On, on, I rushed in that last ghastly strength,

That lingers still when struck the mortal blow;
And struggling reached the holy shrine at length,
And on the icy stone my broken flower laid low.
Still, still, my kisses pressed those death-sealed eyes,
And the pale brow with parted life yet warm,
Like some soft nest, whose denizens arise

In search of skies unruffled by a storm.

O in that hour what countless ages past,
What fathomless abyss engulfed my soul!
Dull leaden anguish from my bosom cast

The living heart afar, and all it's beatings stole.
Madly I deem'd the glorious God of heaven.
Cruel, to quench the only star that shone—
The only blossom by no tempest riven

From the seared bough it softly bloom'd upon!

The last bright link of all my severed chain!
The last soft azure of my darkened sky!
Her very name was music, but the strain

Is mute for ever now, save in her father's sigh.
Alas! I lived in her sweet life alone-

Her voice the only sound that charmed mine ear, The one bright gleam to my dim eye-ball known, The one spring-morning in my gloomy year!

A mirror where my heart itself might love,

My purer day still lingering on her brow;

O God! thine every gift the garland wove,

[snow.

Which wreathed those temples fair, and gemmed their dazzling

A gentle bond her mother round me drew,
Soft
eyes in which my glance reflected shone,
And sweetly thrilling voice, wherein I knew
My spirit's echo in each varying tone.

Stern justice rends them all-my God, I drain
To it's last dregs the draught of anguish drear:
Let me not quaff it's poisoned juice in vain;

O welcome, welcome death, if found on Julia's bier!
I yield my treasure to the God who gave,

All is resigned, save one soft sunny tressThou canst not grudge me this, insatiate grave, This morn it swept my cheek in fond caress!

One stifling sigh, and the dark dream was gone,
Yet scarcely gone-for my distemper'd gaze
Saw gory dew out-issuing from the stone,
Till quick-congealing tears their veil in
As darting eagle swift, I sought my home,

mercy raise.

To read in it's wild gloom my certain fate : Her last fond straining glance beheld me come, Her last word strove to bless me, but too late!

Now in that home death revels; nought is there,
But tears slow-rolling from a mother's heart:
My aimless footsteps stray unconscious where;

I listen-yet what sound can aught save woe impart?
The vacant air but mocks my outstretch'd arm:
Bright noon-dark midnight—are as one for me!
My sorrow almost steals from prayer it's balm;
She was my all—O God, thine may she be !

A. X. Y.

F

THOMAS CLARKSON, ESQ.

THOMAS CLARKSON was born at Wisbech, in Cambridgeshire, on the 28th of March, 1760; his father, the Rev. John Clarkson, a native of Thirsk, in Yorkshire, being, at the time of the birth of the subject of this notice, Master of the Free Grammar School at Wisbech, Afternoon Lecturer in the Church of that town, and Curate of Walsoken, a parish about two miles distant. This estimable clergyman secured very general respect and love by the exemplary fidelity and devotedness with which his various duties were discharged, and in the midst of which he closed his useful life. He ever deemed it an important duty to visit the poor of his flock, especially when they were sick; not only for the purpose of exercising one of the most grateful parts of a Christian pastor's office, viz. relieving their temporal wants; but to administer to them the soothing and welcome consolations of religion. The engagements in the Grammarschool occupied nearly the whole of the day, and left scarcely more than the hours of evening for these visits of mercy. When this devoted clergyman went on this errand to Walsoken, he often did not return until late, occasionally past midnight; but so strong was his sense of duty, that he allowed neither the darkness of the night, the badness of the roads, the intensity of the cold, nor the violence of a tempestuous wintry night in that bleak and comparatively dreary country, to deprive the poor of his presence and sympathy in their seasons of affliction and