235

Poetry-The Villager's Lay.

and overwhelms the remotest boun-
dary, that is drawn around it. Does
Deism proclaim the existence and
glory of a Great First Cause? here it
unites with the Bible. But the sacred
pages present stronger discoveries of
infinite splendour, than ever the volume
of nature could have furnished. In
these, infinite Godhead is seen
"full-
orb'd in his whole round of rays."
Shining in the person of Christ, he
appears in a view infinitely more
grand than any thing of which Deism
could aid the meanest idea. And
could a scheme so vastly superior, and
so full of the Divinity, originate with
man? Compared with this brilliancy,
the sublimest discoveries of Nature
vanish like the morning shades before
the spreading beams of the lord of
day; and the loftiest conceptions of
Plato dwindle into utter insigni-
ficance.

236

the superiority of Christianity to Deism
appears; but these points, if this ob-
tain admission to your miscellany,
shall be reserved for discussion in the
next.
T. A.

Oswestry, Oct. 12.

Poetry.

THE VILLAGER'S LAY.

CANTO X.-BY PALEMON.

Now deeper shades advance, retiring light
Yields to the invading solitude of night;
Twilight extends o'er varying hill and plain,
Welcome, sweet twilight! gentle daughter
And slumb'ring nature owns the tranquil reign.

grey

Of peaceful eve; pale orphan of the day;
Sister of silence! still to thee belong,
Calm monitress of thought, the charms of song!
And indistinctness veils the nearer glade;
Now vivid landscape hues remotely fade,
Hills mix with hills, and vale with valley
blends;

And beauty's undulating line extends
Along the whole: lo, now appears in sight,
Hesperus, foremost in the van of night;
Of heaven's unnumber'd hosts through you
Pale twinkling herald of the radiant march
blue arch;

Sweet hour unwreck'd by elemental strife!
Chaste picture of the close of virtuous life;
When nature's twilight veils the sainted eye,
And dissolution's awful hour draws nigh;
Yet ere the spirit flies-the star of faith
Opens a vista down the vale of death;
Bright harbinger of a transcendent train,
Unseen till death eclipse the world of pain!

But the highest glory of Christianity arises from that system of mediation which is the harmony of the awful and amiable attributes of the Eternal, opens a door of hope to a fallen world, and the certain prospect of unending bliss to all the "ransom'd of the Lord." Where is the religion that can disclose a method of recovery, so "honourable to God and so safe to man?" What philosophic mind (unaided by revelation) can suggest a plan of forgiveness which does not bear on the ruin of the Adieu, dear Village! rural scenes, adien! throne of God? Absolute benevolence Sweet train of wand'ring thought,-farewell can be the alone ground of depend-Home draws my feet; eclips'd diurnal lightyou! ence ; but the exercise of this towards Now Cynthia's pale half-open'd eye of night, a being on whom justice has a claim, And thousand stars, shine meekly on the breast would involve such an inconsistency Of tranquil nature lapp'd in dewy rest; · in the Divine procedure, as the perfec- Reminding man, devotion's eye to raise, tion of his nature and operations To breathe a prayer, and lisp a note of praise, must exclude. This subject has per- Wraps earth in nightly rest and man in love. To Him, whose starry mantle, stretch'd above, plexed some of the wisest sages of antiquity; they have been lost in the dreary regions of wild conjecture; out of which nothing can explore a way, but those effulgent rays which beam forth from the glorious gospel of the blessed God.

Dome of creation! wonder-wrought design, Primeval nature's attribute divine!

The scroll immense-immeasurably spread, God's glorious record! indistinctly read By all his sons:-by him with savage grace, Who reads no letter, save on nature's face; Who hears no voice point to creation's plan, If then the Christian revelation is so Assert its birth, and tell him he is man; With silent wonder, thy diverging sphere essential to correct views of the cha-Inspires his soul, and points his off'ring there. racter and proceedings of God; and if no scheme apart from it can furnish the information we need; how far Deism, in rejecting it, acts accordantly with sound reason, I demand its advocates to determine.

When I began these remarks, it was my intention to take a more comprehensive view of the instances in which

Forsook of truth's fair beam, his soul, though
dark,

Strikes from thy glories one corruscant spark;
Prostrates his mind beneath the starry dome,
So faint a ray through nature's thickest gloom
Unknown beside, the glorious Deity,
In night's deep stillness he adores in thee.

Fair azure vault! what eye seen thy

The Villager's Lay, &c.

|

239

Poetry-Edward and Matilda, &c.

Searce had gay Sol in golden chariot driv'n
Twice round the earth, through the blue vault
of heav'n,

Since first they dwelt in this their snug retreat,
Far from the pomp and splendour of the great;
Far from the noise and bustle of the town,
In rustic scenes their happiness to crown;
When, lo! the demon of destruction came,
The muse forbids me here to pen his name,
In rank a lord; in disposition vile;
And undeserving of so great a style-
Struck with the beauty of Matilda fair,
His only thought was how he could ensnare
And captivate the charms of one so bright,
Who stood so tempting in his hateful sight.

Alas the time, in an unguarded hour,
Betrayed by grandeur and apparent pow'r,
The lost Matilda gives up every tie,
And yields the victim of his treachery;
To foreign climes he hastens with his prize,
And all his black desires he gratifies ;
Nor gives reflection time; no moment's stay;
But swift as light, he bears his prize away.

Canto the Second.

WHILE through the cupola of lofty trees,
That bend submissive to the pressing breeze,
Bright Sol resplendent shot his ev'ning ray,
And sweetly sunk the golden orb of day;
When mounting high 'midst pearly stars of
night,

The pallid moon appears as silver bright;
The air serene; a universal calm;
And meditation dropt her soothing balm;
Nor e'en a sound disturbs the silent vale,
Save the soft music of the nightingale,
That sweetly floated on the ev'ning air;
To lull the sorrows of desponding care-
But soon the sky a different aspect wore :
Black clouds contend, and winds begin to roar;
The nightingale's sweet harmony had ceas'd;
And the stern fury of the storm increas'd,
The dismal screech-owl now began her note-
That rung discordant through her noisome
throat;

Still on Matilda Edward's mind was bent,
Which many a pang of recollection rent,
When a loud shriek assail'd his wond'ring ear,
He grasp'd his sword, and, unappall'd by fear,
Rush'd on unmindful of the storm with speed,
To whence he thought he heard the sound pro-

ceed;

Scarce had he enter'd at a gloomy wood,
And scarcely knowing what he then pursu'd ;
When the heart-rending sound he heard again,
Still he pursued, but still it proved in vain;
Quite lost, bewilder'd, and depriv'd of light,
Save when the liquid lightning, vivid, bright,
Cast round the scene a momentary ray,
The only means to guide his dreary way.
Tired and fatigued, he turns to seek his cot
At some far distance from this dismal spot,
When the loud thunder's most tremendous roar
Burst with more fury than it had before.
Preceded by another shriek of woe-
Which strongly prompted him still on to go,
He throught from whence he heard the piteous

240

Till an old ruin, open'd to his sight,
That added to the terror of the night;
Vast fragments of a pond'rous size around,
Bestrew'd its base, and scatter'd o'er the
ground,

And creeping ivy most delib'rate crawls
In great profusion o'er its tott'ring walls.
He at the ruin look'd, and anxious ey'd,
And from a lofty turret soon espied

A light that issued through the broken wall,
And at that moment heard a suppliant call,
"Oh! spare me, spare me," cried a fault'ring
sound-

"Oh! spare me, spare me," echo whisper'd
round.

Then swift as light'ning through the court he
flies,

And to a pond'rous door his strength applies,
That yields admittance to his pow'rful arm,
It's creaking hinges sound a dire alarm.
Then straight he enters, and explores the place,
His bosom charg'd, he hastes with quicken'd
pace;

When in the corner of the hall appears,
The crumbling remnant of a winding stairs.
Soon he ascends, but ere yet at the top,
The noise of footsteps causes him to stop,
When a deep groan in awful cadence rung
Through Edward's frame, but boldly on he
sprung.

When O! what horrors broke upon his sight,
Soon he ascended to the topmost height,
Through the dull glimmʼring of a lamp's pale
light:

A vile assassin o'er a female form,

His reeking dagger with her blood still warm;
Yet in his hand he held the fatal blade,
That deadly havock in her heart had made;
Senseless she lay extended on the floor,
Drench'd in the deluge of her crimson gore.
With fury on the monster, Edward sprung,
And with his sword his ruthless bosom stung;
Deep in his breast he strikes the well-plac'd
wound,

Pierces his heart, and brings him to the ground:
Then turns around opprest with woe and care,
Heaves up a sigh, and mourns the lifeless fair;
Seizing her hand with sympathetic grace,
Beholds the lost Matilda in her face.

A sudden shiv'ring strikes his manly form,
His strength departs, his blood no more runs

warm;

His lips turn pale, his heart froze to its core,
He sinks! he falls! and never rises more.

LINES ON A SKULL, Brought from the Field of Waterloo, and placed in a Hermitage in Wales.

In this lone spot, oh friend or stranger!

Start not this human wreck to view,
Brought from the field of strife and danger,
The immortal field of Waterloo.
Whatever fierce contending nation

Birth to its silent owner gave,
It now is no consideration!

We all are equal in the grave.
Mechanic toil, and proud ambition,
Submit alike to fate's decree;
And brought at length to this condition,-
What this appears, thine soon must be.

Poetry-Elegy on the late Beilby Porteus.

Whether in fight to perish greatly,
In fields of glory be thy lot,

Or in a palace rich and stately,

Or stretch'd on straw, it matters not;
For spite of every false suggestion,
Of wealth, or vanity, or pride,
Alas! the solemn dreadful question

Is, how we liv'd ?-not, when we died? R.

243

Destruction of the Caxton Printing-office.

DESTRUCTION OF THE CAXTON PRINT

ING-OFFICE BY FIRE.

(With an Engraving.)

ON Tuesday, January 30th, 1821, a most dreadful fire broke out in the Caxton Printing-office, Liverpool, which, in a few hours, reduced this lofty and extensive pile of buildings to a heap of ruins.

The fire was first publicly discovered about one o'clock in the morning; and the alarm being given, some of the people employed on the establishment, and who lived on and near the premises, were roused from their beds. These immediately gave notice to others who lived in the vicinity; and all, with the utmost expedition, hastened to the awful spot, to render all the assistance in their power in extinguishing the flames. The engines were instantly called; but, unfortunately, they had been previously conducted to another fire which had just happened in the northern part of the town; so that nearly an hour elapsed from the first discovery of the fire to the time of their arrival.

The fire first appeared in a small apartment in the north-west end of the composing-room. This apartment contained old type, and sundry stores of various kinds, together with waste proofs, and was only occasionally visited. Here it is probable that it remained a considerable time, preying upon such articles as lay within its range, until it had acquired strength to burst forth into one general blaze. From this room the flames ascended to the rooms above, which were filled with books, sheets, and numbers; and in less than an hour the upper stories exhibited an extended volume of flame.

The men, on entering the building, hastened first to the press-room, in the northern end of which they discovered fire falling from the small room above, in which it probably originated. They then ascended the stairs, and attempted to enter the composing-room, but this was so completely filled with smoke and fire, that they were compelled to retreat, without being able to secure some valuable manuscripts which lay on different frames, where they had been working on the preceding day. The fire then communicated from room to room in its descent, until the whole building about three o'clock presented nothing but a bed of fire, or an imbodied flame.

244

About three o'clock the roof fell in. This event was announced by the mounting fire, which rose to a tremendous height above the building, carrying into the air flakes of burning paper, which whirled around in a most awful manner, and apparently setting the whole firmament in a blaze. The windows at this time were wholly demolished by the fire; so that the current of air which the apertures admitted, gave new vigour to the flames, and augmented the conflagration.

The engines unhappily arrived too late, either to extinguish the fire, or to preserve any part of the building, the devouring element having obtained such an ascendancy, as to bid defiance to all opposition. In the meanwhile, as the fire increased, the various floors successively gave way, imparting in their burning descent an additional stimulus to the flames, which seemed to triumph in their acquisition of new combustible matter. The spectacle, at this time, was dreadfully sublime. The paper in the air appeared like balloons on fire; and a considerable part of the town was illuminated with the light that the flames emitted. The burning fragments were whirled in various di rections, covering the ground with the memorials of desolation, to an extent of nearly two miles.

About four o'clock a large portion of the eastern wall fell in with a horrid crash; but this, instead of deadening the fire, gave a new momentary impulse to the flames, which, gathering round the materials, retained their wonted vigour, and thus gained an opportunity of issuing from the sides, and pouring obthe fiery inundation without any struction.

The men who managed the engines, on finding that all efforts to extin guish the fire were unavailing, turned their attention to the adjacent buildings, pouring streams upon them, to prevent a communication of the conti guous flames. Many of these were so close to the burning pile, that had the walls near them fallen in that direction they must inevitably have been involved in the common wreck. These walls, however, providentially stood, until the fire had abated, and the wind being favourable for the preservation of the contiguous cottages, not one of them was set on fire.

The direction of the wind, during the conflagration, was nearly south,