Clem. Thou dost accuse Thy state too harshly; it may give some room, Ion. Not for me; My pomp must be most lonesome, far removed And the attendants who may throng around me Chem. O unkind! And shall we never see each other? have asked that dreadful question of the hills, Clem. Bless thee for that name! Pray, call me so again; thy words sound strangely, Or if stern fate compel thee to deny, Kill me at once! Ion. No; thou must live, my fair one; As thine hath been, till breezy sorrow comes Hardly at first, at length will bring repose Clem. O, I do! I do! Ion. If, for thy brother's and thy father's sake, and if another, A happier - no, I cannot bid thee love Another! I did think I could have said it, Clem. Thou art my own, then, still? Ion. I am thine own! thus let me clasp thee nearer; O, joy too thrilling and too short! Mr. Moir is a physician, and one of the principal poetical contributors to Blackwood's Magazine, under the signature of Delta. He has published one or two volumes of poems, and some prose works. He was born about the beginning of the present century. CASA WAPPY. [Casa Wappy was the self-conferred pet name of an infant son of the poet, who died after a very brief illness.] AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, Our fond, dear boy! The realms where sorrow dare not come, Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Casa Wappy! Despair was in our last farewell, Tears of our anguish may not tell, Words may not paint our grief for thee, Of our unfathomed agony, Casa Wappy! Thou wert a vision of delight, To bless us given ; Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven; So dear to us thou wert, thou art Casa Wappy! Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, Sunrise and night alone were thine, This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that Time should see Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy! Do what I may, go where I will, There dost thou glide before me still, Methinks thou smil'st before me now, The hair thrown back from thy full brow, I see thine eyes' deep violet light, The nursery shows thy pictured wall, Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball; A corner holds thy empty chair, But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy! Even to the last, thy very word Was sweet as sweetest song of bird, In outward beauty undecayed, Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, And like the rainbow thou didst fade, Casa Wappy! We mourn for thee when blind, blank night We pine for thee when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, Are changed we saw the world through thee, Casa Wappy! And though, perchance, a smile may gleam, It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair; Casa Wappy! Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, Down to the appointed house below, But now the green leaves of the tree, Return- but with them bring not thee, Casa Wappy! THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY. His Mr. Macaulay is a son of one of the leading men in the movement which resulted in the abolition of the slave trade in England. He was, for some years, a member of Parliament for Edinburgh, in which position he held a distinguished place as a speaker. He is a man of great erudition, in almost every department of knowledge. Critical and Historical Essays, written originally for the Edinburgh Review, and since published in three volumes, as well as his History of England, have enjoyed great popularity. He has also a high reputation as a poet, his Lays of Ancient Rome holding a good rank among other poems of the day. REVIEW OF BUNYAN. THE "Pilgrim's Progress," that wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favor of the "Pilgrim's Progress." That work was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics, and the most bigoted of tories. In the wildest parts of Scotland, the |