the goodness of the roet's neart. He commences by a retrospect of the lamentable state of freedom in England, dwells upon the value of the appointment of justices; then draws the character which a justice ought to bear, enumerates the reasons why he should lean to the side of mercy and make allowances for the errors of poor human nature. His apology for the vagrant is a delicious bit

"The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears ;"

and his appeals for protection of the poor are admirable.

His tale, "Owen of Carron," was the last of his works. It is founded upon the ancient and more pathetic ballad of "Gil Morrice," and records the story of a Highland maid, who gives her heart to one who is not chosen for her, and whose rival procures his assassination.

But, as we have intimated, it is rather sound practical sense, gentle and amiable thoughts, or the results of experience learnt with a kindly reading in the great school of the world-the actual and every day world-in the form of easy and agreeable verse, than the exercise of the high and enduring attributes of the poet, which have given fame to the name of Langhorne. He rarely warms into enthusiasm. "Tenderness," says one of his biographers, "seems to have been his peculiar characteristic;" but even this quality rarely assumes the winning and impressive influence that touches the heart.

The great defects of his poetry arise from the redundancy of ornament which he appeared to consider essential in producing a vivid impression upon the mind of his reader. He is rarely content to picture nature in her own plain but most attractive garb; and often fails in his attempts to lead votaries to her shrine by dressing her in

THE gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love.

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snuggling, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call.

Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait,
The mouth, and oft the minister of fate!
From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade,
Of future fortune, flies the village- maid,
Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold;
And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold.

Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,

Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn?
While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye,
A few seen straggling in the evening sky!
Not many suns have hasten'd down the day,
Or blushing moons immers'd in clouds their way,
Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light,
With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight;
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursu'd,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and view'd;
To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear,
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increas'd by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless had she strove. Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expir'd-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear-for by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die." Too late!-his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assign'd the jail,

The living object of thy honest rage, Old in parochial crimes, and steel'd with age, The grave churchwarden !—unabash'd he bears Weekly to church his book of wicked prayers; And pours, with all the blasphemy of praise, His creeping soul in Sternhold's creeping lays!

ODE TO THE RIVER EDEN.

BEAUTIFUL Eden! parent stream,
Yet shall the maids of memory say,
(When, led by fancy's fairy dream,
My young steps trac'd thy winding way)
How oft along thy mazy shore,
That many a gloomy alder bore,

In pensive thought their poet stray'd;
Or, careless thrown thy bank beside,
Beheld thy dimly waters glide,

Bright through the trembling shade.

Yet shall they paint those scenes again,
Where once with infant joy he play'd,
And bending o'er thy liquid plain,

The azure worlds below survey'd:
Led by the rosy-handed hours,

When time tripp'd o'er yon bank of flowers,
Which in thy crystal bosom smil'd;
Though old the god, yet light and gay,
He flung his glass and scythe away,
And seem'd himself a child.

The poplar tall, that waving near

Would whisper to thy murmurs free;
Yet rustling seems to soothe mine ear,
And trembles when I sigh for thee.
Yet seated on thy shelving brim,
Can fancy see the naiads trim

Burnish their green locks in the sun;

Or at the last lone hour of day,
To chace the lightly glancing fay,

But, Fancy, can thy mimic power
Again those happy moments bring?
Canst thou restore that golden hour,
When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing?
When first in Eden's rosy vale,

My full heart pour'd the lover's tale,
The vow sincere, devoid of guile !
While Delia in her panting breast,
With sighs the tender thought supprest,
And look'd as angels smile.

O goddess of the crystal bow,

That dwell'st the golden meads among;
Whose streams still fair in memory flow,
Whose murmurs melodise my song!
Oh! yet those gleams of joy display,
Which brightening glow'd in fancy's ray,
When near the lucid urn reclin'd,
The dryad, Nature, bar'd her breast,
And left, in naked charms imprest,
Her image on my mind.

In vain the maids of memory fair
No more in golden visions play;
No friendship smooths the brow of care,
No Delia's smile approves my lay.
Yet, love and friendship lost to me,
'Tis yet some joy to think of thee,

And in thy breast this moral find—
That life, though stain'd with sorrow's showers,
Shall flow serene, while virtue pours
Her sunshine on the mind.

INSCRIPTION ON A STUDY DOOR.

O THOU that shalt presume to tread
This mansion of the mighty dead,
Come with the free, untainted mind;
The nurse, the pedant leave behind;
And all that superstition, fraught

With folly's lore, thy youth has taught-
Each thought that reason can't retain-