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Come and see where the stately city stands,
Deck'd with the pride of a thousand lands;
With its mighty domes—and its kingly halls,
And its glittering spires on the temple walls;
There ambition plans its proudest schemes-
There passion forms its wildest dreams-
There wisdom's laws make nations free-

Arch Spirit ! is this not a home for thee?

There's a nobler city than this

Where no fierce passions come-
In its halls of untold-of bliss-

I long to make my home !

In yon holy pile—the young and the fair-
Are breathing their spirits forth in prayer-
A chasten'd light through the window steals,
Where an aged priest at the altar kneels-
The organ a solemn peal is ringing,
Sweet voices their Maker's praises are hymning, -
Oh! tis a beautiful sight to see !

Pure Spirit ! is this not a home for thee?

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Alas ! human feelings are there

Mingling with things divine, 'Tis a beautiful sight and fair

But a purer home is mine.

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Then come to the halls where the red wine flows-
There beauty in all her radiance glows -
There bright flowers twine in many a wreath,
There flute-tuned voices, soft music breathe-
There light feet bound in the flying dance,
There love is told by a silent glance-
There young hearts laugh in their sportive glee,

Glad Spirit ! is this not a home for thee !

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" One of those men of gentus, whom worldlings hoot at, till they dir; but around to host grades thep

gather with lugubrious loots."-Axox.
Poet-painter, thou art taken
From the world's ungenial breath,
Pencil, palette, lie forsaken,
'Neath the spectral glance of death ;
They that laughed at thee, awaken

To thy worth !

Far art thou, now, beyond the lying blame

Far art thou, now, beyond the killing praise,
That from the brainless, lisping critics came;

Or through the envious artist's pompous phrase.

Are the skies fair 'neath which thy spirit flies ?

Sweeps thy clear sight across a glorious land ?
Our skies are darker- dimmer too our eyes,

Since we have lost the cunning of thy hand.

Yet, what though sooner by a few short circlings

Of this--the planet, misty, dull, and cold,
Thou hast been laid to rest, where silence sorrows

Above the dust of generations old.

While far and free, thy spirit, lonely watcher!
Hath sought the spirit-land, where aye

reside The wise and good ; where watching doth not weary;

Where truth and goodness, robed in beauty, bide.

There shalt thou sound of life the depths mysterious ;

While yet another deep thy soul shall call, To learn a wisdom, blessed, ever growing,

And taste those pleasures that shall never pall.

Many sad and wild days here went o’er thee,

Such as all truth-seekers suffer ;
Many scoffing words were whispered at thee,

By the worldly and the thoughtless ;
Much neglect thy genius had to bear with,

In a cold, prosaic period ;
But the brightly-rising visions coming,

Oft to greet thy mournful eyesight,
Made to thee amends for slight and mockery,

And for kindness due to genius.
Solemn gladsomeness was thine in musing,

Such as blesses aye the watcher,
Who would hold communion with the Highest,

Through His realms of mind and matter.
Lonely oft, by fire that sings and rustles

In the silence, sits the student; Wrapt in slumber is the crowd of mortals;

Hushed the hamlet and the city; While the eagle-wing'd imagination,

Or the ancients bear him onward,
Far thro’ dceps, made deeper by his

Silence and his isolation.
Or on earth, in classic regions roaming,

Or in lands of vanished races,
Gathers he the secrets of the progress,

Both of years that were and shall be ; Or from men to lower nature stocping,

Searches he the crusted annals,-Shattered, mouldered, driven, amassed, renewing,

Which the world's aye gathering round it. Now the laws of all material nature

Pass before him in their beauty; Now come glimpses of the high and holy,

Through the veil that hides the Presence And he bends in adoration, to the

Music of the still small voices !

Y

Such wert thou, O Scott! for whom now mourning,

Sad we raise a song of parting ;
Thou wert of the band, fraternal, holy,

Who are urging on the ages,
In a brighter, better revolution,

Than the past hath seen advancing.

The days will come, when, on the silent wall,

Thy canvas shall relate in language new,
The noble thoughts that held thy soul in thrall;

Tho' now they're noticed only by the few;

Thy dreams of Beauty, and thy dreams of Sin;

Thy picturings of Hope and of Despair,
Thy types of man's deformity, within,

Thro' outward ugliness so quaintly rare ;

Thy far ideal flights through time and space ;

Historic musings truer than they seemed ;
Poetic fancies, hid from stolid face,

Through which imagination never gleamed.

The struggles of thy mind with high-born thought ;

The chain of Allegory aye entwined;
The moral grandeur o'er thy subjects brought,

By higher truths with wordly truth combined :

These things shall tell of thee, in after days,

When they that jeered thee moulder in the ground;
And men shall warmly, gladly speak thy praise-

As one who nobly spurned the narrow bound,

Materialists erect around the sphere

To which they'd cramp the spirit's subtle skill;
And of thy genius mocked shall sadly hear-

And of thy early death-more sadly still.

But why-why are we weeping

Around thy new-closed grave ?
Thy spirit's bark is sleeping,

Where breaks no world-tost wave.

Thou hast passed the stormy Cape,*

To the undiscovered land,

A reference to Scott's noble painting, at which so many were looking, when the waters of death were swelling high around his soul.

With the Sword of Faith, cross-hilted,

Heart-pressed beneath thy hand ;
Earth's lightnings shatter earth ; and earth's tempest scoops the sea ;
But thou art riding, safe and far, Heaven's Dreamland on thy lee !

Poet-painter, now well-taken
From the world's ungenial breath !
Pencil, pallette, though forsaken,
’Neath the spectral glance of death ;
They that mocked at thee, awaken

To thy worth!

A-V.

LITERARY NOTICES.

Moriah: or, Sketches of the Sacred Rites of Ancient Israel. By the Rev.

Robert W. FRASER, St. John's, Edinburgh. Edinburgh : William
Oliphant and Sons. 1849.

We cannot better introduce this volume to our readers, or mark its value to those for whose use it is intended, than by making some extracts from Mr. Fraser's own Preface, and from other parts of his work :

“ Authors of high reputation have employed themselves in elucidating the subject of the Jewish Sacred Rites. Most of their works, however, if not all of them, are so voluminous, and abound in detail so minute, as to be for the most part unsuited to the majority of readers. This volume consists of a series of sketches in which such very minute detail is avoided, and an endeavour is made to present a view of the subject which may prove interesting and instructive to those who have not hitherto carefully studied it, and may lead them to a more diligent inquiry into the history of these sacred antiquities which, as they illustrate, in a very striking manner, the oracles of divine truth, it is alike their duty and their interest to fully understand.

“ The plan of these sketches embraces a view of the Temple on Mount Moriah, the great scene of Israel's worship; an account of the Priesthood; a description of the Daily Worship, and of the rites peculiar to the Passover, to the Feasts of Pentecost and Tabernacles, the Yearly Atonements, and the festivals of New Moons and New Years; and an account of the Sabbath-day, Sabbath-year, and Jubilee. These descriptions are accompanied by scenes, either supposed to have occurred, or taken from authentic records, and calculated to illustrate the proceedings of the Israelites on the solemn occasions referred to. It will thus be perceived, that the Author has confined himself to the institutions of divine origin, omitting those established among the Jews merely by human authority.

" That there are many defects in the manner in which he has executed his design, the Author fully conscious. But the Supreme Architect of the spiritual temple affords ample encouragement even to the humblest labourer in the Redeemer's cause, by permitting him to entertain the cheer

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