tated the air. A number of belugas, or white whales, ́sported silently on the still expanse around us, raising their backs gradually above it, in the form of a snowy crescent, and then gliding downwards with graceful smoothness and elegance. On one side, the dreary coast of Labrador, lightened by the glow of Sunset into an appearance of richness and verdure, occupied the horizon; and on the other the barren mountains of the American coast were dimly visible. Before us we traced the windings of the St. Lawrence, and saw them studded with islands, and narrowing into more intense beauty, until they were lost amidst the recesses of accumulated hills and forests. The Sun was setting serenely on a land of peace-a land which was calling the children of misery to her bosom, and offering them the laughing joys of ease and plenty. We were in the midst of the most magnificent of Nature's works; these appearing still more magnificent, from our having seen nothing but ocean and sky for many preceding weeks. We had just entered the gates of a new world, and it was impos sible to view the glorious Sunset which illumed its skies, without mingled emotions of awe, gratitude, and exultation.

'Sunset in the East Indies is as deficient in grandeur, gloriousness, and impressive magnificence, as is the country in which it takes place. The horizon is usually cloudless, and the Sun, even when about to disappear, emits a glare and heat nearly as concentrated and scorching as he does at noonday: he is not encircled with orient colours and fanciful forms, nor tempered by kindly vapours, but descends in all the unadorned and unattractive simplicity that characterises the face of Nature in the eastern tropics.

'But where, after all, shall we find Sunsets equal to British ones? where such serenely beautiful horizons-such rich and varied dyes-such mellowness of light-such objects to be irradiated by it-and evenings so happily adapted for contemplating them? The

mixture of fierceness and gloom in a West India Sunset, call to mind the coarseness of the people there, and the implacable deadliness of the climate; the milder glories of one in the Southern Atlantic, can be enjoyed at sea only, where every thing else is unpleasing; the effect of a similar scene in America is injured by want of objects of antiquity, and of the lofty associations connected with them; and in India, the tropical glare attending the departure of day, forces us to imprison ourselves while it is taking place, and to remember that we are in exile. A British Sunset alone excites no regretful ideas: its placid beauty is heightened by that of the scenery which it embellishes; while the quiet imagery of its horizon, and the softness of the succeeding twilight, are characteristic of the undisturbed peace and domestic happiness that have their dwelling-place in that land upon which the shadows of night always steal softly and unobtrusively.'

This subject we thus close with the views of the poet:

EVENING.

Low sinks the Sun towards yon craggy ridge
Of distant hills, between whose forky heads
The glittering sky is tinged with glowing red;
The tranquil sea, which, but an hour agone
Tossed wave on wave, seems to participate
With general nature in desire of rest.
The lingering gale just feebly moves the leaves
With whispering sound, that lulls, not startles us→→
A soothing, sweet persuasive to repose.

The fields are still-the voice of toil subsides-
The bee's soft hum expires-the beetle's drone
Supplies its place, as, whirling blindly round,
He intersects the pensive student's path.
A lagging gull, or weary rook, is seen
Winnowing the air, detained by distant search
For food. All else is hushed; even man,
Most restless of creation, hears the call
Which nature makes, to feed the lamp of life.

The Naturalist's Diary

For JULY 1826.

[From the Legend of Genevieve, and other Poems1.]

The splendid matin Sun

Is mounted upward through the orient skies;
The young day is begun,

And shadowy twilight from the landscape flies.
No more the grey owls roam,

Seeking their prey 'mid duskiness and shade;
The bat hath hied him home,

And in some creviced pile a resting måde.

Haste, then, my love, oh! haste;

The dews are melting from the fresh green grass:
Arise-no longer waste

The pleasant hours, that thus so sweetly pass.

The frolic hare peeps out,

Out from his leafy covert, and looks round;

The wild birds flit about,

And fill the clear soft air with gentlest sound.

Come, love! of softest blue,

Beneath the bordering trees, the stream flows on;

The night-hawk thou may'st view,

Sitting in stirless silence on his stone.

The lark soars up, soars up,

With twinkling pinions, to salute the morn;

Over its foxglove cup

The wild bee hangs, winding its tiny horn.

Bright flowers of every dye,

Blossoms of odours sweet are breathing round;

The other Poems' form the greater portion of this highly attractive and elegantly printed volume. The poetry of the author (the Delta of Blackwood's Magazine) is the warm effusion of a susceptible heart, rather than a fanciful head, yet he looks abroad, and sees every object around him with a poet's eye, painting the scenes before him in picturesque beauty: but this is not his highest praise; for we may parody the words of Pope, and say of him, that

Although his heart was warm, his fancy strong,
He stooped to truth and moralized his song.

Our author's muse loves like a Sappho, in thoughts that breathe and words that burn;' but always with a delicacy and a virgin purity, worthy of a vestal.

The west wind wanders by,

And, kissing, bends their lithe stalks to the ground.

All things of bliss, and love,

And gentleness, and harmony proclaim;

Echo, from out the grove,

Murmurs, as I repeat thy dear-loved name.

Haste, then, beloved, haste;

Come to these cooling shades, and wander free:
My spirit will not taste

Earth's cup of joy till first 'tis kissed by thee!

How delightful is the morning ramble at this season, before the great heats begin! how grand a spectacle is the uprising of the King of Day!' but how few know any thing of his splendour, but in the description of the poets. Let us not, then, consume in sleep those hours which might have been usefully devoted to study or recreation,-to an acquaintance with the beauties and wonders of Nature; and, above all, to the offering up of our morning devotions at the shrine of NATURE'S GOD: and how can we better express our gratitude to the Great Giver of all Good,' than in the Morning Song by Dr. Watts,' which has been set to music expressly for our work by Mr. SAMUEL WESLEY, to whose unsolicited kindness we are indebted for the beautiful melody which accompanies the following words.

A MORNING SONG.

Once more, my soul, the rising day
Salutes thy waking eyes;

Once more, my voice, thy tribute pay
To him that rules the skies.

Night unto night his name repeats,
The day renews the sound,
Wide as the heav'n'on which he sits,
To turn the seasons round.

'Tis he supports my mortal frame;
My tongue shall speak his praise ;
My sins would rouse his wrath to flame,
And yet his wrath delays,

On a poor worm thy pow'r might tread,
And I could ne'er withstand:

Thy justice might have crushed me dead,
But Mercy held thine hand.

A thousand wretched souls are fled
Since the last setting sun,

And yet thou length'nest out my thread,
And yet my moments run.

Dear God, let all my hours be thine

Whilst I enjoy the light!

Then shall my sun in smiles decline,
And bring a pleasant night.

We subjoin another Morning Hymn' by a living author, whose Sacred Poems' possess great merit.

6.

Again we hail the golden light-the dawn

Now breaks from purple clouds on grove and lawn;
Leave we our couches, let the morning rays

Shining behold our gratitude and praise.

The glittering chariots of the night
Have fled, and lovely Morn again
Looks from her throne of lucid light,
And reassumes her fragrant reign.
Touched by her hand, the clouds that rolled
In gloom sublime, now brightly beam,
And seem a sheet of liquid gold

When viewed in some soft murmuring stream.
Thou Lord of Light, Thou God supreme,
Once more we seek on bended knee,
At Morning's first returning beam,
To breathe our hymns of praise to Thee.
The flowers that late all hung as dead,
Faint, and oppressed with Nature's dew,
Now meet the beam profusely shed,
Revive, and blush a lovelier bue.

Where thick the forest's branches wreathe,
And feathered songster dwelleth there,
Waked by the ray they grateful breathe
In melody to Thee their prayer.

Then, Lord of Light, and God supreme,
Let man seek now on bended knee,
At Morning's first returning beam,

To breathe his hymns of praise to Thee.

All is vigour and activity in the vegetable kingdom in this month, and the most patient observer of Nature is almost bewildered by the countless profusion of interesting objects. The garden affords many gay inmates, as lilies, pinks, carnations; and marigolds, and poppies of various colours, which are now in blossom. Speedwell (Veronica) is in perfection;