237

One eye hath glanc'd; nor did thy wonders dart,

That heavenly truth, the simplest Christian read,
Of a first cause, conviction to his heart;
Unread that truth, though legibly impress'd
On thy bright aspect, as within his breast;
The Atheist reads not-he by science led,
Mounts to the skies on telescopic wing;
Attends each planet through its wondrous ring;
And bounds its orb-marks its eccentric course,
Spans its dimensions-calculates its force-
Proclaims its stay-predicts its sare return,
While nations tremble to behold it burn.
-But strange to tell! from this stupendous
height

He sinks, and plunges to the depths of night!
The skill that led him through this wondrous

maze,

Pour'd on philosophy, oh! immortal blaze; That harmony divine which rules the whole, Allar'd his reason, but left blank his soul. While his proud spirit in its rapturous flight, Bath'd in the region of the fount of light: From that warm source into his darken'd soul He felt no hallow'd emanation roll,

He saw no Power, that with almighty will Gemm'd night's blue concave with transcendent skill,

But knowing much-still less, as more he saw, Knew he the uthor of great nature's law; And though with him the circling spheres he trod,

He spurn'd-believ'd not-knew not-prais'd not God.

Fair azure vault when winter's northern blast

A glist'ring robe of snows around had cast;
In the keen clearness of the frosty night,
Charm'd with its richness of cerulean light;
Oft hath he stood, in wealth and science poor,
Immers'd in thought before his cottage door;
The simple Rustic:-view'd the wide expanse,
Too ignorant he to read the laws of chance;
Too weak to dive that philosophic pool,
Sound its deep mysteries, and emerge a fool!
Unskilful he to trace the solar path
Through summer's charms, or winter's stormy
wrath:

Unknowing he to mark the comet's track,
Resolve its orbit, and announce it back :
For Galileo's tube ne'er met his

eye,

Nor Newton's spirit led him through the sky, Nor in those regions drunk at learning's spring, Dar'd flutter vainly on presumption's wing. -Fair azure vault! simplicity's dear child, View'd stars as stars, that spangled o'er thy wild;

And when the comet's awful splendour blaz'd,
As such he view'd it, and serenely gaz'd;
Knowing the Power whence first its course
begun,

Would guide it safely past the flaming sun.
He saw the galaxy's white streamy train,
But could not to its mystery attain;
While new discov'ries blazon'd Herschel's
fame,

Unknown to him, his systems and his name ;
Fair azure vault! in thy resplendent zone,
The glorious characters of wisdom shone;
He view'd it as the realm where sov'reign
pow'r

238

Flash'd new-born light in its created hour,
When day, emerging from eternal night,
Felt the great fiat Let there now be light!"

DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. FROM her cheek has fled the glowing hue, And her eyes have lost their heav'nly blue, Pale and inanimate, tell her dead: And her lips so late of ruby red, The ringlets roll on her breast of snow, Which erst with rapture was wont to glow, But never again will heave the sigh, To the grave she's borne by weeping friends, Nor glow with generous sympathy. And the bursting sigh each bosom rends ; Her spirit freed from its mortal clay, To elysian shades swift wings its way. Priestgate, Peterborough,

J. R.

EDWARD AND MATILDA, A Poem, in Two Cantos.

BY T. N.

Canto the First.

HARD by the borders of a fragrant grove,
Where sweetly sung in cadences of love
The tuneful warblers of the feather'd race,
The gay frequenters of the peaceful place;
Dwelt cheerful Edward and his charming bride,
His dear Matilda, all his joy and pride;
And the fair mistress of his heart's desire,
With equal love, returned his ardent fire.

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Soarce had gay Sol in golden chariot driv'n Twice round the earth, through the blue vault of heav'n,

Since first they dwelt in this their snug retreat,
Far from the pomp and splendour of the great;
Far from the noise and bustle of the town,
In rustic scenes their happiness to crown;
When, lo! the demon of destruction came,
The muse forbids me here to pen his name,
In rank a lord; in disposition vile;
And undeserving of so great a style-
Struck with the beauty of Matilda fair,
His only thought was how he could ensnare
And captivate the charms of one so bright,
Who stood so tempting in his hateful sight.
Alas the time, in an unguarded hour,
Betrayed by grandeur and apparent pow'r,
The lost Matilda gives up every tie,
And yields the victim of his treachery;
To foreign climes he hastens with his prize,
And all his black desires he gratifies;
Nor gives reflection time; no moment's stay;
But swift as light, he bears his prize away.

Canto the Second.

WHILE through the cupola of lofty trees,
That bend submissive to the pressing breeze,
Bright Sol resplendent shot his ev'ning ray,
And sweetly sunk the golden orb of day;
When mounting high 'midst pearly stars of
night,

The pallid moon appears as silver bright;
The air serene; a universal calm;

And meditation dropt her soothing balm;
Nor e'en a sound disturbs the silent vale,
Save the soft music of the nightingale,
That sweetly floated on the ev'ning air;
To lull the sorrows of desponding care-
But soon the sky a different aspect wore :
Black clouds contend, and winds begin to roar;
The nightingale's sweet harmony had ceas'd;
And the stern fury of the storm increas'd,

The dismal screech-owl now began her noteThat rung discordant through her noisome throat;

Still on Matilda Edward's mind was bent,
Which many a pang of recollection rent,
When a loud shriek assail'd his wond'ring ear,
He grasp'd his sword, and, unappall'd by fear,
Rush'd on unmindful of the storm with speed,
To whence he thought he heard the sound pro-
ceed;

Scarce had he enter'd at a gloomy wood,
And scarcely knowing what he then pursu'd;
When the heart-rending sound he heard again,
Still he pursued, but still it proved in vain ;
Quite lost, bewilder'd, and depriv'd of light,
Save when the liquid lightning, vivid, bright,
Cast round the scene a momentary ray,
The only means to guide his dreary way.
Tired and fatigued, he turns to seek his cot
At some far distance from this dismal spot,
When the loud thunder's most tremendous roar
Burst with more fury than it had before.
Preceded by another shriek of woe-
Which strongly prompted him still on to go,
He throught from whence he heard the piteous

cry

Could not be far, determin'd to descry;

A pray'r to heaven's all bounteous throne he sent,

Then grasp'd his sword, and boldly on he went,

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Till an old ruin, open'd to his sight,
That added to the terror of the night;
Vast fragments of a pond'rous size around,
Bestrew'd its base, and scatter'd o'er the
ground,

And creeping ivy most delib'rate crawls
In great profusion o'er its tott'ring walls.
He at the ruin look'd, and anxious ey'd,
And from a lofty turret soon espied

A light that issued through the broken wall,
And at that moment heard a suppliant call,
"Oh! spare me, spare me," cried a fault'ring
sound-

"Oh! spare me, spare me," echo whisper'd round.

Then swift as light'ning through the court he flies,

And to a pond'rous door his strength applies,
That yields admittance to his pow'rful arm,
It's creaking hinges sound a dire alarm.
Then straight he enters, and explores the place,
His bosom charg'd, he hastes with quicken'd
pace;

When in the corner of the hall appears,
The crumbling remnant of a winding stairs.
Soon he ascends, but ere yet at the top,
The noise of footsteps causes him to stop,
When a deep groan in awful cadence rung
Through Edward's frame, but boldly on he

sprung.

Soon he ascended to the topmost height,
When O! what horrors broke upon his sight,
Through the dull glimm'ring of a lamp's pale
light:

A vile assassin o'er a female form,
His reeking dagger with her blood still warm;
Yet in his hand he held the fatal blade,
That deadly havock in her heart had made;
Senseless she lay extended on the floor,
Drench'd in the deluge of her crimson gore.
With fury on the monster, Edward sprung,
And with his sword his ruthless bosom stung;
Deep in his breast he strikes the well-plac'd
wound,

Pierces his heart, and brings him to the ground:
Then turns around opprest with woe and care,
Heaves up a sigh, and mourns the lifeless fair;
Seizing her hand with sympathetic grace,
Beholds the lost Matilda in her face.

A sudden shiv'ring strikes his manly form,
His strength departs, his blood no more runs

warm;

His lips turn pale, his heart froze to its core, He sinks! he falls! and never rises more.

LINES ON A SKULL, Brought from the Field of Waterloo, and placed in a Hermitage in Wales.

In this lone spot, oh friend or stranger!
Start not this human wreck to view,
Brought from the field of strife and danger,
The immortal field of Waterloo.
Whatever fierce contending nation

Birth to its silent owner gave,
It now is no consideration!

We all are equal in the grave.
Mechanic toil, and proud ambition,
Submit alike to fate's decree;
And brought at length to this condition,
What this appears, thine soon must be.

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The roses bloom, the circling laurels twine,
Extoll'd by thee, his fame the nations learn,
And crown the fiend-like murderer divine.
But when the pious hero yields to death,
No high eulogium swells the pompous strain,
No lofty urn displays the labour'd wreath,
Where tombs and statues throng the mould-
'ring fane.

Ah! wherefore say to him alone denied?
"Slew he no victims at ambition's shrine?"

Or rais'd your hatred when to Heav'n he cried
To blast the warrior's impious design?
Or tell, ye proud who bask in fortune's ray,
Did he with truth, your noble ears defile,
Drag unpolite your vices into day,
Nor soothe your greatness with a flatt'ring

smile?

This silence hence, thrice happy envied lot,
Free from the slime of Adulation's tongue,
By Christians honour'd, by the wise forgot,
By men neglected, and by angels sung!
Long as throughout th' infinity of space
Unnumber'd orbs in mazy circles roll,
Long as our central Sun retains his place,
And pond'rous Earth revolves upon her pole,
Thy works,great man,shall live, shall still convey
Their healing influence to the tortur'd mind,
While breathing marbles into dust decay,
And float unheeded on the reckless wind.

Thy classic page with purest precept fraught,
Thy holy zeal, and unaffected strain,
Thy clear profundity of justest thought,
Convince the doubtful and confound the vain!
Ungrateful world! thy loss could'st thou but
know,

Or from the future tear its dark disguise,
To see how long the stream of time must flow,
Ere such another sun shall gild thy skies.

• Westminster Abbey.

242

How then in sable weeds thy sons array'd Would weep their folly, and their crimes deplore;

Too late, alas, that fruitless tribute paid,
Swells but his merits and thy guilt the more!

Yet, grandeur, hear, when o'er the dark unknown
At life's sure close ye stand in dread suspense,
When pleasure, power, and vain parade are
flown,

Then holy Truth, no longer spurn'd aside,
With all the paltry joys of mortal sense.
Shall dart her vivid soul-pervading light,
While rousing conscience rends the veil of
pride,
And rob'd in thunder reassumes her right.

With anguish wrung beneath her piercing frown,
Should then a Porteus in your aid appear,
His counsels would ye spurn, his pray'rs dis-

own,

Or, as of late, repay him with a sneer?

Ah! no, your high-born souls, no longer proud,
Trembling would hear his pious accents flow,
Who fear their God, and shun eternal woe.
And gladly join, though late, the vulgar crowd
Then, ere that awful hour arrive, prepare
While yet ye may, while heav'n vouchsafes
you breath,

Lest sin involve you in her fatal snare,
And justice hurl you to eternal death.

SINGULAR FACT.

MRS. Barton, who resides upon a farm in the parish of Mansfield, had for some time observed one of her hens to be in a lingering state: the hen dying a few days ago, curiosity prompted Mrs. B. to examine into the cause of its death; but in attempting to draw it, she took hold of a substance which she was unable to remove: one of her men being present, immediately took his knife and opened the fowl, when, to their utter astonishment, they discovered a large toad, which had grown fast to the side of the hen!!

ARCHDEACON PALEY.

In a stage coach, in which Paley was travelling from the North, was a petty tradesman from a town near the Archdeacon's residence, who gave himself airs, and expressed dissatisfaction at the accommodations on the road. On the arrival of the coach at a capital inn, the passengers were shewn into a large, well-furnished room, where every thing was too good for the most fastidious person to find the least fault. "This is tolerably comfortable," said the pompous passenger, “but after all it is not like home."-"Very unlike home, indeed, Sir," said Paley.

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DESTRUCTION OF THE CAXTON PRINT

ING-OFFICE BY FIRE.

(With an Engraving.)

ON Tuesday, January 30th, 1821, a most dreadful fire broke out in the Caxton Printing-office, Liverpool, which, in a few hours, reduced this lofty and extensive pile of buildings to a heap of ruins.

The fire was first publicly discovered about one o'clock in the morning; and the alarm being given, some of the people employed on the establishment, and who lived on and near the premises, were roused from their beds. These immediately gave notice to others who lived in the vicinity; and all, with the utmost expedition, hastened to the awful spot, to render all the assistance in their power in extinguishing the flames. The engines were instantly called; but, unfortunately, they had been previously conducted to another fire which had just happened in the northern part of the town; so that nearly an hour elapsed from the first discovery of the fire to the time of their arrival.

The fire first appeared in a small apartment in the north-west end of the composing-room. This apartment contained old type, and sundry stores of various kinds, together with waste proofs, and was only occasionally visited. Here it is probable that it remained a considerable time, preying upon such articles as lay within its range, until it had acquired strength to burst forth into one general blaze. From this room the flames ascended to the rooms above, which were filled with books, sheets, and numbers; and in less than an hour the upper stories exhibited an extended volume of flame.

The men, on entering the building, hastened first to the press-room, in the northern end of which they discovered fire falling from the small room above, in which it probably originated. They then ascended the stairs, and attempted to enter the composing-room, but this was so completely filled with smoke and fire, that they were compelled to retreat, without being able to secure some valuable manuscripts which lay on different frames, where they had been working on the preceding day. The fire then communicated from room to room in its descent, until the whole building about three o'clock presented nothing but a bed of fire, or an imbodied flame.

244

About three o'clock the roof fell in This event was announced by the mounting fire, which rose to a tremendous height above the building, carrying into the air flakes of burning paper, which whirled around in a most awful manner, and apparently setting the whole firmament in a blaze. The windows at this time were wholly demolished by the fire; so that the current of air which the apertures admitted, gave new vigour to the flames, and augmented the conflagration.

The engines unhappily arrived too late, either to extinguish the fire, or to preserve any part of the building, the devouring element having obtained such an ascendancy, as to bid defiance to all opposition. In the meanwhile, as the fire increased, the various floors successively gave way, imparting in their burning descent an additional stimulus to the flames, which seemed to triumph in their acquisition of new combustible matter. The spectacle, at this time, was dreadfully sublime. The paper in the air appeared like balloons on fire; and a considerable part of the town was illuminated with the light that the flames emitted. The burning fragments were whirled in various di rections, covering the ground with the memorials of desolation, to an extent of nearly two miles.

About four o'clock a large portion of the eastern wall fell in with a horrid crash; but this, instead of deadening the fire, gave a new momentary impulse to the flames, which, gathering round the materials, retained their wonted vigour, and thus gained an opportunity of issuing from the sides, and pouring the fiery inundation without any ob

struction.

The men who managed the engines, on finding that all efforts to extinguish the fire were unavailing, turned their attention to the adjacent buildings, pouring streams upon them, to prevent a communication of the contiguous flames. Many of these were so close to the burning pile, that had the walls near them fallen in that direction they must inevitably have been involved in the common wreck. These walls, however, providentially stood, until the fire had abated, and the wind being favourable for the preservation of the contiguous cottages, not one of them was set on fire.

The direction of the wind, during the conflagration, was nearly south,

245

246

The light which the flames emitted was so strong, as to resemble day; and even to render the most diminutive objects visible. The room in which a man, living in Tranmere, slept, was so illuminated, that he got up to discover its source; and from its brilliancy he was enabled distinctly to discern by his watch the hour of the night. The place in which he lived, is in Cheshire, on the opposite side of the harbour, about two miles distant from the conflagration.

The heat also was too intense to be borne, except at a considerable distance. Many panes of glass in houses adjacent were broken with its excessive violence; and from the upper parts of the flaming ruins, the molten lead streamed around, and lodged in shining spangles on the clothes of several who approached near the fire to rescue from its destructive power such articles as could be secured."

The flames continued to rage with undiminished violence from the moment they gained the ascendancy, until nearly five o'clock, when, having exhausted the combustible matter which lay within their reach, they gradually declined, and occasionally became mixed with smoke that arose from a bed of fire distributed over the bottom of the building, surrounded by cracked and broken fragments of walls, that only gave variety to the forms of desolation.

From this vast pile of buildings, filled with type, printing-presses, numbers, books bound and in boards, together with stereotype, engravers' tools, copperplate-presses, paper, and stores of various kinds connected with the extensive trade carried on by Mr. Henry Fisher, the proprietor; the only articles of consequence that have been preserved are, the copper-plates, and about a thousand reams of paper. These arti

store room on the bottom floor, the men rescued at the risk of their lives. In this room they continued while the floors and roof above them successively gave way, and until the melted type descending through the crevices of the chambers, dropped, like rain, upon their clothes, and the paper they were preserving. Being thus compelled to retreat, the remaining mass of this vast property, amounting to an enormous sum, of which, at present, no accurate estimate can be formed, was involved in the common destruction. The account books, which were in a detached building, have been preserved. The vestiges of this vast property still lie buried in the heaps of rubbish that involve the remains of Caxton Buildings, which was one of the largest publishing establishments in this kingdom, and perhaps in the world.

The property rescued from the flames, and taken from the contiguous buildings which were thought to be in imminent danger, was partly carried into the houses of the neighbouring inhabitants, who readily opened their doors on this disastrous occasion, and partly piled in the streets, protected by a guard of soldiers until a place of safety could be found, to secure it from the depredations of any who might have mingled with the vast crowds of people assembled to witness the catastrophe.

The fire continued burning during the whole day, and on the ensuing night occasionally blazed with renewed violence. Both by night and by day the soldiers were continued, to guard the ruins, and to prevent the thoughtless from approaching too near to the hanging walls, until Thursday the 8th of February. The fire, though apparently nearly smothered, still continues to burn; and on the attempts that have been made to remove the rubbish, the heat has been too intolerable to be borne; and fire still begins to glow in many places as soon as the air is admitted.

The occasion of this calamity we have no means of tracing in a decisive manner. The various rooms having been warmed with steam from a boiler without the building, no fire was known to exist in the parts where it began. The men quitted their work about seven in the evening, and left every thing secure; and about eight, a man appointed for the purpose, went