And joyous angels o'er me

Tempt sweetly to the sky.

"Why wait," they say, "and wither
'Mid scenes of death and sin?

Oh rise to glory hither,

And find true life begin."

I hear the invitation,

And fain would rise and come-

A sinner to salvation,

An exile to his home.

But while I here must linger,

Thus, thus, let all I see
Point on, with faithful finger,
To heaven, O Lord, and Thee!

LINES WRITTEN IN RHUDDLAN CASTLE, NORTH WALES.

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE. FROM DREAMS AND
REALITIES," 1847.

RETREAT of our fathers, who battled and bled
Against the unhallow'd invasion of Rome,
Who, vanquish'd by numbers, were scatter'd and fled
To find 'mid these solitudes freedom and home,
Preserving through sorrows and changes untold
The firmness, the feelings, the language of old.

C

I come, in the light of the blue summer skies,
To visit thy beauties wild Cambrian land!
Already thy mountains rise dark on my eyes,

And blooming before me thy valleys expand;
Thy rude rocks invite me, thy floods as they flow
Allure me to follow wherever they go.

I will muse in thy castles, I'll look from thy hills, I'll plunge in the depths of thy forests and vales; I will climb to thy cataracts, drink at thy rills,

And list to thy songs and thy stories, old Wales! I will dream by thy rivers, and proudly explore Every path which Tradition hath trodden before.

A pilgrim I am, and a pilgrim I've been,

And a pilgrim I would be while vigour remains, My fond feet have wander'd o'er many a scene, But none which surpasses thy mountains and plains; And I marvel that e'er I could linger to see A land less enchanting, less glorious than thee.

There are beings I love without coldness or guile, There are friends I would cling to whatever betide, My absence from these may be borne for awhile,

But the other will mourn me away from their side; Yet a season will come when my manhood is past, That will bind me to one little circle at last.

With a feeling of wonder I pause on my way,

In a ruin where monarchs held splendour and place, But pleasures await me for many a day,

In a region of poesy, grandeur, and grace;
For a time I will linger by hill, stream, and glen,
Then back to the common existence of men.

Ir is the midnight's still and solemn hour,
And eyes and flowers are folded up in rest,
And glides the moon from out her sapphire bower,
With veil of clouds and star-embroider'd vest;
And now there comes a voice to memory dear-
I WEEP to hear it, and yet LOVE to hear.

It soundeth not as it was wont to sound,

It greets me not with glad and laughing tone :---
Ah! how is this?-I call and search around,

Save mine own echo all is still and lone;
Nor voice nor form-perchance my senses dream--
I hear what is not, yet I waking seem.

It was HIS voice, the voice of my DEAR FRIEND-
DEAD!-speak the tenants of the silent grave?
Have not earth's attributes a final end,

When sinketh life in death's o'erwhelming wave? The spirit's destiny is hid in gloom,

All mortal things must perish in the tomb.

'Twas but remembrance of what once hath been, And liveth still within the sorrowing heart: Oh, mystic Memory! for ever green

We view the past by thy all potent art

Thou can'st restore the forms whose loss we mourn, Thou rend'st the grave, and bursts the funeral urn.

And not alone unto my waking eyes

Is imaged forth that loved, familiar form; In the night's visions doth the past arise,

And thoughts of him who dwelleth with the worm: I see him then-I hear, but not as now-His voice is glad, and health is on his brow.

I hear him then as I was wont to hear,
I see him then as he was wont to be,
And comes his accents on my gladden'd ear,
As when of old we roam'd, in converse free;
And each to each sought only to impart
Without disguise, the secrets of the heart.

My buried friend! thou unto me wert bound,
Not by the ties which sordid beings bind,
But I in thee a kindred nature found

Thou wert to me a brother of the mind;
Thou could'st not brook the worldling's narrow skill,
And wert the martyr of thine own proud will.

As one who sleeps and walks near rushing streams,
Surrounding dangers passeth heedless by :

So did'st thou live, wrapt in aspiring dreams,
Viewing the world with a regardless eye;
With sickening soul mingling with soulless men,
Thou lived'st and died'st a god-form'd denizen.

Thou wert the child of higher, and lofty thought,
Borne by the tide of thine own heart along;
With chainless mind thine uncheck'd spirit sought,

On soaring wing, the towering mount of song;
Thou died'st or ere its proudest height was won-
A tameless eagle stricken near the sun.

ALE VERSUS PHYSIC.

A SPECIMEN OF THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT, BY ELIJAH
RIDINGS.

AW'R gooin by a docthur's shop,
Ut top o' Newton Yeth;

Un theer aw gan a sudden stop,
Un begun t' be feort o' death.

My honds shak'd loike an aspen leof,
Aw dithert i' my shoon;

It seemt as dark as twelve at neet,
Though it wur boh twelve at noon.

Aw thowt aw seed the gallows-tree,

*

Wheer th' yorn-croft thief wur swung;*

The "yorn-croft thief" was a young man, named George Russell, who was executed on Newton Heath, near Manchester, September 15, 1798, for stealing a piece of fustian from Sharrocks's bleaching ground, at the end of Long Millgate.