Thou still hold'st watch with thy perpetual lay;
Counting the hours of ages-though the sound
On sleep's unconscious ear doth vainly fall,
Or in the din of high orb'd noon is drowned:
Still ever in each listening interval
Upon the stillness comes thy constant call
From undistinguishable distance bound,
Like a far travelling voice of distant years

That tells of other times to him the note that hears.

Swift at the wakeful call the free thought flies,
With wing unfettered o'er the hoary deep
Of immemorial ages: as in sleep

Worlds of the past appear, and men arise
From tombs of other times to life newborn,
The warrior, and the sophist, and the sage,
Back to the fathers of the world's first age.
When that high peal of thine first woke the morn
There was no solemn gloom-no sadness then
In that high lay!

To the strong races of primeval men,
Fresh in their secular prime, what was a day?
Life's sun arose with unabated force,
Rejoicing as a giant in its course.

Yet they went by-and other days came on-
Times of renown-whose tale hath long been told,
The glory of the Pharaohs-Memphis old,
Ecbatana, or "that great Babylon."

They scaled the heavens in height, and one by one
Went down the steep of ages; in their pride-
Along the glittering stream which mortals call
The world, because it seemeth all in all,
To them who toss amid its foam and noise
Its all-absorbing whirl of cares and joys-
An ever present, ever passing tide

Which near the edge of one unfathomed fall,
Glides smoothest-'ere 'tis lost to living eye;
And so the glory of the world goes by!

That strain of thine was of a different mood,
Once in the dawn of an all-glorious day,
Though dark to mortal sense.

The morn gleamed grey

On Pilate's hall-when the Redeemer stood:

To satisfy the strictly righteous law

Unchangeable, which angels read in awe,

Far above earthly thought, of perfect good:-
He stood alone-abandoned in that hour

By earth and heaven, to the grave's dreadful power,
But not by his all-righteous fortitude-

Hell triumphed-earth deserted-and heaven wept,
Creation shrunk aghast: 'twas then thy note

Found an eternal record, as it smote

On Peter's heart-where faith a moment slept.
Then not in anger but in sorrow turned
The mild sad sternness of much-injured love
The heavenly searching eye; touching above
All earthly fear; and Peter's bosom burned
With sense of its unutterable wrong

To god-like goodness in its hour of sorrow
O could thy clarion for an instant borrow
The sense then wakened by its matin song!
In that sad hour of pain's extremity
The faithful servant from his master dear
For one weak moment turned in human fear,
Alas, how long-and by what sins are we
Kept loitering in pure wantonness aloof—
O for a heart of flesh to feel that last reproof!

No trump that ever pealed to human ear,
The loftiest note of victory's high strain
On Marathon-or Crecy's glorious plain
Was e'er so full of triumph or of fear,
No sound so big with portent shall be shed
On mortal ear again, on this low earth,
To speak of human empire's fall or birth,
Till the last trumpet shall awake the dead,
Bursting the graves of ages; great and small,
The ransomed, but forgetful sons of men,
To meet the eye that looked on Peter then,
At the third note of thy accusing call:
But not, as then, in love and mercy deep;
O for a call to rouse man from his fatal sleep!

J. U. U.

REMEMBRANCES OF A MONTHLY NURSE.

SECOND SERIES.

IX (and last).—MR. AND MRS, LITTLEDALE.

Analogy is a very beautiful thing, and very much like the moonthat is, most delightful to talk about, but, if people say aright, very apt to produce Lunacy, or in other words, a confusion of ideas. Never argue from analogy, or you are very likely to be led into a swamp, over the head and ears, as if you had followed a Will o'the Wisp-those dear little fairy-like lights I have so often, in crossing Dartmoor, in Devonshire, gazed on with almost supernatural pleasure.

"What a strange beginning to your tale, Mrs. Griffiths," said my old acquaintance, Dr. B- that very awful reviewer, who was come to take his tea with me. "What can Analogy have to do with the story

of a Monthly Nurse?'"

"That is the worst of gentlemen belonging to your profession,"

answered I, smiling very provokingly in his face. "You never will, if you can help it, let people tell their stories in their own way. Suffer them to begin in the middle, or, the end of them, if they choose it, or even, as I have done now, a great way off, of course with an artist's design to produce some excellent effect or other, known only to the craft. You would cramp up us poor authors within a parcel of whale-bone rules, until we walked about as stiff as an effigy."

"Rules are very important things," replied Dr. B-, very solemnly. "If we critics did not impose some upon you, skittish, fly-away poets and authors, where do you think the whole race of you would be by this time? Breaking your bones or your necks perchance over some precipice or other, or rushing down some gaping, fathomless abyss, like Quintius Curtius, and never would be seen again upon the habitable globe."

"To the inexpressible regret of gentlemen of your cloth," I exclaimed good-humouredly. "Of what use would the butcher be if he had no innocent sheep and lambs to immolate? no lowing ox, no grunting swine to slay?" The occupation of Othello would be gone;' and the sooner you plunged in after us the better," I added.

Dr. B- smiled, and asked me "what I intended to do with my analogy?"

"To make better use of it than any of you gentlemen logicians do," answered I, “ or have ever done; listen to the end of my high argument."

"Give me another cup of tea, first," said my visitor; "and let it be a little stronger than the last."

"You will injure your nerves, my dear Sir, with such powerful doses of green hyson," I argued; "no wonder you write such cutting remarks, enough to make a poor unlucky dog of an author commit suicide; but never mind; hear my next sentence about analogy-must I read over the first one again?"

"It is not at all necessary," said my friend, with a slight corrugation of his learned brow, "I recollect every word of it." So I read on as follows::

"For once though, I am indebted to this same beautiful uncertainty, this moon-like spirit of analogy, which, like its prototype, is of all sizes; from a slender silver crescent, fit for the bow of Diana, or one of the lady archers in Lord's cricket-ground, up to a great, round, staring thing, big as a warming-pan, which always has a red face, as it rises from its couch; I am certainly indebted to analogy for my present resolution, which is, that I intend for awhile to rest from my labours in the nursing line; not that my note-book is exhausted - no, thanks to my own observations, and the follies, feelings, and misfortunes of others, I have yet a goodly store of stirring tales to tell, in my old-fashioned way; but that, as all created things need repose, why so do I; and, God willing, I mean to fold up my mind, like a dormouse, for a few months, and fall into a delicious state of torpor ; when, like a giantess refreshed, I probably may, if lovingly invited so to do by my attached friend the public, renew my pleasing toils, and give them the benefit of both my waking and sleeping thoughts and aspirations. Yes, the sun goes down to rest every evening, the stars put on their night-caps and retire for a season, the cows and calves,

N.S.-VOL. II.

4 P

and geese and ducks, all seek repose; the bees and birds all creep into their hives and nests, so that we have not the hum of the one or the song of the other, during some space of time; it is then but right that an author, if it were only for decency's sake, should make himself scarce for awhile. Thus, at the end of this year, I now gracefully make my bow (curteseys are quite out of fashion), and wish my beloved readers a merry Christmas, and a happy-What! shall I limit their delights to a scanty twelvemonth? No!-may their happiness never be bounded by the limitation of Time itself. There is a region beyond the old, hoaryheaded fellow's flight or comprehension, where his scythe and hour-glass are equally unknown, and the stench of corrupting dead bodies, of every kind and sort, cannot approach!"

"Wheugh!" exclaimed my visitor, pushing back his chair from the fire, and throwing up his hands in a kind of horror. "Why what sort of a rhapsody are you writing? In the name of common sense and sober outraged reason, pray come down into the precincts of Time and Space, and order your old Bridget to bring us in another box of coals, this foggy, cold night; and tell me, my good, kind woman too, if you can give me a bed here? for I do not like the thoughts of turning out such a night as this."

"And is that all you say to my affecting leave-taking?" I asked. "You ought to have applied your handkerchief to your eyes, if it had only been for politeness' sake."

"I will leave your tender friend the public to do so;" he answered, laughing, "but, at any rate, I will compliment you on your good sense in giving your mind a comfortable nap, now in the depth of winter; you can sit nearer your fire when reading, or knitting, or knotting, than you could with your desk before you there at the table. I perfectly approve of your determination to retire for awhile; I suppose you mean though to give them a story at parting?"

"To be sure I do; and it is meant as a hit at you gentlemen, and an affectionate hint to my own sex, not to have a pretty, young, female cousin, or friend, staying with them, during the time that they, with matron duties bound, are confined within the narrow limits of their own sleeping apartments or dressing-rooms, and their loving lords or masters are roving about the house or the world, seeking peace but finding none; deprived, as they necessarily are, for a few weeks, of the society of that beloved-one, they have chosen to be their mate and home-companion through life. Solitude is a very trying thing: and as man is a gregarious animal, he naturally seeks society; let him have then one of his own sex to bear him company during these necessary separations, or some kind mother or aunt to make his tea and take care of him, but provide him not with a fair seductive creature, who answers to the name of Coz,' and who offers to mend his gloves, or sew on a shirt button, when his amiable wife is incapable of doing it for him. Now for my exemplification."

There is a surgeon of very extensive practice and high celebrity, who was once living at the west end of London, and whom I shall designate as Mr. Littledale; he is about one of the handsomest men I ever saw, tall, well-proportioned, of a noble presence, and very expressive manly features; most captivating manners also has this professional gentleman,

and a certain gallantry to the ladies, that makes him a great favourite with them.

In attending a certain baronet, who had received a fracture of a leg, from a fall from his horse, Mr. Littledale had an opportunity of seeing his only child, a most lovely girl named Elizabeth; and so charmed became they with each other, and so fine a fellow did he appear also to the father, that he gave his consent to their union, taking care, however, to settle all her large fortune on herself. They were married, and had a most elegant house to reside in, with every luxury that can be thought of, Mr. Littledale only attending to a few of his best patients, and that more to oblige them, than to benefit himself.

I attended the lady of this celebrated surgeon, during two of her confinements, and as she was quite as beautiful for a woman, as he was for a man, it may be supposed that the children of such parents were very lovely ones indeed. Skilled as I am in baby-knowledge, never did I see two more healthy, perfect little rogues than those boys which came one year after another, to bless the union of Mr. and Mrs. Littledale.

During her second accouchement, the kind and tender Elizabeth, invited her cousin Clara, a girl a year or two younger than herself, to come and stay with her, that she might make breakfast for Mr. Littledale, and relieve him somewhat from that loneliness and ennui, of which he had so bitterly complained during her first confinement.

I never much liked this Clara Fancourt, but why I should not do so I never could at that time account for. She was extremely lively, thoughtless, and good-tempered, to a fault; had large, saucy-looking black eyes, and dark hair, which hung in ringlets, long and shining, round her face and throat. She was an orphan I learned, but had, like her cousin Elizabeth, a very handsome fortune, full thirty thousand pounds. She resided, when at home, in Sloane-street, Chelsea, where, with her maid, she boarded with a most respectable lady, who had formerly been her governess, but was now extremely well married to a gentleman in the city, who allowed her to receive her old pupil, on very handsome terms, as an inmate of their house, and take her to visit with them, as if she had been their sister.

Mrs. Littledale was very delicate with all her beauty, so could not take her place at table, after her second accouchement, for full six weeks, during which time her cousin Clara did every thing in her power to render the husband as comfortable as he possibly could be under such circumstances, whilst his wife, happy to hear that he never spent an evening out, and looked more contented than he did before, when her first child was born, continually expressed her thanks to her dear Clara for the great sacrifice she was making, in staying with her, during so dull a time, and being so kind to her dear George. I did not like this posture of affairs at all, nor the excited looks of the young lady, when she heard Mr. Littledale's rap at the street door. I observed, too, more than once, that a slight shade of rouge was added to the natural colour of her cheeks, when she went down to breakfast, after coming in for a moment to look upon her cousin Elizabeth, and report how she and the little-one had passed the preceding night; also that she dressed herself for the tête-a-tête dinners with Mr. Littledale, much more than was as I thought necessary; all her silks and muslins were brought out one after another in array against him, and I once raised the colour into her