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of darkness, to alleviate the sorrow which admits of no other alleviation, to direct a beam of hope to the heart which no other topic of consolation can reach; while guilt, despair, and death, vanish at the touch of its holy inspiration. There is something in the spirit and diction of the Bible which is found peculiarly adapted to arrest the attention of the plainest and most uncultivated minds. The simple structure of its sentences, combined with a lofty spirit of poetry,-its familiar allusions to the scenes of nature, and the transactions of common life,-the delightful intermixture of narration with the doctrinal and preceptive parts, and the profusion of miraculous facts, which convert it into a sort of enchanted ground,—its constant advertence to the Deity, whose perfections it renders almost visible and palpable,-unite in bestowing upon it an interest which attaches to no other performance, and which, after assiduous and repeated perusal, invests it with much of the charm of novelty; like the great orb of day, at which we are wont to gaze with unabated astonishment from infancy to old age. What other book, beside the Bible, could be heard in public assemblies from year to year, with an attention that never tires, and an interest that never cloys? With few exceptions, let a portion of the sacred volume be recited in a mixed multitude, and though it has been heard a thousand times, a universal stillness ensues; every eye is fixed, and every ear is awake and attentive. Select, if you can, any other composition, and let it be rendered equally familiar to the mind, and see whether it will produce this effect. ROBERT HALL.

121. THE PLEASURES AND PAINS OF THE STUDent.

WHEN envious time, with unrelenting hand,
Dissolves the union of some little band,
A band, connected by those hallow'd ties,
That from the growth of letter'd friendship rise,
Each lingering soul, before the parting sigh,
One moment waits, to view the years gone by.
Memory still loves to hover round the place,
And all our pleasures and our pains retrace.

The student is the subject of my song;-
Few are his pleasures; yet those few are strong.
Not the gay transient moment of delight;
Not hurried transports, felt but in their flight.
Unlike all else, the student's joys endure,
Intense, expansive, energetic, pure.
Whether o'er classic plains he loves to rove,
Midst Attic bowers, and through the Mantuan grove,
Whether with scientific eye, to trace

The various modes of number, time and space;
Whether on wings of heavenly truth to rise,
And penetrate the secrets of the skies,
Or downward tending, with an humbler eye,
Through nature's laws explore a deity;
His are the joys no stranger breast can feel,
No wit define, no utterance reveal.

Nor yet, alas, unmix'd the joys we boast;
Our pleasures still proportion'd labour cost.
An anxious tear oft fills the student's eye;
And his breast heaves with many a struggling sigh;
His is the task, the long, long task t' explore
Of every age the lumber and the lore.

Need I describe his troubles and his strife?
The thousand minor miseries of his life?
How application, ever pouring maid,
Oft mourns an aching, oft a dizzy head?
How the hard toil but slowly works its way,
One word explain'd,-the labour of a day ;-

Here forced to thread some labyrinth without end,

And there some paradox to comprehend;

Here ten hard words, fraught with some meaning small, And there, ten folios, fraught—with none at all!

Or, view him, meting out with points and lines,

The land of diagrams, and mystic signs,

Where forms of spheres "being given" on a plane,
He must transform, and bend,-within his brain.
Or, as an author, lost in gloom profound,
When some bright thought demands a period round.
Pondering and polishing;-ah, what avail
The room oft paced, the anguish bitten nail?
For see, produced mid many a labouring groan,
A sentence, much like an inverted cone.

Or should he try his talent at a rhyme,

That waste of patience, and that waste of time,
Perchance, like me, he flounders through one line,
Begins the next-there stops.-

Enough; no more unveil the cloister's grief;
Disclose those sources whence it finds relief.
Say how the student, pausing from his toil,
Forgets his pain mid recreation's smile.
Have you not seen (forgive th' ignoble theme)
The winged tenants of some haunted stream,
Feed, eager, busy, all the wave beside,
Then wanton in the cool luxurious tide ?
So the wise student ends his busy day,
Unbends his mind and throws his cares away.
To books where science urges toil severe,
Succeeds th' alluring tale, or drama dear;
Or haply in that hour, his taste might choose
The easy warblings of the modern muse.
Let me but paint him ;-void of every care,
Flung in free attitudes along his chair,
From page to page his eye rapid along
Glances, and revels through the magic song.
Alternate swells his breast with hope and fear,
Now bursts th' unconscious laugh;-now falls the pity-
ing tear.

Yet more ;-though lonely joys the bosom warm,
Participation heightens every charm.

And should the happy student chance to know
The warmth of friendship,-or, some kinder glow,
What wonder, should he eager run to share
Some favourite author with some favourite fair?
There, as he cites those treasures of the page
That raise her fancy, or her heart engage,
And listens while her frequent, keen remark
Discerns the brilliant, or illumes the dark;
And doubting much, scarce knows which most to admire,
The critic's judgment, or the writer's fire;
While, reading, oft he glances at that face,
Where gently beams intelligence and grace,
And sees each passion in its turn prevail,
Her looks the very echo of the tale;

Sees the descending tear, the swelling breast
When vice exults, or virtue is distrest;
Or when the plot assumes an aspect new,
And virtue shares her retribution due,
Sees the gay, grateful smile, th' uplifted eye,
Thread, needle, kerchief! dropt in ecstasy-
Say, can one social pleasure equal this?
Yet still e'en here, imperfect is the bliss.
For ah, how oft must awkward learning yield
To graceful dulness the unequal field
Of gallantry; what lady can endure
The shrug scholastic and the bow demure?
Can the poor student hope that heart to gain,
Which melts before the flutter of a cane?
Or, of two candidates, pray which can pass,
Where one consults his books, and one his glass

Ye fair, if aught these censures may apply,
'Tis yours alone to effect the remedy.
Ne'er let the fop the sacred bond remove
That links the Paphian with th' Aonian grove.
'Tis yours to polish, strengthen and secure
The lustre of the mind's rich garniture.
Such is the robe that lends you heavenly charms,
And envy of its fiercest sting disarms;

A robe, whose grace and brightness will outvie
The woof of Ormus, and the Tyrian dye.

To count one pleasure more indulge my muse;
"Tis friendship's self; what cynic will refuse?
O, I could tell how oft her joys we've shared,
When mutual cares those mutual joys endear'd.
How oft relaxing from one common toil,
We found repose amid one common smile.
How arm in arm we've linger'd through the vale,
Listening to many a time beguiling tale;
Yes, I could tell,-but O! the task how vain!
"Twould but increase our fast approaching pain,—
The pain, so thrilling to a student's heart,
Couch'd in that talisman of wo,-"We purt."

SOUTHERN ROSE.

122.-MARY ANNA GIBBES; THE YOUNG HEROINE OF STONO

STONO, on thy still banks

The roar of war is heard; its thunders swell

And shake yon mansion where domestic love
Till now breathed simple kindness to the heart;
Where white-arm'd childhood twined the neck of age,
Where hospitable cares lit up the hearth,
Cheering the lonely traveller on his way.

A foe inhabits there, and they depart,

Th' infirm old man, and his fair household too,
Seeking another home.-Home! Who can tell
The touching power of that most sacred word,
Save he who feels and weeps that he has none?

Among that group of midnight exiles fled
Young Mary Anna, on whose youthful cheek
But thirteen years had kindled up the rose.
A laughing creature, breathing heart and love,
Yet timid as the fawn in southern wilds.
E'en the night reptile on the dewy grass
Startled the maiden, and the silent stars
Looking so still from out their cloudy home
Troubled her mind. No time was there for gauds
And toilet art, in this quick flight of fear;
Her glossy hair, damp'd by the midnight winds,
Lay on her neck dishevell'd; gather'd round
Her form in hurried folds clung her few garments;
Now a quick thrilling sob, half grief, half dread,
Came bursting from her heart,-and now her eyes
Glared forth, as peal'd the cannon; then beneath
Their drooping lids, sad tears redundant flow'd.

But sudden mid the group a cry arose,
"Fenwick! where is he?" None return'd reply,
But a sharp, piercing glance went out, around,
Keen as a mother's toward her infant child
When sudden danger lowers, and then a shriek
From one, from all burst forth-" He is not here!"

Poor boy, he slept, nor crash of hurrying guns,
Nor impious curses, nor the warrior's shout

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