and, could we hope that our expression of gratitude could reach the royal eye, we would tell his Majesty that those words have been wept over by many a poor and persecuted Protestant-that they have been pasted in the commencement of the family Bible, and that at the sacred service of each evening, from many a cottage fireside has ascended up to the throne of the King of Kings, the unbought prayer of many a heart that is now ready to spill the last drop of its blood in defence of his sacred person. We take from the St. James's Chronicle the following report of his Majesty's reply to the birth-day address of the bishops : My Lords-You have a right to require of me to be resolute in defence of the church. I have been, by the circumstances of my life, and by conviction, led to support toleration to the utmost extent of which it is justly capable; but toleration must not be suffered to go into licentiousness: it has its bounds, which it is my duty and which I am resolved to maintain. I am, from the deepest conviction, attached to the pure Protestant faith, which this church, of which I am the temporal head, is the human means of diffusing and preserving in this land. "I cannot forget what was the course of events which placed my family on the throne which I now fill: those events were consummated in a revolution which was rendered necessary, and was effected, not, as has sometimes been most erroneously stated, merely for the sake of the temporal liberties of the people, but for the preservation of their religion. It was for the defence of the religion of the country, that was made the settlement of the crown, which has placed me in the situation that I now fill; and that religion, and the church of England AND IRELAND, the prelates of which are now before me, it is my fixed purpose, determination, and resolution to MAINTAIN. "The present bishops, I am quite satisfied, (and I am rejoiced to hear from them, and from all, the same of the clergy in general, under their governance,) have never been excelled, at any period of the history of our church, by any of their predecessors, in learning, piety, or zeal in the discharge of their high duties. If there are any of the inferior arrangements in the discipline of the church (WHICH, HOWEVER, GREATLY DOUBT) that require amendment, I have no distrust of the readiness or ability of the prelates now before me to correct such things; and to you, I trust, they will be left to correct, with your authority UNIMPAIRED and UNSHACKLED. "I trust it will not be supposed that I am speaking to you a speech which I have got by heart. No, I am declaring to you my real and genuine sentiments. I have almost completed my sixty-ninth year, and though blessed by God with a very rare measure of health, not having known what sickness is for some years, yet I do not blind myself to the plain and evident truth, that increase of years must tell largely upon me when sickness shall come: I cannot therefore expect that I shall be very long in this world. It is under this impression that I tell you, that while I know that the law of the land considers it impossible that I should do wrong- that while I know there is no earthly power which can call me to account-this only makes me the more deeply sensible of the responsibility under which I stand to that Almighty Being before whom we must all one day appear. When that day shall come, you will know whether I am sincere in the declaration which I now make, of MY FIRM ATTACHMENT to the church, and RESOLUTION TO MAINTAIN IT. "I have spoken more strongly than usual, because of unhappy circumstances that have forced themselves upon the observation of all. The threats of those who are enemies of the church, make it the more necessary for those who feel their duty to that church TO SPEAK OUT. The words which you hear from me are indeed spoken by my mouth, but they flow from my heart." Surely, surely, these noble sentiments call for some peculiar expression of gratitude on the part of the Irish clergy. On our pastors and our bishops we now affectionately call. The King has declared his sentiments towards you; it is your part to declare yours towards him. Venerable men, come forward on the moment, from the holy duties of your office, to thank your protector for the assurance that he will assent you the uninterrupted discharge of your duties. If you do this, and if the nation be, what we believe it to be, a loyal and a Christian nation-THE CRY OF CHURCH AND KING WILL RING THROUGHOUT THE LAND IN ONE BURST OF GENEROUS AND AFFECTIONATE ENTHUSIASM OF PROTESTANT AND RELIGIOUS BRITAIN. ANTHONY POPLAR'S NOTE-BOOK. WHILE our eye glances over the few sunny spots of greenery which adorn our "library table," it reverts again and again to "The Dream, and other Poems," by Mrs. George Lenox Conyngham, a fair countrywoman of our own. This interesting volume is brought out in beautiful type and paper, by Mr. Moxon of Dover-street, London. To us the authoress is better known by her virgin name, Elizabeth Holmes. We knew her in our college days, not many years since, when the names of wife and mother were yet strangers to her ear, and as such we remember her-" the admired of all admirers:" Even then her reputation as a German scholar was remarkable, and she was, perhaps, the first lady in this country who made German literature her study, and who ventured to clothe in our language the creations of the German muse. In turning over the pages, our eye is caught by the motto "beglantz vom rothen Schein des Himmels bebt"-prefixed to a sweet poem called "The Summer Evening." This is a translation from the classic Matthison; but if we remember rightly, the original is called "The Evening in Spring." (Frahlingsabend.) We cannot resist the temp tation of giving a few lines. Almighty! at thy signal from its place Is hurled a wandering sphere. We may, en passant, observe the coincidence between the expression of Matthison in the third verse: O! wie umschlingt und hält der Der ew'gen Liefe Band, and that of Montgomery, who applies the same thought to "beauty," O! Beauty is the master shell, The syren of the soul, Creation with control. While, however, we notice the coincidence, we do not forget the remark of a celebrated critic::-"The expression of two writers may be similar and sometimes identical, yet be original in both." But a truce with the cold criticism of poetical plagiaries, while one of the spirit-stirring passages of "The Persians" of Eschylus presents itself as a motto to "A Greek war-song," in the volume before us. And here we pause to thank our fair countrywoman, whose knowledge of Greek literature is not less than that of German, for the beautiful recollections On the young stalk the tint the red of the Greek dramatic poets which adorn heaven throws Plays o'er the trembling dew: The vernal landscape's quivering image glows Through waves of clearest blue. The mountain rill, the brightly blossom'd hedge, Woods bathed in sunlight streams, The evening star, that on the purple edge Of yonder soft cloud beams. Oh! how encircleth everlasting love Are kindled by one hand. her pages; we feel the more inclined to do so in this age of brass, when historical and classic associations are alike forgotten for the fustian of the self-important Punch (fit emblem of the present spirit of the times) and the march of humbug. In the following specimens of the "Greek war-song," which is an original poem, vigour, fire, and classic chasteness harmoniously combine. To enjoy it fully, let the reader imagine himself a spectator of the battle of Salamis. Before him the unnumbered fleets of the Persian sweep the Saronic straits-on land his multitudinous army, of many nations, is congregated-on the rocky brow of Egialus, that frowns over the island, sits the haughty Xerxes on ก We lay down the volume, which we gorgeous throne of silver, in proud anti- can sincerely recommend to all our readcipation of immediate victory; and here ers with associations of mingled pleasure the band of Greeks, led by Themistocles, and regret; pleasure, in the recollection breathe united strength; and as they of some delightful hours spent in the come on, their war-song rises in one society of the writer, "when life was heart-stirring cry:— fresh, and youth was in its spring;" regret, that her lot is now cast in another country, where the duties of a wife and mother demand her residence, away from her native land. Sons of the Greek! advance! His fleet is on the sea: With his myriads of troops He would sweep us away: Like the eagle that swoops From the clouds on his prey, He shall crush us today: In his pomp and his power let the tyrant In the minions that crouch at his nod, In the ministering reptiles that pamper his pride; Our defence is the patriot's God! Look round, as brave men dare, Unshackled as the waves: His father's glory saves. We would gladly dwell on this sweet volume, and more particularly on the principal poem, "The Dream," which contains passages of great power, fire, and beauty, but must be read throughout to be appreciated as it de serves. The language is chaste, unincumbered by superfluous epithets or ornament; and the thoughts and the expression of them abound in that pithy vigour, condensation, and point so seldom found in poetry, and for which the fair authoress promises to be no less remarkable as a writer than her father-one of the most deservedly distinguished and respected members of the Irish bar-has long been as a speaker and an advocate. The poems are dedicated to him in language alike simple and interesting. Of her country she was then, and, we doubt not, still is, a passionate lover; and the enthusiasm of her feelings when she spoke of Ireland, its history, and its sorrows, commanded, from her very childhood, the admiration of all that knew her. We well remember the last evening passed in her society, some ten years since; and as she sat by a young friend who had been her schoolfellow in England, and listened to her singing our national Gramachree, we will not soon forget, as the words were repeated, "So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er," how the bright tear stood in her long lashes, and spoke feelings for her country too beautiful for words, too tender for utterance. We envy not the individual who could then have looked upon that radiant countenance with unmoistened eye. But we grow pathetic, and forget that we ourselves are now a sober Benedictand our days of romance passed away. Before we lay down our pen we would notice two other volumes of poems, one of which lately issued from the English press, printed in a very attractive shape and style, and at a price within the reach of all; by the Rev. John D. Hull. If genuine poetic feeling, and, what is better, a sound moral feeling—and what is far better still, a pure Christian feeling, are recommendations, this little volume has all these, and more. It abounds in "sheaves of gentle and religious thoughts," which recommend themselves to every reader of taste and sensibility. The following specimens are taken almost at random : Oh! for the hour-the ecstatic hour- And Rapture's renovating power Spring! When trees are newly blossoming, When flowers beneath the sun expand, And songs through all the ether ring What heart the impulse can withstand, Nor inly bless the God, who hath such blessings planned? How deeply blest is he who loves To mark and study Nature's charms! He, while through endless sweets he roves, But little recks of life's alarms; Aloof from carnal strifes and harms, From pride, and care's malignant spite, He steals and still his bosom warms, As more entranced at every sight, He drinks delicious draughts of ever-new delight. The following lines on music, are spirited and beautiful : "Hark! how deep comes the sound Of those liquid tones meeting! How the heart's happy bound Feels in unison beating! How each soul-gnawing pain, Like a charmed adder, slumbers; E'en Care slacks his chain, While he lists to the numbers. Oh, 't is amid care Music deepest entrances; As the desert's hot air The spring's coolness enhances. For in moments of glee, No soft anodyne needed, Like rain on the sea, Drop the sweet notes unheeded. But when clouds wrap the mind, And no bright star befriends us, What a bliss unconfined Soothing Melody lends us! Slow and sad it begins, Then, with gentle transition, The rapt soul it wins With a magic Elysian. As fast as each tone From the instrument breaketh, An answering one In the bosom awaketh: As the harp-string resounds To the hand o'er it stealing, The soul-chord rebounds To the fine touch of Feeling. Oh! if in a sphere Where some note is still wanting, The strains which we hear Be so sweetly enchanting What a joy will inspire The believer hence taken, When Glory's full choir On his ear shall awaken!" We shall close our extracts with a merited tribute to Henry Martyn :— "O'er many a sea and sultry waste Had the way-worn pilgrim wended; The wished-for goal is gained at last, And the days of his mourning are ended. No pitying bosom sustained his head, With anguish and fever burning; No tear beside his dull couch was shed, As the spirit to God was returning. He dies far away from his native land, From the friends of his deep affection; While merciless heathens around him stand, To embitter each dreary reflection. Yet, though lonely and stricken to mortal eye, One Comforter still was near him; And an angel-band was hovering nigh, Aloft in their arms to bear him. Then deem not so cheerless and dark his lot, Though by suffering marked severely; He hath entered the rest by his Saviour bought The Saviour he prized so dearly. Ah! bright seems the warrior's wreath while renown Speaks loud of his brave endeavour; But who heeds the Christian hero's crown, That shines, as the stars for ever." We must confess that we have a strong prejudice in favour of sacred poetry, when taste in the selection, and talent in the execution of a subject so difficult to be treated well, recommends it so strongly to favourable notice as in the little volume before us. But before we close our observations on this particular department, we would call the reader's attention to a second series of the Sacred Harp; a collection of gems from authors, living and dead, of the highest poetical fame. Independent of the claims which the Sacred Harp is justly entitled to upon this ground, the style in which it has been got up is a credit to the Dublin Press-we have never seen a finer specimen of typography. Here we have a truculent-looking volume of poems, spattered with gold as to its external. What kind of dust is there within? But let us tell the reader what the book is. "The Royal Mariner, etc. etc." by C. D. Sillery; a collection of poems the fruits, we imagine, of some rather elaborately employed years. we We remember having complimented Mr. Sillery upon the ability with which he treated a divinity work of considerable merit. At that time, to our shame be it spoken, we did not know that he had ever committed a line of poetry; and in this our ignorance how far were behind the knowledge and judgment of a Scotch critic, whose observations upon Mr. S., as a poet, are quoted at some length, amongst myriads of favourable notices, at the end of the volume before us. We quote a passage or two, partly because we are in some degree at issue with the learned reviewer, and partly because it is not every day that the "ungentle craft" are to be caught in such sublime good-humour as the Edinburgh Observer. Speaking of a poem by Mr. S., yclept "Vallery," the critic proceeds:― "A more enthusiastic child of song than Charles Doyne Sillery, has rarely appeared on this terraqueous globe. We have seen him in retirement, and we have seen him in society; and, whether seated in the dark penetralia of our office, or acting the gay and gallant cavalier among fair women and brave men, we found him invariably the same single-hearted, frank-spoken, honest fellow. Like Anacreon Moore, his wit flashes in incessant coruscations. Like the same illustrious bard, he sings his own songs, and dashes even his prose with poetical ornature. He possesses, moreover, the astronomical enthusiasm of a Newton, the philosophic vein of a Brown, and the mechanical skill of a Watt. About the ordinary size, and exceedingly slender in figure, we never look upon his eye, gleaming with intellectual fire, but we think of the mighty soul, that working out its way, Fretteth the puny body to decay.' Mr. Sillery is still very, very young, yet he has visited, not only mentally, but bodily, the uttermost parts of the earth. He has been rocked by the tropic billows -bas seen the tomb of Napoleon-doubled the cape of storms-gazed on the palmy headlands of Hindostan, and learnt to eat with chop-sticks in China.(!!!) The mutations of his boyhood have given a versatility to his muse that it would not be easy to parallel: it leaps like lightning from land to land, and from sea to sea; it wanders into all variety of rythm, and it transmutes into verse all sorts of topics, however recondite. There is a piling of armour-a marshalling of brand and banner-an apparelling of maidens-a glittering of gems-a clustering of fruits-a grouping of trees-a strewing of flowersa tinting of skies-a smiling of seas, and a tossing of waves, such as no other poem that we are acquainted with exhibits.”(!!!) But this is mere child's play to the Glasgow Free Press : "With a daring that has something bold and redeeming in it, even blank verse (i. e. of Vallery) is, for the first time, interspersed with rhyme in the splendid Mosaic, along which the stream of story sparkling flows, with a brightness that confuses us, and a bubbling music that almost makes amends for the foamy obscurity sometimes that mars its clearness." Verily if our Anthony Poplar, Gent., should, taking leave of his sober senses, shall be poetically born and delivered in become a poet of the 19th century, he the Land of Cakes. There is gas enough in a sentence of what we have quoted to balloon a Parnassian to the third heaven of poetical repute. "If he," (that is, Mr. Sillery,) says the Edinburgh Literary Journal, "speaks of an ancient castle, all the technicalities of architecture seem at his fingers' ends !—if he ascends a mountain, geology opens her stores for him!-if he lands on an uninhabited island, botany pours her treasures into his lap!-the still midnight finds him pointing to the heavens with the wand of an astronomer, and the vessel that bears him to distant lands, carries with it a curious observer of the phenomena of nature!" To which may be added, from ourselves, as an illustration of Irish climax, when the sky falls Mr. Sillery shall be found catching larks! After all, joking apart, it was cruel in the press to blow a trumpet so loud that that it was laughable. Mr. Sillery, if he has one ounce of brains, must know that he is not Sir Walter Scott, nor fit to brush his shoes; and yet he has hoarded, at the end of his volume, more praiseif it be not humbug-upon his qualities and qualifications as a poet, than, we could swear, was ever bestowed upon the bard whose memory we bless as we reverently breathe his name." Mr. Sillery had something else at his fingers' ends, beside the "technicalities of architecture," when he penned the follow |