position, it cannot be that the poem, either in structure or expression, is the same as if the writer had not been subject to fits of insanity. It must be left here with the expression of uncertainty as to how far the poet was such a poet in spite of his madness, or on account of his madness; for we have high authority for believing that madness is often but an unsymmetrical growth of genius.

PRAYER, PENITENCE, AND FAITH OF DAVID.

Strong is the horse upon his speed;
Strong in pursuit the rapid glede,
Which makes at once his game:
Strong the tall ostrich on the ground;
Strong through the turbulent profound
Shoots Xiphias to his aim.

Strong is the lion-like a coal
His eyeball-like a bastion's mole
His chest against the foes :
Strong the gier-eagle on his sail,
Strong against tide the enormous whale
Emerges as he goes.

But stronger still in earth and air,
And in the sea the man of prayer,
And far beneath the tide;
And in the seat to faith assigned,
Where ask is have, where seek is find,
Where knock is open wide.

Beauteous the fleet before the gale;
Beauteous the multitudes in mail,

Ranked arms and crested heads;
Beauteous the garden's umbrage mild,
Walk, water, meditated wild,

And all the bloomy beds.

Beauteous the moon full on the lawn;
And beauteous when the veil's withdrawn,
The virgin to her spouse:
Beauteous the temple, decked and filled
When to the heaven of heavens they build
Their heart-directed vows.

Beauteous, yea beauteous more than these,
The Shepherd King upon his knees,
For his momentous trust;
With wish of infinite conceit,

For man, beast, mute, the small and great,
And prostrate dust to dust.

Precious the bounteous widow's mite;
And precious, for extreme delight,
The largess from the churl;
Precious the ruby's blushing blaze,
And alba's blest imperial rays,
And pure cerulean pearl.

Precious the penitential tear;
And precious is the sigh sincere ;
Acceptable to God;

And precious are the winning flowers,
In gladsome Israel's feast of bowers,
Bound on the hallowed sod.

More precious that diviner part
Of David, e'en the Lord's own heart,
Great, beautiful and new:
In all things where it was intent,
In all extremes, in each event,
Proof-answering true to true.

Glorious the sun in mid career;
Glorious the assembled fires appear;
Glorious the comet's train:
Glorious the trumpet and alarm;

Glorious the Almighty's outstretched arm:
Glorious the enraptured main:

Glorious the northern lights astream;
Glorious the song, when God's the theme;
Glorious the thunder's roar :

Glorious Hosannah from the den,
Glorious the Catholic amen,

Glorious the martyr's gore.

Glorious-more glorious is the crown
Of Him that brought salvation down,
By meekness called thy Son:
Thou that stupendous truth believed,
And now the matchless deed's achieved,
Determined, dared and done.

THE name of Thomas Chatterton, the precociously gifted boy who "perished in his pride," is one which points the most awful moral and adorns the shortest and most tragic tale in English literary history. Chatterton was the posthumous son of the master of the free school at Bristol, in which city he was born, November 20th, 1752. At fourteen he was apprenticed to an attorney; but obtained, after three years, release from an employment which was irksome to him. At the age of eleven he had written satirical poems of extraordinary vigour, regard being had to his youth and meagre educational advantages. At sixteen, he put forth several pieces written in archaic style, which he attributed to Rowley, a monk of the fifteenth century, and others; the MSS.

of which he professed to have found in an old chest in the church of St. Mary Redcliffe. These writings were much canvassed; and their genuineness variously debated. The most remarkable of them was the poem entitled the "Bristowe Tragedie; or, the Dethe of Syr Charles Bawdin." Chatterton now repaired to London. His principles, whether political, moral, or religious, had the feeblest influence on his literary activity. An avowed readiness to write on both sides of any given question did not win him bread; and, after three days of starvation, he took poison, August 25th, 1770, whilst still a few months short of eighteen years of age. He lived and died with a lie in his right hand; but every generation

has mourned over him as over a first-born cut down in mutiny and defiance. Ever since his death poetry has sought to do herself honour by bewailing him; and painting stepped in a few years ago to stir a nation's heart by a counterfeit presentment" of the ghastliness and desolation of his death. Chatterton excelled when he exhibited

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He was both the quotations are from Coleridge's "Monody on the Death of Chatterton "-the

"Sweet harper of time-shrouded minstrelsy."

In putting off deceit, writing in his own person, he seemed to doff one half of his inspiration.

THE RESIGNATION.

O God, whose thunder shakes the sky;
Whose eye this atom globe surveys;

To Thee, my only rock, I fly,

Thy mercy in thy justice praise.

The mystic mazes of thy will,
The shadows of celestial light,
Are past the power of human skill-
But what the Eternal acts is right.

O teach me in the trying hour

When anguish swells the dewy tear,
To still my sorrows, own thy power,
Thy goodness love, thy justice fear.

If in this bosom aught but Thee
Encroaching sought a boundless sway,
Omniscience could the danger see,
And mercy look the cause away.

Then why, my soul, dost thou complain?
Why drooping seek the dark recess?
Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.

But, ah! my breast is human still;
The rising sigh, the falling tear,
My languid vitals' feeble rill,

The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resigned,
I'll thank the Inflicter of the blow:
Forbid the sigh, compose my mind,
Nor let the gush of misery flow.

The gloomy mantle of the night,
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light,

Which God, my East, my Sun reveals.