days. Memory is not only of infinite use, but is a source of infinite pleasure. The memory of good actions, may be called the " testimony of a good conscience." The memory of good friends is sometimes a consolatian for the loss of them. The memory, or "the remembrance of the just," who are no more," is blest" by those who survive them. Many have believed that the good, when they are removed to another life, still remember those they loved in this, and that they are permitted to exert a watchful care over the friends they knew in this world. The author of The Pleasures of Memory expresses such a belief.

THE ALPS AT DAY BREAK.

The sun-beams strike the azure skies,
And line with light the mountains brow:
With hounds and horns the hunters rise,
And chase the roe-buck through the snow.
From rock to rock with giant bound,
High on their iron poles they pass:
Mute, lest the air convulsed by sound,
Rend from above, a frozen mass.

The goats wind slow their wonted way,
Up craggy steeps, and ridges rude ;
Marked by the wild wolf for his prey,
From desert cave or hanging wood.
And while the torrent thunders loud,
And as the echoing cliffs reply,

The hut peeps o'er the morning cloud,
perched like an eagle's nest on high.

The region of the Alps is the abode of a secluded but vigorous and adventurous race of men, whose favourite occupations are hunting, and scaling their snow covered mountains. In the ascent of these they use long poles pointed with iron, which aid them in their dangerous passages. Mr. Gray says "there are passes in the Alps, where the guides tell you to move on with speed, and say nothing, lest the air agitated by the voice should loosen the snows above," and the detached masses should instantly destroy the travellers.

SIR JOHN MOORE.

General Sir John Moore was the son of Dr. John Moore, the author of Zeluco, and of several other excellent novels. General Moore was killed at Corunna, in Spain, January, 1808. He was sent into Spain by the British government, at the head of a large military force, in order to assist the Spaniards against the French. At that period Ferdinand II., king of Spain, was a prisoner in France, and Joseph Bonaparte, a brother of the Emporor Napoleon, was the "intrusive king" of the country. Bonaparte had resolved to establish his family in Spain, and the English government intended to defend what they call legitimate power—meaning by this, the continued authority of European sovereigns, whose ancestors have governed before them.

The English, upon this principle, sent an army to expel the French from Spain; but that army was forced to leave Spain without accomplishing their purpose. General Moore was a man of great courage and military skill, and his want of success in this enterprise was owing to circumstances which he could not control. When he was about to embark his troops, in order to return to England, he was overtaken by the French general, Marshal Soult, and a battle took place between them.

"The attack was made by the French on the 16th January, in heavy columns, and with their usual vivacity; but it was sustained and repelled on all hands. The gallant general was mortally wounded in the action, just as he called on the 42d Highland regiment to remember Egypt,' and reminded the same brave mountaineers that though ammunition was scarce, 'they had their bayonets!'"

"Thus died on the field of victory, which atoned for previous misfortunes, one of the bravest and best officers of the British army. His body was wrapped in his military cloak, instead of the usual vestments of the tomb: it was deposited in a grave hastily dug on the ramparts of Corunna; and the army completing its embarkation on the subsequent day, their late general was left alone with his glory.'

Charles Wolfe, the author of the verses on the interment of Sir John Moore, was born in Dublin in 1791. His family was highly respectable, and numbers among its names the distinguished one of the conqueror of Quebec. His classical education was received in the University of Dublin. In 1817, Mr. Wolfe was ordained to the Protestant Episcopal ministry, and appointed to a remote country curacy in the north of Ireland. His last

place of residence was the Cove of Cork, where he died of consumption on the 21st of February, 1823, in the thirty-second year of his

age.

Mr. Wolfe took the subject of his ode from the following passage in the Edinburgh Annual Register.

"Sir John Moore had often said, that if he was killed in battle, he wished to be buried where he fell. The body was removed at midnight to the citadel of Corunna. A grave was dug for him on the rampart there, by a party of the 9th regiment, the aidesdu-camp attending by turns. No coffin could be procured, and the officers of his staff wrapped the body, dressed as it was, in a military cloak and blankets. The interment was hastened; for, about eight in the morning, some firing was heard, and the officers feared that if a serious attack were made, they should be ordered away, and not suffered to pay him their last duty. The officers of his family bore him to the grave; the funeral service was read by the chaplain; and the corpse was covered with earth."—Edinburgh Annual Register, 1808.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,—
By the struggling moon beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head
And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sad we laid him down

From the field of his fame fresh and gory,
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

COWPER.

Born 1731-Died 1800.

66

The Biographers of Cowper are fond of tracing his origin to nobles, and even to kings. "His mother was descended" says the poet's relative, the reverend Mr. Johnson, by four different lines from Henry the Third, king of England." Cowper says of himself,

66 My boast is not that I deduce my birth

From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth,
But higher far my proud pretension rise."

The proud pretentions thus asserted by this truly humble man were the merits of his excellent parents, but we shall exalt these pretentions above every other consideration should we refer them to himself alone. To him

"Whose virtues formed the magic of his song,"

whose genius was so informed by piety and goodness, so devoted to the contemplation of God and his works, that he has left one of the most lovely examples upon record of what a high and holy gift the talent of the true poet is. The first extract from his works which shall be inserted here, is his own sketch of the poetical character, which, however, is limited to the peculiar moral character of the poet without touching upon the excursive and inventive powers of his imagination, of which Shakspeare says,

"The Poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolling

Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven.

And, as imagination bodies forth,

The forms of things unseen, the poet's pen
Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name."

THE POET.

The mind that feels indeed the fire
The muse imparts, and can command the lyre,
Acts with a force and kindles with a zeal,
Whate'er the theme, that others never feel.
If human woes her soft attention claim,
A tender sympathy pervades the frame ;
She pours a sensibility divine

Along the nerve of every feeling line.
But if a deed not tamely to be borne

Fire indignation, and a sense of scorn,

The strings are swept with such a power, so loud The storm of music shakes the astonished crowd., So when remote futurity is brought

Before the keen inquiry of her thought,

A terrible sagacity informs

The Poet's heart, he looks to distant storms,
He hears the thunder, ere the tempest lowers,
And armed with strength, surpassing human powers

Seizes events as yet unknown to man,

And darts his soul into the dawning plan.

Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name
Of poet, and of prophet was the same;
Hence British poets in the priesthood shared
And every hallowed poet was a bard.

CRAZY KATE.

There often wanders one, whom better days
Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimmed
With lace, and hat with splendid ribbon bound.
A serving maid was she, and fell in love
With one who left her, went to sea, and died.
Her fancy followed him through foaming waves
To distant shores; and she would sit and weep