SCOTT.

He sings, and lo! Romance Starts from its mouldering urn, While Chivalry's bright lance And nodding plumes return.

WILSON.

His strains like holy hymn
Upon the ear doth float,

Or voice of cherubim

In mountain vale remote.

HEMANS.

To bid the big tear start Unchallenged from its shrine, And thrill the quivering heart With pity's voice, are thine.

SHELLEY.

A solitary rock

In a far distant sea,

Rent by the thunder's shock,

An emblem stands of thee!

HOGG.

Clothed in the rainbow's beam, 'Mid strath and pastoral glen,

He sees the fairies gleam

Far from the haunts of men.

C

BYRON.

Black clouds his forehead bound,
And at his feet were flowers:
Mirth, madness, magic found
In him their keenest powers.

MOORE.

Crowned with perennial flowers,
By wit and genius wove,
He wanders through the bowers
Of fancy and of love.

POETRY EVERY WHERE.

THERE'S poetry among the rocks,
Upon the cloud-capt mountains:
There's music in each tiny rill

That flows from springing fountains.

And all is poetry divine,

And all is wondrous fair,

For He who built the heavenly dome
Is always present there.

There's poetry in the deep vale,

Where the mineral water gushes,

And the crimson flowers in sunny bowers
Reflect the morning blushes.

And there, in silence and in shade,
Nature is passing fair;

For He who made the beauteous world

Is always present there.

The forest is all poetry,

Where the honey bees are singing,
And the golden spider his bower of love,
'Neath the green branch, is spinning.
And the rosy morn and purple eve
The umbrageous herbage share,
For He who lit the soft, pale moon,
Is always present there.

There's poetry on the deep sea,

Where the mountain waves are roaring; And the young billows clap their hands, Rejoicing and adoring.

And the phosph'rous sea and ocean's caves
Are in their nature fair;

For He who made the mighty winds
Is always present there.

There's poetry in the dark clouds,

Where the chain-lightning 's flaming;
And the thunder's voice is heard aloud,
Its Maker's power proclaiming.
But o'er those clouds, and in that sky,
All shines divinely fair;

For He who forged the thundrous bolt
Is always present there.

There's poetry among the winds,

Where they kiss the spring's first flowers;

And sleep on beauty's breast divine
In love's young rosy bowers.

And all the bowers of love and spring
Are beautiful and fair;

For He who is the life of life

Is always present there.

There's poetry among the stars,
That gem the azure sky;
Although with borrowed light they shine,
Reflected from His eye.

There's poetry above the stars,

Poesy's heavenly throne;

Fountain of fountains-light of life,

Music and love's own home,

And all above and all below
Is poetry sublime !

Stamped with the eternal mystic seal-
The hand that is divine.

AN ALLEGORY.

For a long time my mind had been severely exercised, with a view of my own situation as a professed disciple of Christ, and also that of the Christian church. I had been casting about me to see if I could discover the cause of this sad declension in religious interest.

With my mind agitated and distressed, I fell into a disturbed slumber. I dreamed that I was in great distress of mind, on account of my exceeding sinfulness. It seemed as if no man had ever done so many bad things as I had, and that it was not possible that I could be forgiven. In this situation, I thought I passed some days and nights without once supposing these feelings arose from a conviction of sin. At length, in all the bitterness of spirit, I voluntarily exclaimed, "O, wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" I felt as if my sins verily clung to me, a loathsome, dead weight. At this moment of despondency, and almost of despair, a Being appeared, of infinite beauty and surpassing loveliness, and with tones which reached my inmost soul, said, "Take my yoke upon you, which is easy, and my