common respect and kindness for this illustrious adventurer. This monument is

a small building, with a pillar, erected on the admiral's estate in Buckinghamshire, containing the character of Captain Cook, which was drawn up by admiral Forbes, to whom he was known only by his merit.

POETRY.

(For the Imperial Magazine.)

THE SAINT'S NUNC DIMITTIS; OR, FAREWELL TO TIME:

80

Oh! let me listen to your golden lyres,
And burn, like you, in love's seraphic fires';
Adore the Lamb, in each soul-thrilling chant,
Your ardours feel, and still for greater pant;
The weakest, meanest, poorest sinner take
To your sweet fellowship, for Jesus' sake!
Farewell to books, and all polemic strife,
My name is written in "the book of life."
I blush for holy men, and haste above
To see a pure society of love,
Through which the mystic dove pours holy oil,
While seven-fold heaven beams from Immanuel's

smile.

Farewell to party, and each various ism;
My soul, anointed with the sacred chrism,
Has found a clime unting'd with party gall,
Where all are one, and One is all in all!
Farewell ye demons, who my ruin plot,
And vex my soul, as Sodom righteous Lot:
Blush, fiends of hell! through my Redeemer's care

the close of the year 1827.

FAREWELL, old Time; ere thou hast reach'd the

morn

Thy sun shall gild his wings in Capricorn:
Life's narrow, stormy Frith, I shall pass o'er,
And cast my anchor on th' eternal shore,
Where all is dateless, endless, infinite,
And being has no measure but delight!
Farewell thou sun, and yon bright planets, all
That roll in silent beauty round this ball;
I go, I go, to that celestial sphere,

Where Jesus shines through one eternal year!
Farewell thou earth; and all that earth contains,
Thy graceful hills, green meadows, flowery plains,
I leave thy wave-worn shores without a sigh,
A Father's mansion-house, a master's joy,
Invite me hence; I unreluctant go
Where pleasure never wears a fringe of woe!
Farewell to gold and silver,-wealth, adieu;
Ye fly from others, but I fly from you.
Farewell to honour, I'm enroll'd above,
My plume, my crest, is Love, redeeming Love;
By His dear hand that bled, I read my name
Wrote 'mong the living in Jerusalem.
Farewell to pleasure, vanity, and lies,
I go to drink a river in the skies,
Whose banks are with immortal verdure clad,
Whose streams make all Jehovah's city glad.
Farewell to houses, gardens, orchards, lands,
I have above a house not made with hands;
A spotless mansion, built of precious stone,
A crown of living light, a jasper throne.
Farewell to knowledge, first of earthly things,
I go to drink it where the fountain springs
Clear from its source, pellucid and refin'd,
The dregs of muddy error left behind.
Farewell to death, I shall for ever bloom
In youth's fresh loveliness beyond the tomb.
Farewell to sickness, all the aches and pains,
That crowd my vitals and consume my reins;
No hectic flush shall on my cheeks disclose
The transient blushes of a dying rose;
This aching, burning head shall throb no more,
And these sharp stitches in my side be o'er!
Farewell to friends, I leave the social ring,
And fly to Eden on a seraph's wing;
I soon shall join the ranks of the "first-born,"
Whom robes of light and crowns of life adorn.
Farewell thou dearest of my joys on earth,
The Church of God, my place of second birth,
Of second life, and nameless comforts too;
More dear than gold, more sweet than vernal dew,
Have been thy verdant pastures to my soul,
Where flowers appear, and streams of pleasure roll.
I go to see the saints in beauty bright,
The saints embower'd in love, enshrin'd in light.
I go to see the Lamb upon his throne,
And that dear land, the beatific zone;
That land of sweet delight and calm repose,

Of Gilead's balm, and Sharon's fragrant rose; There ceaseless bliss, and sun-bright knowledge

reign,

No fiends to vex me, and no vice to stain,
But friendship form'd by love,-O angel powers!
Receive a weary pilgrim to your bowers!

I soon shall sing, on yon eelestial shore, I'm safe! I'm safe! I'm safe for evermere! Farewell my dearest children, fare ye well; What pangs I feel to leave you, none can tell; But I have drunk the bitter parting cup, And now, thank God, can freely give you up: Love, fear, adore, and serve the Lord alone! Soon we shall meet where farewells are not known. Farewell, my dearest wife! I'm loath to part With thee, the joy and solace of my heart, With thee, the dear companion of my care And bliss, when I had any bliss to share: So round my heart with many a fibre bound, To give thee up inflicts the deepest wound; But Jesus calls me to his blest abode, I go the first, but thou art on the road, "Tis but a moment, love, repress thy tears, And then we're married through eternal years. Well now, the bitterness of death is past, That pang of souls untwisting was the last, The coast is clear, my mortal race is run; Angels, bring near the chariot, all is won; Step in, my soul, I go with all my heart, "Now let thy servant, Lord, in peace depart." Worcester. JOSHUA MARSDEN.

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.
GEORGE CANNING.

ADIEU to mirth, for CANNING'S spirit's fled
Far, far beyond the regions of our sight;
No more his mighty genius e'er will shed
Around our land a flood of civil light.
Tho' lost to us, yet still his memory dear
Lives deeply stamp'd on every Briton's breast;
For him Britannia sheds the pitying tear,

And mourns his exit with a heart distress'd. No more he'll shield us from each dreaded blow, Or stay corruption by his frown alone;

No more his generous breast with freedom glow,
Or hurl oppression from the despot's throne !
No more he'll strike the muse's magic lyre;
That lyre which raised him to immortal fame;
With eloquence each noble passion fire,

And rouse the nation to a sense of shame!

His mournful fate is wept by every muse,
Each son of freedom doubly feels the smart;
Then how shall I, a brother bard, refuse
To yield the tribute of a feeling heart?
The loving husband, sire, and steady friend,
Were virtues that adorn'd his noble breast:
And the stern patriot, who would never bend
To see his countrymen with chains oppress'd.

But, ah! relentless fate has borne away
Britannia's hope, Britannia's fav'rite son,
Has seiz'd on CANNING as a lawful prey,
When scarce his mighty projects were begun.

Oh, how uncertain is the 'state of man!
To-day in health-to-morrow meets his doom:
How little dream we of life's narrow span,
Till all our hopes are buried in the tomb!
Bermondsey, Sept. 28, 1827.

E. C--L.

THE LAKE OF GENEVA.

[Suggested from a View, as exhibited at the Panorama.]

SOFT lake of beauty, where the eye beams o'er
Th' enchanting prospect of thine Alpine shore;
Where hills on hills in awful grandeur rise,
Whose snow-clad summits mingle with the skies,
Where frowns the Jura, and Mont Blanc is seen
Presiding monarch of the mountain scene,
While all beneath is one luxuriant vale,
Where zephyrs wanton in the vernal gale:
There, on the bosom of thy waters blue,
The gay gondola meets the gazer's view,
Treading the depths of thine enchanted wave,
Whose lucid waters ripple as they lave.

With varied colours drest, the mountain steep
Reflects its radiance o'er the glassy deep,
Nature's broad mirror, where its giant form
Is seen thro' ages, scatheless mid the storm,
Lightning, and tempest, still undaunted stood
With time coeval, aged as the flood:
Fed by refreshing tributary streams,

Thy waters gladden-while, swift passing, gleams
The rapid Rhine, that urges on its course,
Resistless, boundless, rushing from its source,
In all the pride of overflowing strength,
Till lost, it winds thro' wilds of trackless length:

Lake of transparènt beauty, where the eye
Watches thy waters as they murmur by;
Thy verdant banks, with beauteous villas crown'd,
Arcadian scenes of beauty that abound;
Soft sloping meads that captivate the sight,
Bold mountain scenery, and a sky that's bright,
These are thy charms, Lake Leman, these thy pride,
That bid the traveller linger o'er thy tide;
Dear fond illusion of the painter's art,
I linger still, and still am loath to part,
To quit the spot that fancy pictur'd true,
Where Goldsmith, honour'd bard, oft linger'd too;
Here fondly gazed, a visionary child,
And sat and mused amid these regions wild;
Drank the full flood of inspiration here,
And pour'd the tide of song, as roll'd thy water,
clear.

Or erst when Time, his mystic circle run,
Ere stars had twinkled o'er the dark abyss,
Or God, th' eternal Father, had begun
To ope the treasures of a world like this,
And give to paradise a heaven of bliss;
When thro' dark Chaos and old Night was heard
A voice that chas'd the brooding shades away-
"Let there be light," went forth th' eternal word,
And light there was, resplendent as the day,
So burst th' effulgent beam before my visual ray.
J. S. H.

SONNET,

SAY, what is heaven?-A place of pure delight,
Of perfect joy, of harmony, of peace,
Where angels tune their harps, and never cease
The universal chorus: -clothed in light,
They fly through ether in unbonded space,
Or wait with outstretch'd wing before the throne
Of the Almighty, Great, Eternal One.
There Sorrow never finds a resting-place,
Nor yet the ills that mortals feel below;
Nor death is there, the stream of time shall flow
And injure none for none shall know decay:-
Nor night is there, but one unclouded day
Shall shed its lustre, while this mighty world,
And sun, and stars, are into ruin hurl'd,

L.

More solitary as its end drew near.

Making them like transparent stars appear,

Well, the year died, (as ev'ry year will die,)

To grace the crown of her young friend-the year.

And midnight drew the azure deeper; then it hung
Its many variegated lamps on high,

To light its exit. But the moonlight flang
Not e'en a farewell kiss upon the sky,
To soothe its friend, who died unnotic'd, save
By paly stars that twinkled on its grave.

Thus thought I-is this what the many deem
As friendship, when it is but parasy
Under a borrow'd name-a moonlight beam,
Assum'd to hide its insincerity.

But should their fortune fail them, or it seem
To suit their interest better, they may die
Unnoticed by those friends, without one tear
Of sympathy to consecrate their bier.

M. E. S.

A FRAGMENT.

SHE was all life, and love, and happiness!
And tho' a stranger in this joyous isle,-
And tho' she left the fairy land of song,
With all its wildest beauties, yet she had
One soothing balm to all her thoughts of home,-
She had one object in that distant land,

Who had from childhood's day to her been dear,
And he would come one day, and call her his;
And then she thought that happiness alone

Would be her lot, -nor dreamt of woe or death.

display an acuteness of perception, and a vigour of intellect, for which we search in vain in the works of many celebrated modern writers. The great and complicated whole of Mosaic legislation, his mind comprehends in one survey; and although upwards of seven hundred years have elapsed since this work was first presented to the world, talents of the first order will scarcely be able to detect fallacies in his reasonings, or add to the evidences which he has adduced in favour of his positions.

From a perusal of these chapters we learn, that every branch of the Mosaic institutions is founded on reason and propriety. Of all the leading articles, the reasons are visible, and it is but fair to infer, that those of inferior orders should be referred to the same source, although, through the lapse of time, the defects of ancient history, and the changes that have taken place in the world, we may be unable to trace them in all their minute

ness.

To a mind unaccustomed to search for the rational causes of visible phenomena, the institutions of Moses may appear as a series of dogmas, that can only be resolved into arbitrary volition and power. A more patient and attentive investigation will, however, place the injunctions and prohibitions contained in the Mosaic ritual, upon a different ground; and those who have been accustomed to survey the commands and threatenings, the rewards and punishments, of the sacred code, in an inauspicious light, would do well to read with impartiality the More Nevochim of Maimonides.

The notes which the translator, Dr. Townley has supplied, are replete with learning and good sense. They display indefatigable research, exercised in the collecting of such facts and historical incidents as have a strong bearing on the subjects they were intended to illustrate. Transporting us from the days of Moses to our own times, he directs our views to many vestiges of customs that still prevail, which can only be traced to one common origin. Some of these may be found in our own country, but greater portions of them are in Ireland, and in the nations on the continent of Europe; and in Asia they still appear with less adulteration.

On combining together the work of Maimonides, the life of the author, the dissertations prefixed, and the copious notes subjoined by the translator, we consider the volume as a very valuable acqui

in the library of every biblical student; and to all who wish to know the reasons on which the facts are founded, of which its various chapters treat, it may be pronounced almost inestimable. To the talents, the learning, and the perseverance of Dr. Townley, the work does great credit, and, independently of the other productions of his pen, it can scarcely fail to secure to him an exalted station among the principal biblical scholars of the age.

REVIEW. The Winter's Wreath, or a Collection of Original Contributions in Prose and Verse, for 1828. 12mo. pp. 410. Smith, Liverpool, and Whittaker. London.

LIVERPOOL, in the extent of its commerce, the number of ships that visit its harbour, and the enterprising character of its inhabitants, has long been the rival of London. In its extended line of docks, its facilities for loading and unloading vessels, the accommodations of its market places, the extent and magnificence of its exchange, the literary wealth of its libraries, the splendour and capaciousness of its news and reading rooms, the public spirit of its corporation, and in some departments of trade, it even surpasses the metropolis.

Innumerable ages have conspired to raise London to its present state of prosperity; while Liverpool, from an obscure fishing town, within little more than a century, has, through the local advantages of its situation, and the industry of its inhabitants, acquired its pre. sent commercial glory. Few places are to be found on the globe, in which the British flag has been unfurled, where the name of Liverpool is unknown; and should it continue to advance during the present century as it has through the last, commerce will hesitate whether to leave her temple on the margin of the Thames, or transfer it to the banks of the Mersey. In an elegant poem entitled Mount Pleasant, by William Roscoe, Esq., the town of Liverpool is thus characterized:

Yet scarce a hundred annual rounds have run, Since first the fabric of this power begun; His noble waves inglorious Mersey roll'd, Nor felt his waves by labouring art controll'd. Along his sides a few small cots were spread, His finny brood their humble tenants fed."

It has been long observed, that the bustle and anxiety which invariably accompany mercantile transactions, are in general unfriendly to literature and scientific research. This may be true in the aggregate, but the

87

88

Liverpool has already given birth to several authors and artists of no ordinary fame; it supports several spirited newspapers, boasts a well-stored museum, and has ever been ready to foster science and the arts.

Among these various evidences and indications of progression, Mr. George Smith, a printer in this prosperous and populous town, presents to the public, for the first time, a beautiful publication, which he calls "The Winter's Wreath." In appearance, character, and contents, it belongs to the elegant family of "Forget me Not," "Amulet," "Souvenir," &c., and in the splendour of its decorations, shrinks not from a comparison with these magnificent annual productions of the metropolis. Enclosed in an ornamented case, and bound in purple silk, with the edges of its leaves gilt, its exterior has an imposing aspect; and on opening its pages we find, that, in paper and typographical excellence, it not only equals its rivals, contemporaries, and competitors for fame, but in these respects is superior to most that we have seen.

In its internal decorative department it is ornamented with nine beautiful engravings, which display much simplicity of character, chasteness in design, and richness in execution; and although they can lay no claim to unrivalled excellence, they furnish fine specimens of the graphic

art.

The literary articles are in number about one hundred and ten, communicated by various authors, some of whose names are of high repute in science, theology, and the republic of letters. Several others are anonymous, but for what reason we are at a loss to conceive, as they would do no discredit to the authors, if their names had been avowed. In the "Winter's Wreath," as in most others of these brumal annuals that have fallen under our notice this season, the quantity of poetry is too great in proportion to its prose; but in the volume before us no article of either description is extended to an immoderate length.

Of their moral tendency and character, but one opinion can be entertained. Several pieces mount above what is generally called the moral region, and expatiate in the dominions of revelation, with the genuine spirit of vital Christianity. This circumstance, which will enhance its character with some, may pérhaps be considered as objectionable by others. works of this kind, we believe the generality of readers expect sprightly tales, interesting narratives, striking incidents, illus

In

markable events, &c. in which genuine instruction shall be dressed in the garb of cheerfulness, as much calculated to improve and delight the mind, as the exterior decorations are to gratify the eye.

It is not intended, by the preceding remarks, to insinuate that any articles in this volume are of a severe and gloomy cast. The most serious papers in the volume are as remote from the frowns of monkish and sectarian severity, as the most lively are from reprehensible levity. Yet still, some among them will probably be thought to have too much of a demi-sermonizing aspect, while others are avowedly essays or dissertations on certain portions of scripture. On the whole, we congratulate Liverpool on having given birth to this beautiful production, and feel satisfied that Mr. Smith will be amply remunerated for this splendid emanation of his enterprising spirit.

We shall now take our leave of "The Winter's Wreath" with the following lines, entitled "The Home Voyage," which public report ascribes to the pen of the Honourable Edward Stanley :

THE HOME VOYAGE.

We give the white sail
To the morning gale
As yon rising sun we meet-
And those hillocks of blue
Shall fade from the view
Ere his evening beam we greet.
Tho' the blast of the North
Pour his fury forth,

As we ride on our Ocean path;
Tho' the roar of the deep
Stern concert keep;

We smile at their mingled wrath.

Oh, the bosom swells high
With a stormy joy

As we meet them with answering pride;
As we hang o'er the bow,
While our Ocean plough
Flings the baffled floods aside.

We give the white sail
To the evening gale-

The the night be dark and drear,
The breeze that sings loud
In our straining shroud

Shall but further our glad career.
Though she bow to the wave,
As a champion brave

Greets his foeman with courtesy due:
She shall rise again,
And in calm disdain
Unshaken her coursé pursue.
And every crest

On the foam's white breast
Is gemm'd with an Ocean star,
That gleams with a light
Like torches bright

Thro' vases of clouded spar,
Then give the white sail
To the rising gale -

Tho' our vsesel be stout and ficet
Fall many a sun
Ilis course must run

Ere our native land we greet.