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O, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows
With rapture a mother only knows ;-
Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer;
Let it swell up to heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band,
Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand.
What trying thoughts in her bosom swell,
As the bride bids parents and home farewell!
Kneel down by the side of the tearful fair,
And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side,
And pray for his soul through him who died.
Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow-
O, what is earth and its pleasures now!
And what shall assuage his dark despair,
But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down at the couch of departing faith,
And hear the last words the believer saith.
He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends:
There is peace in his eye that upwards bends;

There is peace in his calm, confiding air;

For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.

It commends the spirit to God who gave ;

It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;

It points to the glory where he shall reign,

Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again."

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss!
But gladder, purer, than rose from this.
The ransomed shout to their glorious King,
Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing;

But a sinless and joyous song they raise;
And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

Awake, awake, and gird up thy strength
To join that holy band at length.

To him who unceasing love displays,

Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,
To Him thy heart and thy hours be given;
For a life of prayer is the life of heaven.

HENRY WARE.

THE COBBLER OF MESSINA.

THERE is a sort of enthusiasm in public spirit, which renders it politically prudent in corrupt statesmen to encourage it; and yet there is something so great and so divine in this enthusiasm, that statesmen of a better turn, though they dare not encourage, yet cannot but admire it. We have a shining and surprising example of this in the Cobbler of Messina, which happened in the last century, and is at once a proof that public spirit is the growth of every degree: and, which is a point that our great men ought to consider with attention, that wherever corruption becomes flagrant and universal, this heroic lunacy of public spirit is most likely to appear.

This cobbler was an honest man, and, I was going to say, poor; but when I consider that he maintained his family, and was above dependence, I cannot prevail upon myself to make use of the expression. He was also a man of reflection; he saw the corruption, luxury, and oppression; the private frauds, the public robberies, the enormous violation of justice, under which his country laboured. He saw rapes unpunished, adulteries unreproved, barbarous murders either screened by corrupt senators, or atoned for by money; in a word, he saw a universal degeneracy of manners prevail, partly from the want of will, partly from the want of power in the government to chastise offenders. In this situation he resolved to undertake the arduous task of reforming these disorders, and thought it both lawful and expedient to assume the authority of avenger of the innocent, and the terror of the guilty

Full of this romantic resolution, he provided himself with a short gun, which he carried under his cloak, and equipped with a powder pouch on one thigh, and a bag of bullets on the other, he sallied out in the evenings, and, as proper opportunities offered, despatched such as he knew to be incorrigible offenders, to that tribunal, where he was sensible they could not elude justice; and then returned home, full of that satisfaction which is the sole reward of public spirit. As there were in Messina a great number of these overgrown criminals, the cobbler, in the space of a few weeks, did very great execution. The sun never rose without discovering fresh marks of his justice; here lay a usurer, who had ruined hundreds; there, an unjust magistrate, who had been the curse of thousands; in one corner, a nobleman who had debauched his friend's wife; in another, a man of the same rank, who, through avarice and ambition, had prostituted his own; but as the bodies were all untouched, with all their ornaments about them, and very often with considerable sums in their pockets, it was visible they were not despatched for the sake of money; and their

numbers made it as evident, that they did not fall victims to private revenge.

It is not in the power of words to describe the astonishment of the whole city; things came at last to such a pass, that not a rogue of any rank durst walk the streets; complaint upon complaint was carried to the viceroy; and magistrates, guards, spies, and every other engine of power were employed to no manner of purpose. At last, when no less than fifty of the examples had been made, the viceroy took a serious resolution of putting a stop to such mischiefs, by the only method that seemed capable of reaching the evil; he caused public proclamation to be made, that he would give the sum of 2000 crowns to any person who should discover the author or authors of these murders; promising, at the same time, the like reward, with an absolute indemnity, to the person who had done them, if he would discover himself; and as a pledge of his sincerity, he went to the cathedral, and took the sacrament, that he would punctually perform every tittle of his proclamation.

The cobbler, having either satisfied his zeal for justice, or being now in a temper to secure his own safety, after having, in his own opinion, done so much service to the state, went directly to the palace, and demanded an audience of the viceroy; to whom, upon his declaring that he had something of great importance to communicate, he was admitted alone. He began with putting his excellency in mind of his oath, who assured him he meant to keep it religiously. The cobbler then proceeded to the following harangue: "I, sir, have been alone that instrument of justice, who despatched in so short a time, so many criminals. In doing this, sir, I have done no more than what was your duty to do. You, sir, who, in reality, are guilty of all the offences which these wretches have committed, deserved the same chastisement, and had met with it too, had I not respected the representative of my prince, who, I know, is accountable to God alone." He then entered into an exact detail of all the murders he had done, and the motives upon which he proceeded. The viceroy, who was thoroughly convinced that he told him no more than the truth, repeated his assurances of safety, and thanked him very affectionately for the tenderness he had shown him, adding, after all, he was ready to pay him the 2000 crowns.

Our cobbler returned the viceroy his compliments in his rough way; but told him, after what had passed, he believed it would be but prudent in him to make choice of some other city for his habita. tion, and that, too, in some corner of Italy, not under the jurisdiction of his Catholic majesty. The viceroy though his reasons had weight, and therefore, after thanking him in the most gracious terms, for supplying that power which the government wanted, he ordered a

tartane to transport him, his family, his effects, and 200 crowns to one of the ports in the territory of Genoa; where this extraordinary person passed the remainder of his days in ease and quiet: and the city of Messina felt, for a long time after, the happy effects of his enthusiastic zeal for the public good, and for the strict execution of justice, without respect to persons.

This story, however strange, is exactly true; and, as Philip of Macedon kept a page, who, to moderate his ambition, and to put him in mind of his duty as a prince, was wont to awake him in the morning with this salutation, "Remember, Philip, that thou art a man;" so, I think, it would be happy for ministers, who are either entrusted by their masters, or acquire themselves a boundless authority, supported by boundless influence; if they would write in a table-book, and refresh their memories frequently with this sentence: "What if the cobbler of Messina should revive?"

MEKANA'S DEATH-SONG.

THE lone leaves whirl in quiet hours
From off the trembling tree,
Like spirit steps among the bowers

Their whispers visit me :

Mekana is a lonely leaf,

That shivers on life's spray,
And wearies for the storm of grief,

To carry her away.

The moon is on the rattling rill,
The sounds of men are dumb;
I hear a voice from yonder hill-
"Come, my Mekana! come!"

My hunter-boy is gone to sleep,
He hears no voice at all,

He sees no dark eye o'er him weep,

No tear of duty fall ;

He does not drink the showers

Of music in the spring,

Nor see the glades of flowers,

Nor feel the bliss they bring ;—

Behold! he beckons me away

Unto the spirit-home

"Haste! my Mekana, do not stay;
Come, my Mekana! come!"

He lies beside yon cocoa.tree
Among the warrior forms,
Sent by the Lord of life to see

The fearful feast of worms:

And there with him I sit, and speak
In melancholy tones;

The vulture dares not whet his beak

On my beloved's bones ;

He says,

"Peace feeds her flocks afar,

Beside the spirits' home;

They never join the dance of war-
Come, my Mekana! come !"

O! here like any mateless bird,
My mournful bower I make ;-
What care I for the serpent heard
A-stirring in the brake?

It is the only rosy ground

In this sad world I know,

The only oasis I found

In all life's waste of woe.

My hunter beckons me in dreams
The flower-clad vales to roam :-

To chase the fawn by forest streams-
I come, my love, I come!

STANZAS FOR MUSIC.

I.

SEEK not crowded streets or halls :
There are eyes of lustrous beauty-

Eyes, whose magic glance enthrals

The hapless wight on whom it falls.
Oh! beware the dazzling throng

Where ladies young and fair assemble;

You-a simple son of song

Dare not hope, and must dissemble;
And a smile, that comes your way,
May make you sad for many a day.

II.

I have wreck'd my heedless heart
On a strand far off and hopeless :
She, the cause of all my smart,
Never can relief impart.

High above my humble lot,

Wherefore do I not forget her?
Durst I speak-she knows me not,-
Nor can I wish she knew me better;
For would come the cruel truth,
That I am but a peasant youth.

J. B T

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