tors, wrought

New and amazing changes-these I sing.

"Sky, sun, and sea were all the universe; The sky, one blue, interminable arch, Without a breeze, a 'wing, a cloud; the sun Sole in the firmament, but in the deep Redoubled; where the circle of the sea, Invisible with calmness, seem'd to lie Within the hollow of a lower heaven.

"I was a Spirit in the midst of these, All eye, ear, thought; existence was enjoyment;

Light was an element of life; and air
The clothing of my incorporeal form,-
A form impalpable to mortal touch,
And volatile as fragrance from the flower,
Or music in the woodlands. What the soul
Can make itself at pleasure, that I was;
A child in feeling and imagination,
Learning new lessons still, as Nature wrought
Her wonders in my presence. All I saw,
(Like Adam when he walk'd in Paradise,)
I knew and named by secret intuition.
Actor, spectator, sufferer, each in turn,
I ranged, explored, reflected. Now I sail'd,
And now I soar'd; anon expanding, seem'd
Diffused into immensity, yet bound
Within a space too narrow for desire;
The mind, the mind perpetual themes must
task,

Perpetual power impel, and hope allure.

I and the silent sun were here alone,
But not companions; high and bright he held
His course-I gazed with admiration on
him,-

There all communion ended; and I sigh'd,
In loneliness unutterable sigh'd,
To feel myself a wanderer without aim,

From this region we are conducted through the vicissitudes of darkness, light, refreshing breezes, time, lightnings, tempests, calms, southern constellations, dolphins, and leviathans.

The second canto leads us through the mysterious caverns of the ocean, where we gaze upon their hidden recesses, strange productions, and varied inhabitants, and are alternately charmed with their pastimes, and terrified with their ferocity. In these strange abodes,

"Where down ten thousand fathoms from the day,

Springs the great fountain mother of the sea," we perceive the coral worms, laying the foundation of their pile, which in process of time is destined to lift its summit to the surface of the ocean, where, expanded into an island, it mocks the proudest works of art.

In the third canto, the poet "exhausts old worlds, and then imagines new." At his call the creations of imagination appear in regular succession before us. Like the exhibitions of the Kaleidoscope, which presents us with pictures ever variable and ever new, imaginary worlds rise, shine, disappear, and give place to others, furnishing in rich variety the complicated beauties to which invention, vision, reverie, and fancy, give birth. But not having time thus to follow the distinct characteristics of each canto, we must proceed to furnish some specimens of the composition.

The coral island having reached the surface of the water, the poet thus proceeds to clothe it with earth, with vegetable productions, and animal life.

"Nine times the age of man, that coral reef Had bleach'd beneath the torrid noon, and borne

The thunder of a thousand hurricanes,
Raised by the jealous ocean, to repel
That strange encroachment on his old domain.
His rage was impotent; his wrath fulfill'd
The counsels of eternal Providence,
And 'stablish'd what he strove to overturn:
For every tempest threw fresh wrecks upon it;
Sand from the shoals, exuviæ from the deep,
Fragments of shells, dead sloughs, sea-mon-
ster's bones,

Whales stranded in the shallows, hideous weeds

Hurl'd out of darkness by th' uprooting surges;
These, with unutterable relics more,

Heap'd the rough surface, till the various mass,
By Nature's chemistry combined and purged,
Had buried the bare rock in crumbling mould,
Not unproductive, but from time to time
Impregnated with seeds of plants, and rife
With embryo animals, or torrid forms
Of reptiles, shrouded in the clefts of trees,
From distant lands, with branches, foliage,

fruit,

Pluck'd up and wafted hither by the flood. Death's spoils, and life's hid treasures, thus enrich'd

And coloniz'd the soil; no particle

Of meanest substance but in course was turn'd
To solid use or noble ornament.
All seasons were propitious; every wind
From the hot Siroc to the wet Monsoon,
Temper'd the crude materials: while heaven's
dew

Fell on the sterile wilderness as sweetly
As though it were a garden of the Lord;
Nor fell in vain; each drop had its commission,
And did its duty, known to Him who sent it.
"Such time had past, such changes had
transfigured

The aspect of that solitary isle,
When I again in spirit, as before,
Assumed mute watch above it. Slender blades
Of grass were shooting through the dark brown
earth,

Like rays of light, transparent in the sun
Or after showers with liquid gems illumined;
Fountains through filtering sluices sallied forth,
And led fertility where'er they turn'd;
Green herbage graced their banks, resplendent
flowers

Unlock'd their treasures, and let flow their fragrance.

Then insect legions, prank'd with gaudiest hues,

Pearl, gold, and purple, swarm'd into exist

Some barely visible, some proudly shone,
Like living jewels; some grotesque, uncouth,
And hideous, giants of a race of pigmies;
These burrow'd in the ground, and fed on gar-
bage,

Those lived deliciously on honey-dews,
And dwelt in palaces of blossom'd bells;
Millions on millions, wing'd and plumed in
front,

And arm'd with stings for vengeance or assault,
Fill'd the dim atmosphere with hum and hurry;
Children of light, and air, and fire they seem'd,
Their lives all ecstasy and quick cross motion."
p. 34-37.

In the sixth canto we have a lively but melancholy picture of savage life, setting forth human nature in all its degradation. From this we select the following, as a true but gloomy feature in the loathsome portrait.—

"Woman was here the powerless slave of

Till limbs, by beauty moulded, eyes of glad

ness,

And the full bosom of confiding truth,
Made to delight and comfort him in toil,
And change care's den into a halcyon's nest,
-Are broke with drudgery, quench'd with
stagnant tears,

Or wrung with lonely unimparted wo.
Man is beside himself, not less than fall'n
Below his dignity, who owns not woman
As nearer to his heart than when she grew
A rib within him,—as his heart's own heart.

"He slew the game with his unerring arrow, But left it in the bush for her to drag Home, with her feeble hands, already burthen'd With a young infant clinging to her shoulders. Here she fell down in travail by the way, Her piteous groans unheard, or heard unanswer'd;

There, with her convoy, she-mother, and child,

And slaughter'd deer, became some wild beast's prey;

Though spoils so rich not one could long en joy,

Soon the woods echoed with the huge uproar Of savage throats contending for the bodies, Till not a bone was left for farther quarrel. -He chose the spot; she piled the wood, she

-He brain'd the drowsy panther in his den,
At noon o'ercome by heat, and with closed lids
Fearing assaults from none but vexing flies,
Which with his ring-streak'd tail he switch'd
away;

The citadel thus storm'd, the monster slain,
By the dread prowess of his daring arm,
She roll'd the stones, and planted the stockade.
To fortify the garrison for him,
Who scornfully look'd on, at ease reclined,
Or only rose to beat her to the task.

"Yet, 'midst the gall and wormwood of her lot,

She tasted joys which none but woman knows, -The hopes, fears, feelings, raptures of a mother.

Well nigh compensating for his unkindness,
Whom yet with all her fervent soul she loved.
Dearer to her than all the universe,
The looks, the cries, the embraces of her
babes;

In each of whom she lived a separate life,
And felt the fountain, whence their veins were

fill'd,

Flow in perpetual union with the streams, That swell'd their pulses, and throbb'd back through hers.

Oh! 'twas benign relief when my vex'd eye
Could turn from man, the sordid, selfish savage,
And gaze on woman in her self denial,
To him and to their offspring all alive,
Dead only to herself.-save when she won
His unexpected smile; then, then she look'd
A thousand times more beautiful, to meet
A glance of aught like tenderness from him;
And sent the sunshine of her happy heart
So warm into the charnel house of his,

The mother murdering her infant is finely conceived, and most pathetically expressed.

"I saw a woman, panting from her throes, Stretch'd in a lonely cabin on the ground, Pale with the anguish of her bitter hour, Whose sorrow she forgat not in the joy, Which mothers feel when a man child is born; Hers was an infant of her own scorn'd sex: It lay upon her breast;-she laid it there, By the same instinct, which taught it to find The milky fountain, fill'd to meet its wants Even at the gate of life,-to drink and live. Awhile she lay all passive to the touch Of those small fingers, and the soft, soft, lips Soliciting the sweet nutrition thence, While yearning sympathy crept round her

heart:

She felt her spirit yielding to the charm,
That wakes the parent in the fellest bosom,
And binds her to her little one for ever,
If once completed;-but she broke, she broke it.
For she was brooding o'er her sex's wrongs,
And seem'd to lie amidst a nest of scorpions,
That stung remorse to frenzy:-forth she

sprang,

And with collected might a moment stood,
Mercy and misery struggling in her thoughts,
Yet both impelling her to one dire purpose.
There was a little grave already made,
But two spans long, in the turf floor beside her,
By him who was the father of that child:
Thence he had sallied, when the work was
done,

To hunt, to fish, or ramble on the hills,

Till all was peace again within that dwelling, -His haunt, his den, his any thing but home! Peace? no-till the new comer were despatch'd Whence it should ne'er return, to break the stupor

Of unawaken'd conscience in himself.

"She pluck'd the baby from her flowing breast,

And o'er its mouth, yet moist with Nature's

beverage,

Bound a thick lotus-leaf to still its cries;
Then laid it down in that untimely grave,
As tenderly as though 'twere rock'd to sleep
With songs of love, and she afraid to wake it:
Soon as she felt it touch the ground, she
started,

Hurried the damp earth over it; then fell
Flat on the heaving heap, and crush'd it down
With the whole burthen of her grief; exclaim-
ing,

"O that my mother had done so to me!' Then in a swoon forgot, a little while, Her child, her sex, her tyrant, and herself." p. 121-123.

The scene which introduces us to the grandsire and the child is full of tenderness. There is an exquisite beauty that runs throughout the whole, but we have room only for the following highly poetical paragraph, which seems true to nature in every line.

"The little one was dancing at his side,
And dragging him with petty violence
Hither and thither from the onward path,
To find a bird's nest, or to hunt a fly:
His feign'd resistance and unfeign'd reluctance
But made the boy more resolute to rule
Though dallying with the minion's wayward
The grandsire with his fond caprice. The sage,
will,

His own premeditated course pursued,
And while, in tones of sportive tenderness,
He answer'd all its questions, and ask'd others
As simple as its own, yet wisely framed
To wake and prove an infant's faculties;
As though its mind were some sweet instru-
ment,

And he, with breath and touch, were finding

"Art thou a woman ?-so am I; and all That woman can be, I have been, or am; A daughter, sister, consort, mother, widow. Whiche'er of these thou art, O be the friend, Of one who is what thou canst never be! Look on thyself, thy kindred, home and country, "Thank

Then fall upon thy knees, and cry,

God, An English woman cannot be A SLAVE!” "Art thou a man?-Oh! I have known, have loved,

And lost all that to woman man can be;
A father, brother, husband, son, who shared
My bliss in freedom and my wo in bondage.
-A childless widow now, a friendless slave,
What shall I ask of thee, since I have nought
To lose but life's sad burthen; nought to gain
But heaven's repose?-these are beyond thy

power;

Me thou canst neither wrong nor help;--what then?

Go to the bosom of thy family,

Gather thy little children round thy knees,
Gaze on their innocence: their clear, full eyes,
All fix'd on thine; and in their mother, mark
The loveliest look that woman's face can wear,
Her look of love, beholding them and thee:
Then, at the altar of your household joys
Vow one by one, vow all together, vow
With heart and voice, eternal enmity
Against oppression by your brethren's hands,
Till man nor woman under Britain's laws,

green,

But all have not that sensibility in respect to human misery, which is inflamed and hurt by a simple knowledge of human depravity; and it is necessary to please, in order to move and instruct such as are indifferent. We imagine

it is for these characters that Mr. Swan has put his thoughts into "the shape of poetry." Topics are introduced in the poem which generally find an easy access to the heart. When the author enlarges on the impressions made by the objects of nature, the reader will probably recur, and perhaps with increased attachment, to Beattie's Minstrel.

Much of what is said on the connexion of idolatry with sin, may be thus summed up, with reference to the idolaters,

"In whom all turbulent vices were let loose; While conscience, with their impious creed accurst,

Drunk, as with wine, had sanctified to them
All bloody, all abominable things."

Although it would be wrong to claim for Mr. Swan that admiration which is due to one, in the riches of whose intellect we witness "the pomp and prodigality of heaven," yet there are many parts of his work characterized by vigour both of sentiment and language.

There are forty-nine notes appended to the poem for the sake of illustration. They are instructive and important, and must interest all who feel with earnestness in the missionary cause. The following extract from note 27, page 134, is forcible, and affords an urgent motive to zeal and perseverance in propagating the gospel:

"I have often been vexed and astonished to find that Christian authors, and some of them of the very first rank, express themselves so improperly on the subject of the present state and character of the world as contrasted with the past. How common is it for the Christian writer to congratulate himself and his readers that the times of ignorance have passed away -that "the light of science, and the purer and brighter light of religion, now illumines the world"-and so forth-as if Great Britain and one or two of the neighbouring countries were the whole world! It would be well for such writers to sit down and calculate the comparative extent and population of countries blessed with the light, and of those sitting in darkness even at this very day; and then let them set themselves with all their might to promote the shining of the light, instead of vaunting as if the darkness were already past."

We give these two verses as a specimen of our author's manner.

"Like the now mellowing-enchanting hues, The traveller sees spread o'er scenes passed by At early dawn, ere yet the sparkling dews Had vanish'd back into their native sky,Are the gay years of youth in memory's eye; And though the ever-widening tract between Proves that, though vivid still, they are not nigh,

Rel. Mag.-No. 2.

And brighter were its suns than ever since have been.

"For then all things were lovely, and to me,
So new-so cheerful-so harmonious all-
I lov'd to catch the poet's reverie,
And fancy this vast million-peopled ball,
Which sprang from nothing at its Maker's call,
Did in a ceaseless hymn his praise rehearse;
Then, echoing to the winds or waterfall,
Or distant roar of ocean, my weak verse,
The mighty chorus join'd of the wide universe."

We think that whoever reads this little work, though he may be pained by the miseries described, will be pleased with the author; that he will read a forcible lesson in the science of human nature, and be incited to adore the Supreme Being for the advantages which, in this country, are so full and so accessible.

From the Winter's Wreath. THOUGHTS ON THE USES AND CONDUCT OF RELIGIOUS SOCIETY AND CONVERSATION.

The counsellor of our doubts, the clarity of our minds, the emission of our thoughts, the exercise and improvement of what we meditate.-Jeremy Taylor.

THESE words form the conclusion of a very beautiful summary of the benefits and blessings of true friendship; and we think them happily expressive of the motives which should regulate our communications with one another on that which is the noblest object of thought, and the best subject of meditation. It is scarcely possible to rate too highly the value of such communing among believers. "Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," and that travellers who journey the same road, and partake of the same difficulties, and share in the same hopes, should never converse with one another of the "better country" to which they are going, of the Hand that guides them, and the Eye that watches for their deliverance, or of the mercy of Him who hath provided a rest for his people, would be a circumstance strange and anomalous indeed. It is not so. It could not have been so intended when the Almighty gave (along with affections. and desires) the power of speech to His intelligent creatures; and we cannot, therefore, consider any society in a safe or happy state in which the name of God and the things belonging to His kingdom appear an unwelcome and chilling intrusion. We cannot help believing that if one of the angel inhabitants of heaven were transported into the midst of such a society on earth, he would feel that the conversation there (however diversified by talent, or dignified by the results of learned inquiry) was barren, because unhallowed; and may we not imagine such a being returning to his own region in sorrowful amazement that the uses of thought, and speech, should, in any part of the universe of God, be so little understood?-When, after saying this with the deepest conviction of its truth, we turn (somewhat

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