For thee, who, mindful of each briefless wight,
Dost in these motley rhymes their tale relate,
If musing in his lonely attic flight,
Some youthful student should inquire thy
fate,

Haply some usher of the court may say :

At morn I've marked him oft, 'twixt nine and ten,

Striding with hasty step, the Strand away,
At four o'clock to saunter back again;

There in the Bail Court, where yon quaint old judge,

Doth twist his nose, and wreath his wig awry; Listless for hours he'd sit, and never budge, And pore upon a book,-the Lord knows why!

Oft would he bid me fetch him some report,

And turn from case to case, with look forlorn; Then bustling would he run from court to court, As if some rule of his! were coming on.

One morn I missed that figure lean and lank, And that pale face, so often marked by me, Another came,-nor yet was he in Bank,

Nor th' Exchequer, nor at the Plees was he. The next day, as at morn, I chanced to see Death's peremptory paper in the Times;

I read his name, which there stood number three, And there I also read these doleful rhymes

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests a youth lamented but by few,
A barrister to fame and courts unknown;
Brief was his life-yet was it briefless too,
For no attorney marked him for his own.

Deep and correct his knowledge of the laws,
No judge a rule of his could c'er refuse;
He never lost a client or a cause,-

Because, forsooth, he ne'er had one to lose. Even as he lived unknown-unknown he dies; Calm be his rest, from hopeless struggle free, Till that dread Court, from which no error lies, Shall final judgment pass on him and thee.

If the gentle reader will take the trouble of comparing stanza for stanza, and even line for line of the parody with the original poem, he will see how closely the witty rhymester followed the original.

He watches silent on his column there,

Lights gleam beneath, crowds flow, and coursers prance;

The sight is dazzled by the sound and glare
Of chariots that through green Elysiums
glance.

All that there is of pleasure is most fair-
The type and cynosure of courtly France.
-Spectator.
J. N.

"Men sought to prove me vile,
Because I wished to give them larger minds."
STAND fast, thou later saint and modern sage,
Calmly across Contention's stormy night,
Shed, over angry waves, a broader light:
Shine on alone, and, when their little rage
Has lashed itself to silence, still the page
Stamped with thy work will stand; the larger
sight

Thinker and teacher of a faithless age.
Of after days will learn to read thee right,
Thy peers may pass thee; to the glittering
prize

Of pomp and fame and power let others climb: The slow and sure award of Justice lies,

For thee laid up beyond the sands of time. "Far-off divine events are in thine eyes,Truth that endures, and Love's eternal prime. -Spectator. J. N.

PARIS.

IMPERIAL mistress of a thousand shows,
City scarce second in the world's renown,
Thy baubles are a sceptre and a crown
To play with, as thy favor comes and goes.
Between thy palaces the river flows,

Smiling, yet mindful of the Bastille's frown, Its fall and his who hurled empires down, As he went crashing to his fiery close :

THE TIRED SPIRIT.

FULL many a storm on this gray head has beat;
And now, on my high station do I stand,
Like the tired watchman in his air-rocked tower,
Who looketh for the hour of his release.
I'm sick of worldly broils, and fain would rest
With those who war no more.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

MONT BLANC REVISITED. 9TH JUNE, 1845.

O MOUNT beloved! mine eyes again Behold the twilight's sanguine stain Along thy peaks expire;

O Mount beloved; thy frontier waste I seek with a religious haste,

And reverent desire.

They meet me midst thy shadows cold,-
Such thoughts as holy men of old

Amidst the desert found;

Such gladness as in Him they felt,

Who with them through the darkness dwelt,
And compassed all around.

Oh! happy if His will were so,
To give me manna here for snow,
And by the torrent side,

To lead me as he leads his flocks
Of wild deer, through the lonely rocks,
In peace unterrified;

Since, from the things that trustful rest,-
The partridge on her purple nest,

The marmot in his den,-
God wins a worship more resigned,
A purer praise than he can find
Upon the lips of men.

Alas, for man! who hath no sense
Of gratefulness nor confidence,

But still rejects and raves;
That all God's love can hardly win
One soul from taking pride in sin,
And pleasure over graves.

Yet let me not, like him who trod
In wrath, of old, the mount of God,
Forget the thousands left;
Lest haply, when I seek his face,
The whirlwind of the cave replace
The glory of the cleft.

But teach me, God, a milder thought,
Lest I, of all thy blood has bought,
Least honorable be;

And this, that moves me to condemn,
Be rather want of love for them,
Than jealousy for thee.

The wild sea waves rejoice without a curb,
And rest without a passion; but the chain
Of Death, upon this ghastly cliff and chasm,
Is broken evermore to bind again,
Nor lulls nor looses. Hark! a voice of pain,
Suddenly silenced; a quick-passing spasm,
That startles rest, but grants not liberty-
A shudder, or a struggle, or a cry-
And then sepulchral stillness. Look on us,
God! who hast given these hills their place
of pride,

If Death's captivity be sleepless thus,
For those who sink to it unsanctified.

IMPATIENCE.

OUR life is spent on little things,

In little cares our hearts are drowned; We move, with heavy-laden wings, In the same narrow round.

We waste on wars and petty strife,

And squander in a thousand ways, The fire that should have been the life And power of after days.

We toil to make an outward show,
And only now and then reveal
How far the undercurrents flow

Of all we think and feel.

Mining in caves of ancient lore, Unweaving endless webs of thought, We do what has been done before; And so we come to naught.

The spirit longs for wider scope,

And room to let its fountains play, Ere it has lost its Love and Hope,Tamed down or worn away.

I wander by the cloister wall,

My fancy fretting to be free,
As, through the twilight, voices call
From mountain and from sea.
Forgive me, if I feel oppressed

By Custom, lord of all and me;
My soul springs upward, seeking Rest,
And cries for Liberty.
-Spectator.

AUTUMN PICTURES.

EVENING.

THE grass is dank with twilight dew; The sky is throbbing thick with stars

I see the never-parted Twins,

And, guarding them, the warrior Mars,
High, too, above the dark elm-trees,
Glitter the sister Pleiades.

No foot upon the quiet bridge-
No foot upon the quiet road;

No bird stirs in the covert walks;
Only the watchman is abroad.

From distant gate the mastiff's bark
Comes sounding cheerly through the dark

The hazel leaves, black velvet now,
Rise patterned 'gainst the twilight sky;
The restless swallow sleeps at last,
The owl unveils its luminous eye;
Our cottage like a lighthouse shines
From out its covering of vines.

I know above my lamp-lit room
The kindly angel-stars are watching,
O'er the long line of dark-ridged roof,
Far o'er the gable-end and thatching:

And now I blow the light out-pray,
Dear wife, for him who's far away.

-Chambers's Journal.

But if these two publications have met with a truly popular reception from all classes of readers in Italy, there is a third, greatly differing from them in style and composition, which, though favored with a less glaring success, merits in a higher degree the attention of a close observer of what is really at work in Italy. This is The Mediatore, a weekly periodical appearing at Turin, and edited by Father Passaglia, who, with the assistance of one fellow-laborer, writes himself almost the whole of it. His periodical, as regards the movement in the strictly ecclesiastical sense, is out and out the most important publication that has yet appeared, and a real sign of the times. It is entirely devoted to arguing against the attitude of the court of Rome, on grounds exclusively taken from the most orthodox canonical doctrine. Precisely what is likely to appear tiresome and not to the point in its mode of reasoning for the general reader constitutes the peculiar attraction and value of the periodical to the ecclesiastical classes, who are there supplied with the one kind of argument which, because it accommodates itself to their particular horizon of thought, is to them the most telling. Also, it is because Father Passaglia feels how much must depend for the success of his efforts upon the incontrovertible strictness of his reasoning that he has avoided inviting fellow-laborers to his assistance. The whole value of the publication, as a means of influencing the minds of dévout churchmen, would be at once destroyed were it ever to fall into language which the wakeful vigilance of Rome could convict of being not orthodox. Therefore, with immense labor and wonderful assiduity, Father Passaglia, week after week, himself addresses the Italian clergy in papers full of his own profound and vast theological reasoning, which are attaining a circulation that is rendering the court of Rome furious. We are informed that the Mediatore, which has been started only a few months, numbers already two thousand subscribers, and that among its eager readers are not a few bishops. That it ever can become a great popular periodical is not to be expected. Its scope is one that cannot allow it to become so. It addresses itself simply to a class, and that class it addresses

in the court of Rome, and a subject of sore annoyance to it; for so thoroughly respect ful and proper is the language employed, that many are the priests who have never taken any hostile decision against the temporal power, and who yet read with interest the Mediatore. Next to the first great public protest put forth by Father Passaglia in his celebrated letter to the bishops, this pe riodical of his is undoubtedly the most important thing he has done, for thereby he has contrived a means of carrying success fully the seeds of liberal thought into fields which are notoriously the most difficult to reach, and the most stubborn in resisting such cultivation. Already, indeed, the prog ress made good is visibly and unmistakably apparent. The ecclesiastical opposition to the present attitude of the Holy See is gain ing confidence to come forward and avow its opinions. It is no longer skulking in the timid retirement of troubled minds, trembling at the bare thought of daring to say openly a word in dissent from the Pope. The clergy are growing strong in their conviction of the canonical soundness of their views against the temporal power, and have begun not to flinch from speaking their mind to the Pope. This must be taken as the capital step due to the particular action of Father Passaglia's example and argument. It is acknowledged in the Vatican that the Pope has received appeals from members of the Italian clergy urging him to resign his temporal authority, as hurtful to the Church in the present state of the world. It is, however, there affirmed that these appeals are utterly insignificant, proceeding either from reprobate priests, or from individuals who had not the strength of mind to resist coercion, but who mostly have privately sought the Pope's forgiveness for an act committed under pressure. This is the story freely circulated by the great upholders of the Vatican, but which we have reason to believe utterly without foundation. What ever appeals the Pope may have received as yet are merely desultory effusions on the part of individuals. There is at the present moment, however, on foot a great collective declaration in regard to the temporal power by the Liberal clergy in Italy, which will soon be published, with the names of its subscribers; and the appearance of this doc