puritan doctors "dunces fit to be whipped," and indulged in other similar flights of his peculiar style of oratory. The scene, ridiculous in most respects, is memorable to us, because it led to the publication of our English Bible. During one of the pauses of the fusilade, when the royal orator was out of breath, Dr. Reynolds proposed a new version of the Scriptures; and James saw fit, by-and-by, to yield his gracious consent.

Fifty-four scholars were appointed to the great work, but only forty-seven of these actually engaged in the translation. Taking the Bishop's Bible as the basis of the new version, they set to their task in divisions, Oxford, Cambridge, and Westminster being the centres of their labour; and, often meeting to compare notes and correct one another's manuscripts, they completed their translation in about three years. Our Bible was therefore published, with a dedication to King James, in the year 1611.

The English of the Bible is unequalled in the full range of our literature. Whether we take the subtle argument of Paul's Epistles, the sublime poetry of Job and the Psalms, the beautiful imagery of the Parables, the simple narrative of the Gospels, the magnificent eloquence of Isaiah, or the clear, plain histories of Moses and Samuel, but one impression deepens as we read, and remains as we close the volume,-that, without regard to its infinite greatness as the written word of God, taken simply as a literary work, there is no English book like our English Bible.

PART III.

HOME AND COUNTRY SCENES.

THE SKY-LARK.

BIRD of the wilderness,

Blithesome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place—

O to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud;

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day;
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

O to abide in the desert with thee!

JAMES HOGG.

AN ENGLISH PEASANT.

To pomp and pageantry in nought allied,
A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died.
Noble he was, contemning all things mean,
His truth unquestioned and his soul serene.
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace;
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face.
Yet while the serious thought his soul approved,
Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved;
To bliss domestic he his heart resigned,
And with the firmest, had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he looked smiling on,
And gave allowance where he needed none;
Good he refused with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh.
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distressed;-
Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind,
To miss one favour which their neighbours find.
Yet far was he from Stoic pride removed;
He felt humanely, and he warmly loved :
I marked his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek,
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride was his, 'twas not their vulgar pride,
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew
None his superior, and his equals few:
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;

A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labours trained;
Pride in the power that guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied,—
In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride.
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there;
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honoured head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight,
Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Master Ashford softened to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith, (to give it force,) are there;—
But he is blessed, and I lament no more,

A wise, good man, contented to be poor.

GEORGE CRABBE.

THE HOLLY TREE.

O READER! hast thou ever stood to see
The holly tree?

The eye that contemplates it well, perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Ordered by an intelligence so wise

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen,-

No grazing cattle, through their prickly round,
Can reach to wound;

But as they grow where nothing is to fear,
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralize;

And in this wisdom of the holly tree
Can emblems see

Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,-
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear
Harsh and austere ;

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude;

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves their fadeless lines display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree!

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem, amid the young and
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

gay,

ROBERT SOUTHEY.