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Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,

Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour,

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I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.

Better than all measures

Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,

With music sweet as love, which overflows her Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

bower;

Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,

Scattering unbeholden

Its aerial hue

Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from

the view.

Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,

By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives

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Just now the dew, which sometimes on the buds Is wont to swell like round and orient pearls,

Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy- Stands trembling in each pretty floweret's eye,

winced thieves.

Like tears that do their own disgrace bewail.

ENGLAND AND AMERICA,

A HINT TO THE WISE.

ENGLAND'S the country, as we know,
Where follies naturally grow;
Where without culture they arise,
And tow'r above the common size.

CHURCHILL.

WE HAVE, MORE THAN ONCE, echoed the sentiment of the eminent medical practitioner, who declares that mankind are ALL mad upon some one point or other. There can be no doubt about it. Nor does the purely artificial butterfly life we live afford us any reason to wonder at people's erratic tendency to quit the natural path. They turn their backs upon nature, and must have " fresh excitement daily. A fine field is now before them!

some

We have been greatly pleased to notice the effect produced on the sensible portion of the public, by the getting up of the recent "Monster Petition on American Slavery," by the well-meaning, but sadly, misguided women of England. It is condemned on all hands, as being calculated to do infinitely more harm than good. And what sensible person can doubt it? It requires no argument; it is so self-evident. Such notoriety lessens respect for the female character.

As for the marvellous exertions put forth by Mrs. Harriet Beecher STOWE, on behalf of the slaves in America-nothing too laudatory can be said of her. Truth, sincerity, righteous zeal, plainness of speech, and an honest cause-have induced her to write a volume of "Facts," that must in due time benefit those for whom she struggles so bravely. The woman has become an idol here, and she deserves such homage. May God bless the work of her hands!

This leads us to the object of our present remarks-which is, to try and awaken in the hearts of our excellent, kind-hearted Englishwomen, a desire to come forth in behalf of THEIR OWN suffering sex, here.* In this labor of love, would we had ten thousand Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowes ! But alas! with all the many sad scenes around us of poverty, sickness, distress, prostitution, sin, sorrow, and human wretchedness; no public champion appears for them!

No strangers can our nobility and gentry be, to what we speak of. They know it all but too well; yet, like the Priest and

Some women are very fond of scribbling, and can handle their pen well. But their forte lies in fiction, and their brain has to be racked for matter. Nature deals not in fiction, but pleases by the perpetual freshness of her facts. No effort of the mind is wanted here. The pen writes without any effort.-ED. K. J.

the Levite, they "pass by on the other side." If their names can be printed in a newspaper, or otherwise publicly proclaimedthen, we admit, they will contribute something from their store-but this is not "charity."

The truth is, all cases of real suffering are passed by. The really deserving seldo complain. They sorrow in silence-starvedie. Nobody heeds the tolling bell that closes upon their earthly career. They depart, uncared for. True charity would search for such cases as these. They are easily found their number legion.

But no! If an artful man or woman pre

tend to drown themselves, and are rescuedfor such, money flows in from every quarter. The magistrates are continually remonstrating with the public for their ill-judged sympathy in similar cases; but all to no avail. *

As for the poor milliners and dress-makers of London, and their sorrows-all traceable to the worse than thoughtlessness of the nobility and gentry; of them, we could write volumes. But as the Press, collectively, has recently es poused their cause, and tried hard to shame the wealthy and unfeeling tyrants who oppress them, we will not enlarge upon this. The streets, after dusk, speak volumes of the state of society. The poor shivering wretches (from twelve years old and upwards) who wander there, are doomed to inevitable destruction. As we have before said, a woman who has once fallen-no matter under what extenuating circumstances

from the path of virtue, is known by her own sex no more for ever. No pity, no relief, no giving of alms-no attempt to reclaim. Infamy is her portion here; and, so far as her own sex are concerned, inevitable destruction hereafter! Not a hand would be put forth to save a hair of her head. "Let her die !"

Our kindly-disposed women-thank God we have many such-err in their notions of charity. They arm themselves with halfpenny and penny tracts, and rashly enter places the most loathsome, to "read" to people who are unable to understand what they hear. Starving, too, are these poor creatures for the most part; and if they listen, it is simply with the view of getting a parting penny when their visitor withdraws. This is a self sacrifice at once dangerous to the visitor, and far worse than useless to the persons

There is a great deal of "morbid sympathy going on at the west-end of London, where beggars of all sorts haunt the streets. Women with petitions, get up all sorts of artful tales; and work upon the feelings of private people to a considerable tune. It is a complete "matter of business," and a very thriving one too. But as the whole tribe are impostors-known to be so, one cannot but regret the want of judgment shown in giving them money.-ED. K. J.

This is

visited. In point of fact, it makes them hate what you wish them to love. "morbid sympathy."

England is a wealthy country. There is money enough in it to regenerate the length and breadth of the land, and to make all sorrowful hearts happy. But there is no disposition towards this.

Everybody is selfish, cold, and indifferent. The world seems to be turned topsy-turvy. If a man be convicted on the clearest evidence of murdering his wife--or the wife her husband, the most strenuous efforts now-adays are made to rescue them from punishment. Nay, in the very face of the judges, jurymen will give verdicts quite against the evidence adduced. In the late case of the villain Kirwan, who murdered his poor wife, the morbid sympathy evinced to prove him "innocent" almost exceeds the power of belief. This ought not to be. The man was a fiend, and yet not executed! Elizabeth Vickers, too, tried for murdering her master at Brixton,-morbid sympathy has found HER "not guilty!" She gets all his money too!! With the example of Mrs. Harriet Beecher STOWE before them, let our fair country. women arise and exert themselves. Charity begins at home." We need not wander far away for a theme. England's "cabins hold many slaves"-already but too well acquainted with "Uncle Tom." Great as may be the horrors of slavery in Americaand we shudder to read of them-yet are there equally horrible cases of slavery here. They may differ in kind, it is true; but they differ nothing in intensity.

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English slavery is an expression little used; but a well-compiled work under that very title, would form a volume far exceeding in size that of "Uncle Tom's Cabin,' and be readily acknowledged as a national blessing.

If only one billionth part of the money lavished daily on silly tom-fooleries, which perish with the using, were set aside for this good work,-what a happy nation we should be whilst our women-God bless them! would be worshipped and held in everlasting remembrance.

EXCELLENCE OF FORGIVENESS.

Nothing is more moving to a man than the spectacle of reconciliation. Our weaknesses are thus indemnified and are not too costly-being the price we pay for the blessing of forgiveness. The archangel, who has never felt anger, has reason to envy the man who subdues it. When thou forgivest, the man that hast pierced thy heart stands to thee in the relation of the sea-worm that perforates the shell of the muscle, which straightway closes the wound with a pearl.

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I

And

love to wander through the vale,
When merry warblers sweetly sing;
pretty ring-doves tell a tale
And when at eve I listen long,
Of joys that bloom with lovely Spring;

Methinks I hear, in that lov'd song,
To Philomel's enchanting strain,
"Spring, gentle Spring, is come again."
I love the Spring; a rich perfume,

Is mingled with the cheering breeze;
The fields their brightest garb resume,
And beauty clothes the forest trees.
The Nect'rine, Peach, and Almond bloom,
May still be seen in Nature's train;
And buzzing bees dispel the gloom,
By humming "Spring is come again ! "
I love to roam at dawn of day,

To see the sun rise o'er the hill;
Where dew-drops glisten on the spray,
And softly flows the murmuring rill.
Then, whilst I listen with delight

To lowing herds, o'er hill and plain,
The merry Cuckoo, in its flight,

Sings "Lovely Spring is come again!"
I love the Spring-the Lark's soft lay
Awakens thoughts of happiness;
And by the stream where sunbeams play,
Are pleasures words can ne'er express.
Oh, who can fail to love and prize

The countless joys we thus obtain! Hark! every voice in Nature cries,"SPRING, LOVELY SPRING, IS COME AGAIN!

"

COUNTRY PLEASURES & COUNTRY DANGERS.

MY DEAR SIR,-It's all very well of you to write so sweetly about the country, and to invite us young city fellows, and west-enders, down to sip the morning dew "just to give us an appetite." You talk, too, about walks in the fields, fair companions, visits to farmhouses, &c.,-enough to turn one's head!

But while you thus write-hear how another annotates by way of caution. He

says:

Yours,

"There's a world of buxom beauty, young I do? I want to love the country, but fear fellows, flourishing in the shades of the to risk the danger that lurks among the farmcountry. Aye, marry is there!' Above houses. Will you kindly give me a hint ? all things, avoid farm-houses. Farm-houses are dangerous places. As you are thinking only of sheep or of curds, you may be suddenly shot through by a pair of bright eyes, and melted away in a bewitching smile that you never dreamt of till the mischief was done.

pass

"In towns, and theatres, and thronged assemblies of the rich and titled fair, you are on your guard; you know what you are exposed to, and put on your breast-plate, and through the most deadly onslaught of beauty --safe and sound. But in those sylvan retreats, dreaming of nightingales, and hearing only the lowing of oxen, you are taken by surprise. Out steps a fair creature, crosses a glade, leaps a stile; you start, you stand by, lost in wonder and silent admiration. You take out your tablets to write a sonnet on the return of the nymphs and dryads to earth, when up comes John Tomkins, and says, 'It's only the farmer's daughter!'

"What! have farmers such daughters nowa-days?'

TYRO. [Your question is an odd one; and had you lived in the country so long as we have done, you needed not to have asked it. Come down, Sir, and get "used" to the sight of these lovely faces. What would the country be without them? Never mind the "mysterious magic" lurking beneath a witching smile. If, after beholding it once, you should require our aid-you will not-we will then gladly assist you.]

POETS AND VERSIFIERS.

ALL men, women, and children, are manifestly poets-except those who write verses. But why that exception? Because they alone make no use of their minds.

Versifiers--and we speak but of them-are the sole living creatures that are not also creators. The inferior animals, as we are pleased to call them, and as indeed in some respects they are, modify matter much in their imaginations. Rode ye never a horse by night through a forest? That most poetical of quadrupeds sees a spirit in every stump; else why by such sudden start should he throw his master over his ears?

"Yes: I tell you they have such daughters -those farm-houses are dangerous places. Let no man with a poetical imaginationwhich is but another name for a very tindery heart, flatter himself with fancies of the calm The blackbird on the tip-top of that pinedelights of the country; with the serious idea tent is a poet, else never could his yellow bill of sitting with the farmer in his old-fashioned so salute with rapturous orisons the re-ascendchimney corner, and hearing him talk of corn ing sun, as he flings over the woods a lustre and mutton; of joining him in the pensive plea- again gorgeous from the sea. And what sures of a pipe, and brown jug of October; induces those stock-doves, think ye, to fill of listening to the gossip of the comfortable the heart of the grove with soft, deep, low, farmer's wife; of the parson and his family, lonely, far-away, mournful, yet happyof his sermons and his tenth pig. Over a fragrant cup of young hyson, or whilst you are lapt in the delicious luxuries of custards and whipt creams, in walks a fair vision of wondrous witchery; and. with a curtsey and smile of most winning and mysterious magic, takes her seat just opposite. It is the far mer's daughter! A lovely girl of eighteen. Fair as the lily, fresh as May-dew, rosy as the rose itself; graceful as the peacock perched on the pales there by the window; sweet as a posy of violets and "clove gillivers;" modest as early morning, and amiable as the imagination of Desdemona or Gertrude of Wyoming.

"You are lost! It's all over with you. I wouldn't give an empty filbert or a frog-bitten strawberry for your peace of mind, if that glittering creature be not as pitiful as she is fair. And that comes of going into the country, out of the way of vanity and temptation; and fancying farm-houses only nice old-fashioned places of old-fashioned contentment.-Young fellows! again I say-beware!" Now, Mr. Editor, what can I-what shall

thunder? What, but love and joy, and delight and desire? In one word, poetry. Poetry, which confines the universe to that wedded pair, within the sanctuary of the pillared shade impervious to meridian sunbeams, and brightens and softens into splendor and into snow divine the plumage beautifying the creatures in their bliss, as breast to breast they crood-en-doo on their shallow nest.

Thus all men, women, and children, birds, beasts, and fishes, are poets,-except versifiers, Oysters are poets. Nobody will deny that, whoever in the neighborhood of Preston-pans has beheld them passionately gaping, on their native bed, for the flow of the tide coming again to awaken all their energies from the wide Atlantic. Nor less poetical are snails. See them in the dewy stillness of eve, as they salute the crescent Dian; with horns humbler indeed, but no less pointed than her own. The beetle, against the traveller borne in heedless hum," if we knew all his feelings in that soliloquy, might safely be pronounced a Wordsworth.

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Thus are we all poets, high and low,

except versifiers. They, poor creatures, are a peculiar people, impotent of good works. Ears have they, but they hear not,-eyes have they, but they will not see. Nay, naturalists assert that they have brains and spinal marrow; also, organs of speech. Yet, with all that organisation, they have but little feeling, and no thought; and by a feeble and monotonous fizz, are you made aware, in the twilight, of the useless existence of the obscure ephemerals!

These remarks are intended more particularly for the eye of the gentleman alluded to in our first article (see page 193). Versifiers, he will see, are mere gingling jobbers, not poets. We entreat him to mark well the difference between talking, rhyming, and feeling.

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Spring is coming, Spring is coming!
With her sunshine and her shower;
Heaven is ringing with the singing
Of the birds in brake and bower.
Buds are filling, leaves are swelling,
Flower on field, and bloom on tree,
O'er the earth, and air, and ocean,
Nature holds her jubilee.

Soft, then, stealing, comes a feeling
O'er my bosom tenderly,
Sweet I ponder as I wander,
For my musings are of THEE!

Spring is coming, Spring is coming!
With her mornings fresh and light;
With her noon of chequer'd glory,
Sky of blue and clouds of white.
Calm, grey nightfalls, when the light falls
From the star-bespangled sky,
While the splendor, pale and tender,
Of the young moon gleams on high.
Still at morn, and noon, and even,
Spring is full of joy for me;
For I ponder as I wander,
And my musings are of THEE!

Dublin University Magazine.

THE BLOOD OF ANIMALS.

IN A VERY INTERESTING LECTURE recently delivered by BRANSBY COOPER, before the "Royal College of Surgeons," the subject of "Animal grafting"-a pet crotchet of the immortal JoHN HUNTER, was introduced, with the following curious illustrations.

John Hunter, said the lecturer, more this fluid than any physiologist who had clearly recognised the great importance of gone before him. His views with respect to the importance of the blood to the animal economy, led him to the belief that the blood was endowed with a life of its own, more or less independent of the vitality of the animal in which it circulated. The following experiments seemed to have been instituted with the view of establishing the fact, that the blood of a living animal could, even under the artificial stimulus induced by the introduction of the part of another animal into itself-by ingrafting, nourish and support it, so as to convert it into a part of itself. Hunter transplanted a human tooth to the comb of a cock, where it not only became fixed, but actually became part of the organic structure of the cock's comb; he proved this by injecting the cock's head, and, on dissection (as the preparation on the table illustrated), the blood-vessels filled with the coloring matter of the injection were traced into the capillaries of the living membrane of the cavity of the tooth.

The most striking instance of this incorporation of a foreign organic body with a living tissue, was shewn by the learned orator in another preparation made by the immortal Hunter, in which the spur of a cock had been removed from its leg and transplanted to its comb, where it not only continued to grow, but had acquired a far greater size than the spur ever acquired in its natural situation. The result of this experiment involved a very interesting physiological inquiry-how the capillaries, which were destined by nature merely to furnish blood fitted for the elaboration of the tissues of the comb, should, under the stimulus of necessity, to use Hunter's own expression, be rendered competent to eliminate the horny matter of the spur, even to the extent of an hypertrophied condition.

The orator then took an elaborate review of the digestive organs of various animals; and found that, in certain instances, they were capable of becoming modified to meet contingencies to which an animal might be exposed. By this change the animal_might be rendered capable of existing and even thriving on a kind of food entirely of an opposite character to that originally intended by nature for its support and nourishment;

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