Atua, or something incomprehensible; the author of good and evil; the divinity who protects them in danger, or destroys them by disease. A man who has arrived at a certain stage of incurable illness, is under the influence of the Atua; who has taken possession of him, and who, in the shape of a lizard, is devouring his intestines; after which no buman assistance or comfort can be given to the sufferer, and he is carried out of the village, and left to die. He who has had his hair cut is in the immediate charge of the Atua; he is removed from the contact and society of his family and his tribe; he dare not touch his food himself; it is put into his mouth by another person; nor can he for some days resume his accustomed occupations, or associate with his fellow men. An elderly female, or kind of priestess, of the tribe of any warrior, who is going to fight, abstains from food for two days, and on the third, when purified and influenced by the Atua, after various ceremonies, pronounees an incantation for the success and safety of him whom she is about to send forth to battle. But the attributes of the Atua, are so vague, and his power and protection so undefined, and there is moreover such a want of unanimity among the people themselves in many things relating to him, that it is quite impossible to discover any thing like system in their theology.

"Their general food is the koomera, or sweet potatoe; the root of the fern, roasted and pounded; the indigenous taro, which is very sweet; the common potatoe; the cabbage plant; and fish, which they

take in great abundance. They dry their fish in the sun without salt, and it continues good for many months. They use an immense quantity or cockles; and though they sometimes eat pork, it is only on great occasions: they generally reserve it to barter with the Europeans. The pigs run wild in the woods, and are caught with much difficulty and with the assistance of dogs, which themselves are sometimes eaten, and are considered a great delicacy. Dogs and rats are the only native quadru peds of the island; the former are like our fox in shape, but variable in the colour; and the latter are so much smaller than the European rat, that a chief expressed a wish for an importation of some from England to improve the breed, and thereby give him a more bountiful meal. The taro plant, which has been imported from Otaheite, is cultivated by a few natives with much success. Their appetites are immense; and all their food is cooked in one and the same manner, namely, in hot stones covered over with leaves and earth, so as to form a kind of oven; and, certainly, their vegetables and cockles are particularly good when dressed in this way. They were very fond of our biscuit; and though it was literally so full of vermin that none of us could eat it, the tribes in the neighbourhood of the ship very eagerly bartered for it their potatoes, and the other esculent plants introduced into the island by Captain Cook. Reckless, however, of the future, they had soon disposed of their little stock, and they afterwards lived in comparitive misery."

I SAT last Sunday evening, From sun-set even till night, At the open casement, watching The day's departing light. Such hours to me are holy, Holier than tongue can tellThey fall on my heart like dew

On the drooping heather bell. The sun had shone bright all dayHis setting was brighter still; But there sprang up a lovely air

As he dropt down the western hill. The fields and lancs were swarming With holy-day folks in their best ; Released from their six days' cares, By the seventh day's peace and rest. I heard the light-hearted laugh,

The trampling of many feet; I saw them go merrily by,

And to me the sight was sweet.

There's a sacred, soothing sweetness,
A pervading spirit of bliss,
Peculiar from all other times,
In a Sabbath eve like this.

Methinks, though I knew not the day,
Nor beheld those glad faces, yet all
Would tell me that nature was keeping
Some solemn festival.

The steer and the steed, in their pastures,
Lie down with a look of peace,

As if they knew 'twas commanded,

That this day their labours should cease. The lark's vesper song is more thrilling, As he mounts to bid Heaven good night; The brook "sings" a quieter "tune;" The sun sets in lovelier light. The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, Are tinged with more exquisite hues; More odorous incense from out them Steams up with the evening dews. So I sat last Sunday evening, Musing on all these things, With that quiet gladness of spirit, No thought of this world brings. I watch'd the departing glory

Till its last red streak grew pale, And Earth and Heaven were woven In Twilight's dusky veil.

Then the lark dropt down to his mate,
By her nest on the dewy ground ;
And the stir of human life

Died away to a distant sound.

All sounds died away-The light laugh,
The far footstep, the merry call,
To such stillness, the pulse of one's heart
Might have echo'd a rose leaf's fall.
And, by little and little, the darkness
Waved wider its sable wings,
Till the nearest objects, and largest,

Became shapeless, confused things,
And, at last, all was dark-Then I felt

A cold sadness steal over my heart, And I said to myself, “Such is life

So its hopes and its pleasures depart." And when night comes, the dark night of age, What remaineth beneath the sun, Of all that was lovely and loved,

Of all we have learnt and done? When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear To sweet music grows dull and cold, And the fancy burns low, and the heartOh, Heaven! can the heart grow old? Then, what remaineth of life,

But the lees with bitterness fraught?

What then-But I check'd as it rose,

And rebuked that weak, wicked thought.
And I lifted mine eyes up, and, lo!
An answer was written on high,
By the finger of God himself,

In the depths of the dark blue sky.
There appear'd a sign in the east ;
A bright, beautiful, fixed star,
And I look'd on its steady light

Till the evil thoughts fled afar.
And the lesser lights of Heaven
Shone out, with their pale soft rays,
Like the calm, unearthly comforts
Of a good man's latter days.
And there came up a sweet perfume
From the unseen flowers below,
Like the savour of virtuous deeds,

Of deeds done long ago.

Like the mem'ry of well-spent time,
Of things that were holy and dear,
Of friends, "departed this life

In the Lord's faith and fear."

So the burthen of darkness was taken From my soul, and my heart felt light, And I laid me down to slumber

With peaceful thoughts that night.

Alas! I am an Orphan Boy,

With naught on earth to cheer my heart; No father's love, no mother's joy. Nor kin nor kind to take my part. My lodging is the cold, cold ground, I eat the bread of charity;

And when the kiss of love goes round,

There is no kiss, alas, for me.

Yet once I had a father dear,

A mother too, I wont to prize;
With ready hand to wipe the tear,
If chanc'd the transient tear to rise.
But cause of tears was rarely found,

For all my heart was youthful glee,
And when the kiss of love went round,
How sweet a kiss there was for me.
But, ah! there came a war they say;
What is a war?-I cannot tell :
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In truth it was a prettty sound

I thought, nor could I thence foresee, That when the kiss of love went round, There soon should be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,
And sword as bright as bright could be,
And feathers that so gaily look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound,
Alas, I thought it fine to see-
Nor dreamt, that when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

At length the bell again did ring,-
There was a victory they said;
'Twas what my father said he'd bring,
But, ah! it brought my father dead.
My mother shriek'd, her heart was woe,
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee ;-
O God! that you may never know,

How wild a kiss she gave to me!
But once again, but once again,
These lips a mother's kisses felt;
That once again,-that once again,

The tale a heart of stone would melt. 'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,

(O God! O God! that sight to see), "My child, my child," she feebly said, And gave a parting kiss to me.

So now I am an Orphan Boy,

With nought below my heart to cheer; No mother's love, no father's joy,

Nor kin nor kind to wipe the tear.
My lodging is the cold, cold ground,
I eat the bread of charity;
And when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss, alas, for me.

tion of ours?"-"Why, to tell the truth, Colonel," with affected embarrassment, "I left the because some of the mess spoons were found in my kit; and you know that would not do in one of the crack regiments, Colonel! I chose the Thirty-first because I had a brother in the Thirty-second, and I wanted to be near him." He despaired of advancement after the termination of the war, and in his reply to a friend who asked him what rank he held :-" Why, I have been thirteen years an Assistant-Surgeon, and with the blessing of God-that is, if I live and behave myself, I shall be one

We feel some

for thirteen years more." degree of pleasure in observing by the notice of his death that this prophecy had been falsified, and that he had been promoted to the rank of full surgeon. Mr. Quill died young; he must have been under forty years of age. Of him might be truly said that he possessed,

Spirits o'erflowing-wit that did ne'er offend: He gain'd no enemy, and he lost no friend. And the tear of many a veteran will fall when he shall hear that Maurice Quill is no

more.

The Siege of Valencia; a dramatic poem. The Last Constantine; with other poems. By Mrs. Hemans. 8vo.

It is with very sincere pleasure that we notice the present publication, from the pen of a lady by whose beautiful compositions our own pages have been frequently enriched. Amongst all the productions of Mrs. Hemans's muse, "The Seige of Valencia" will, we feel persuaded, rank the highest. The diction throughout is sustained and highly poetical; and the moral feeling which pervades the poem, noble and elevated. "The Last Constantine" displays the triumph of the Mahometan arms over the remnant of Byzantian glory. Well adapted as this subject is for poetical embellishment, Mrs. Hemans has treated it with spirit, and given us a very attractive poem; but in labouring perhaps at higher finishing, she has in some measure abridged the freedom of her muse. The stanza of Spenser perhaps was, as it generally is from its difficult construction, one cause of this. Highly elegant and chaste, this poem. may not be so much a favourite with general readers as "The Siege of Valencia," but it will have admirers among the more discriminating, who can duly appreciate its merits. There is something also indistinct and diffuse in the events and action of the poem, but it abounds with passages that will sustain the reputation of its authoress. Several of the smaller pieces have, as we have mentioned, adorned the New Monthly Magazine; but to these a few

more minor poems are added, of singular beauty. Where so many delightful passages strike the eye, it is difficult to make a selection. The following simple ballad, from "The Siege of Valencia," may serve to give a very pleasing idea Mrs.H.'s powers, to those who are not acquainted with her writings:

BALLAD.

"Why is the Spanish maiden's grave
So far from her own bright land?
The sunny flowers that o'er it wave
Were sown by no kindred hand.
"Tis not the orange-bough that sends
Its breath on the sultry air,
'Tis not the myrtie-stem that bends

To the breeze of evening there!
"But the Rose of Sharon's eastern bloom
By the silent dwelling fades,
And none but strangers pass the tomb

Which the Palm of Judah shades.
"The lowly Cross, with flowers o'ergrown.
Marks well that place of rest;

But who hath graved, on its mossy stone,
A sword, a helm, a crest?
"These are the trophies of a chief,
A lord of the axe and spear!
-Some blossom pluck'd, some faded leaf,
Should grace a maiden's bier!
"Scorn not her tomb-deny not her
The honours of the brave!
O'er that forsaken sepulchre

Banner and plume might wave.
"She bound the steel, in battle tried,
Her fearless heart above,

And stood with brave men, side by side,
In strength and faith of love!
"That strength prevail'd-that faith was bless'd
True was the javelin thrown,
Yet pierced it not her warrior's breast,
She met it with her own!