embosoms thirty-three islands-some of which are inhabited, while others are covered with antique ruins concealed in the umbrageous groves of ancient yews, and others still are wild, precipitous rocks where the lone osprey or the sea eagle dwells. The whole lake is shadowed by hoary mountains or ancient woods. The Grampian mountains terminate at its southeast corner, while in the northern part of Stirlingshire, Ben Lomond rises to the height of three thousand two hundred feet above the lake which washes its base. It would be impossible to do justice to the scenery of this lovely lake in a hundred representations-yet the sketch we give is a faithful and striking part of the imposing whole.

It is a remarkable fact, that in the great earthquake which destroyed Lisbon in Portugal in 1755, the waters of Loch Lomond rose and fell with sympathetic and violent agitation.

RIGHT REV. REGINALD HEBER, D. D.

Late Lord Bishop of Calcutta.

THE life of this distinguish divine of the English Church, compiled by his widow, has lately been published in this city by the Protestant Episcopal Press. A biography composed from the lamented bishop's correspondence, unpublished poems, and private papers, cannot fail of

giving the reader a deep acquaintance with the progress of mind which distinguished this luminary through his active, useful life. Reginald Heber was born April 21, 1783, at Malpas in the county of Chester, England— of which place his father was for many years co-rector. He was entered at Brazen Nose College in the University of Oxford in the autumn of 1800. Heber was uncommonly successful throughout his university course. It was in the spring of the year 1803, that he wrote, as a college exercise for a particular occasion, his celebrated poem, 'Palestine.'

Of the delivery of this poem, Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine gives the following description :-None who heard Reginald Heber recite his Palestine' in that magnificent theatre, will ever forget his appearance-so interesting and impressive.—It was known that his old father was somewhere sitting among the crowded audience, when his universally admired son ascended the rostrum ; and we have heard that the sudden thunder of applause which then arose so shook his frame, weak and wasted by long illness, that he never recovered it, and may be said to have died of the joy dearest to a parent's heart.

Although Mrs. Heber seems to doubt the immediate effect of this joy upon his father's life as stated above, the description she has given of the same scene, written by an eye witness after an interval of twenty-four years, is scarcely less graphic - Reginald Heber's recitation, like that of all poets whom we have heard recite, was altogether untrammelled by the critical laws of elocution,

which were not set at defiance, but either by the poet unknown or forgotten; and there was a charm in his somewhat melancholy voice, that occasionally faltered, less from a feeling of the solemnity and even grandeur of the scene, of which he was himself the conspicuous object—though that feeling did suffuse his pale, ingenuous, and animated countenance-than from the deeply felt sanctity of his subject, comprehending the most awful mysteries of God's revelation to man. As his voice grew bolder and more sonorous in the hush, the audience felt that this was not the mere display of the skill and ingenuity of a clever youth, the accidental triumph of an accomplished versifier over his compeers, in the dexterity of scholarship, which is all that can generally be said truly of such exhibitions,—but that here was a poet indeed, not only of bright promise, but of high achievement,-one whose name was already written in the roll of the immortals. This poetry is now incorporated for ever with the poetry of England.'

When Reginald Heber returned from the theatre, surrounded by his friends, with every hand stretched out to congratulate, and every voice raised to praise him, he withdrew from the circle; and his mother, who impatient of his absence, went to look for him, found him in his room on his knees giving thanks to God, not so much for the talents which had, on that day, raised him to honor but that those talents had enabled him to bestow unmixed happiness on his parents.

Towards the middle of the year 1805, Mr. Heber, in company with a distinguished friend, made the tour of

northern Europe and visited Norway, Sweden, Russia, Hungary and Germany. After his return, he commenced his ecclesiastical course as a humble 'parish priest' in Hodnet.

The particularity with which his biographer has made Heber speak his prejudices as well as his virtues, has detracted from the perfection of his moral portrait. We find him to be less than an angel. He writes thus of the Methodists, meaning, we suppose, Dissenters in general: -The Methodists in Hodnet are, thank God, not very numerous, and I hope to diminish them still more; they are, however, sufficiently numerous to serve as a spur to my emulation.'-'The Methodists are neither very numerous nor very active; they have no regular meetings but assemble from great distances to meet a favorite preacher. Yet I have sometimes thought, and it has really made me uncomfortable, that since Rowland Hill's visit to the country, my congregation was thinner.'

'ment.

When higher advanced in church dignity he forbade his curates to open their chapels to Rowland Hill. We have not space to follow Reginald Heber through his successful course of authorship and church preferHe was the angel of the church in India. He has given his name to deathless 'Palestine.' The deep, rich, solemn numbers of his poetry illustrated scenes where the harp of David gathered its inspiration; but in no one of his productions, does the simplicity of his sacred classics glow with such purified splendor, as in the Missionary Hymn, commencing—

'From Greenland's icy mountains,' &c.

SONNET.

THE DEPARTURE OF A WAR SHIP.

She leaves the strand with loud hurrahs and song,
The cannon's voice, and trumpet's shriek along,
Invokes from heaven her country's unbound breeze
To roll her bulwarks on the seething seas;

It comes-and fresh with incense breathing flowers
From murmuring, whispering, love-inspiring bowers,
Bears shout and farewell-sigh and bursting prayer
In one deep gush of balmy evening air.

The sun is down-the warrior ship is gone-
And ocean's waters running heedless on.
'I'll wait for thee,' the dark eyed virgin sighs,
Whilst thou, around the globe in foreign skies,
Shalt roll the standard sheet of Washington,
And bring me back thyself-thy duty done.'

OUR COUNTRY..

Delivered in Bennet-street Church, Boston, on the afternoon of the 4th of July, 1830.

'For they got not the land in possession by their own sword, neither dil their own arm save them; but thy right hand, and thy arm, and the light of thy countenance, because thou hadst a favor unto them.'- Psalın xliv. 3.

THE commemoration of past events has a very early date in the annals of the world's history. Israel had appointed seasons for rejoicing, when the remembrances of other days crowded upon the mind. Greece and Rome abounded with memorials of signal deliverances,