Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the prayer for them that slew,
"Lord! they know not what they do!"
By the spoil'd and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before His throne,
By the rainbow round His brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

HYMN FOR THE SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

The chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll on fire
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire:
Self-moving it drives on its pathway of cloud,

And the heavens with the burthen of Godhead are bow'd.

The glory! the glory! by myriads are pour'd
The hosts of the angels to wait on their Lord,
And the glorified saints and the martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreath of victory wear.

The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard: Lo the depths of the stone-cover'd charnel are stirr'd : From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north,

The vast generations of man are come forth.

The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested elders are met!
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on His word!

Oh mercy! oh mercy! look down from above,
Creator! on us thy sad children, with love!

When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our sanctified souls find a mansion in heaven!

Sing to the Lord! the desert rocks break out,
And the throng'd cities, in one gladdening shout;
The farthest shores by pilgrim step explored;
Spread all your wings, ye winds, and waft around,
Even to the starry cope's pale waning bound,
Earth's universal homage to the Lord;
Lift up thine head, imperial Capitol,

Proud on thy height to see the banner'd Cross unroll.

Sing to the Lord! when Time itself shall cease,
And final Ruin's desolating peace

Enwrap this wide and restless world of man;
When the Judge rides upon th' enthroning wind,
And o'er all generations of mankind

Eternal Vengeance waves its winnowing fan;

To vast Infinity's remotest space,

While ages run their everlasting race,

Shall all the Beatific Hosts prolong,

Wide as the glory of the Lamb, the Lamb's triumphant

318

CHARLES WOLFE.

THIS writer, who obtained a high celebrity by a single poem, which was published anonymously, and attributed successively to our best poets, was born in Dublin, on the 14th of December, 1791. He obtained a distinguished literary reputation at the University of his native city; but instead of pursuing a career of ambition, he withdrew himself to the labours of an obscure country curacy. He died of consumption on the 21st of February, 1823; and it was not till after that period that the world understood the greatness of his talents, and the loss it had sustained by his death.

SONG.

If I had thought thou could'st have died,

I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou could'st mortal be:
It never through my mind had past,
The time would e'er be o'er,

And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should'st smile no more.

And still upon that face I look,

And think 'twill smile again;

And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain.

But when I speak, thou dost not say

What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,

And now I feel, as well I

may,

Sweet Mary! thou art dead.

If thou would'st stay even as thou art,
All cold, and all serene,

I still might press thy silent heart,

And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own,

But there I lay thee in thy grave—
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;

And I perhaps may soothe this heart,

In thinking too of thee:

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow,
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,

And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring; And we heard, by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down

From the field of his fame, fresh and gory: We carved not a line-we raised not a stoneBut left him alone in his glory.

U

THIS poet, who has afforded to so many thousands of readers the luxury of laughter in its highest perfection, was born in London, in 1798. His father, who was a native of Scotland, was partner in a distinguished publishing establish. ment in London. Thomas was educated at Camberwell, and after taking a sea voyage for the benefit of his health, which was in a very delicate state, he was articled to his uncle, an engraver, with a view of following that profession; but the pen had more attractions for him than the graver, and the poems, which he composed at this period, being inserted in the London Magazine, were received with such favour, that he has continued ever since to devote himself to poetry. In this capacity, he is chiefly known to the public as the author of Whims and Oddities, and the series called The Comic Annual-works abounding in broad wit and humour, and which have yielded him a plentiful harvest of profit and celebrity. But Hood is something better than a good punster; and his serious poems, in which he has evidently followed the natural bent of his genius, although they are comparatively little known, exhibit the finest flights of genuine poetry.

THE SYLVAN FAIRY.

Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green,
Stept vanward from his mates, that idly stood
Each at his proper ease, as they had been
Nursed in the liberty of old Sherwood,
And wore the livery of Robin Hood,
Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup,—
So came this chief right frankly, and made good
His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up,
Doffing his cap, which was an acorn's cup:

"We be small foresters and gay, who tend
On trees, and all their furniture of green,
Training the young boughs airily to bend,
And show blue snatches of the sky between:-
Or knit more close intricacies, to screen
Birds' crafty dwellings as may hide them best,
But most the timid blackbird's-she that, seen,
Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest,
Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast.

"We bend each tree in proper attitude,
And fountain willows train in silvery falls;
We frame all shady roofs and arches rude,
And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls,
Or deep recesses where the Echo calls;—
We shape all plumy trees against the sky,
And carve tall elms' Corinthian capitals,-
When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply,
Men say, the tapping woodpecker is nigh.