not.

But it may be asked, is there nothing to disagree with, nothing to which you would object? Perhaps there is. But I sought it And if I had found such things, would not notice them here. In this paper, which is but a small offering on the shrine of love and gratitude, not a word of complaint shall be uttered, not a thought of disagreement breathed. Reluctantly I pass from the subject; and with one more extract, which is a fine touch of nature, because naturally told from nature, I must wish God's blessing to our author, and may he have many more such " Companions of his Solitude."

"It was a bright winter's day, and I sat upon a garden seat in a sheltered nook towards the south, having come out of my study to enjoy the warmth, like a fly that has left some tiny crevice to stretch his legs upon the unwontedly sunny pane in December, my little daughter (she is a very little thing about four years old) came running up to me, and when she had arrived at my knees, held up a straggling but pretty weed. Then, with great earnestness, and as if fresh from some controversy on the subject, she exclaimed, "Is this a weed, Papa, is this a weed?"

"Yes, a weed," I replied.

With a look of disappointment she moved off to the one she loved best amongst us; and asking the same question, received the

same answer.

"But it has flowers," the child replied.

"That does not signify; it is a weed," was the inexorable

answer.

Presently, after a moment's consideration, the child ran off again, and meeting the gardener just near my nook, though out of sight from where I sat, she coaxingly addressed him :

"Nicholas, dear, is this a weed ?"

"Yes, miss; they call it Shepherd's purse."

A pause ensued. I thought the child was now fairly silenced by authority, when all at once the little voice began again: "Will you plant it in my garden, Nicholas, dear; do plant it in my garden."

There was no resisting the anxious entreaty of the child, and man and child moved off to get him to plant the weed in one of those plots of ground which children walk about upon a good deal, and put branches of trees in, and grown up flowers, and then examine the roots, (a system as encouraging as other systems of education I could name) and which they call their gardens.

W

THE BARD TO COME.

OH, Mother Land, for aye the same,
Thou home of glory and of song,-
Thy circling waves shall guard thee long,
And spread afar dear England's name.

Long, long the banner of thy worth
Shall flutter wide in every breeze:
Thy vessels sail yet unknown seas,
And thy dominion fill the earth.

And far as England's fame shall fly,
Her power of song shall travel too;
The memory of her poets true
Shall widen through eternity.

High pillared on the throne of Time,
Brow-mantled by the laurel crown,
The bard, while kingdoms topple down,
Lives sovereign soul a priest sublime.
For him the sunbeams crown the height,
And wrap the fields in golden wreaths;
For him the seraph-phantom breathes,
And brings the morning out of night.

The power of song was born of God,
Long ere chaotic mists were stirred;
Song was the wisdom of the word
That wakened Light from her abode.
The tri-une thought divinely dreamed
The tri-une soul pervading Time,
The tri-une wisdom grown to prime,
And threefold nature is redeemed.
The little sunbeams deck the main

From one great sun the glory flies;
The vagrant circles round the skies,
And meet in one great sun again.

Fair England heard her wild waves roll,

The sunbeams woke the ocean muse; The rising spray was caught in dews, That falling bathed th' impulsive soul

Of slumbering song in morning light:

She wakened, trembling pulsed with joys, That rushed full-flowing through the voice, Even echoing-heard by distant night.

And many a son of brainful strength
Was gendered of her virgin womb;
Nor yet we know the bards to come,
Concealed in Time's immenser length.
Oh! wondrous thought, and yet we wist
The blissful dawn hath scarce begun,
There is a yet diviner son

(Whose spirit glimmers through the mist),

Than Chaucer of the fair, bold front-
Who met the early glance of morn-
Poetic infant newly born,

Immersed in life's baptismal font:

Than Spencer of the magic charm,
That held all fancy in his grasp,
Nor other mortal dared to clasp
The rich round ripeness of the psalm :

Than Shakespeare-like a God in part,-
He stood upon the hill of life,
And broad intent upon the strife,
Beheld the very under-heart:

Than Milton, who mid strife and stir,
Kang out sonorous organ chimes,
The guardian poet of the times
Of Puritanic Oliver:

His was the soul regenerate,

The angels crowned him "King of Song :"
He led them on, a conquering throng,

And all the fiends were subjugate:

Than Young, the poet of the night,
He made himself a sacrifice

To God, he soared beyond the skies,
And bathed amid the waving light:
Than Cowper, of the sunny soul,

Pure dweller amid Olney bowers,-
Unsinful brother of the flowers-
Oh, sweet sad bells, toll, gently toll!
Than melancholy Emily,

Or did the music only seem?
The notes were few and strong,-
He vanished in eternity:

-a dream:

Than Coleridge, of the subtle thought,
The poet-mystic, both combined;
He clomb transcendant height of mind,
The truth was vaster than the doubt:

Than Shelley, keen to sense of wrong,
He rushed to clasp the source of light,
He dared the eagle's boldest flight,
But sang the skylark's sweetest song :

* Melancholy Emily." In the year 1759, there came a poem, bearing the handwriting of one Emily, to the adjudicators of the Seatonian prize. It spoke of death; but another was thought to speak in bolder and finer tones, and it was returned. Who he was, what he was, whence he came, whither he went, we know not. There is something touching in this brief memorial,-a few lines tell it all the history of a life is compressed within a sentence. His fears, his hopes, his aspirations, his throbbings after bliss, his romantic schemes of happiness, his labours, his rambles, his melancholies, his disappointments, his loves are wholly unknown. So passes man, and the son of man! We have one expression of his heart it is original, pathetic, beautiful. His poem is all that we have; it is the hic jacet; it tells of some one, but of whom we cannot ken. Across the heavens came a star, and waned; among the students came a poet, who sang of sable death, and perished."-John W. Lester, Criticisms.

A wild erratic boy, the God

That brimmed his being he denied,—
The very song itself belied,
So pure divineness overflowed:

Than Keats, the muse's tenderest child,
Who brought from ancient classic ground,
A roving long-forgotten sound

So sweet, the angels were beguiled

To stay their own sweet songs of joy,
The echo tranced the sinless ear:

They called him "Brother!" wished him near,
Oh! how the spirits loved the boy!

Than Byron, like a sudden storm

That sweeps the main and flashes fire,
He dashed his hand across the lyre,

And backward shrank in fierce alarm,

An ever changeful surging tide,

Whose constant wrath no change assuaged,
Wild broil against himself be waged,

And man despised and God defied:

Than Wordsworth, sunshine-tinged the wreath,
That bound his brow with golden hue :
He pierced the depth and found the true
Inhaling God's immortal breath.

Conceived in Poesy's virgin womb,

All these were mighty sons of song,-
But they are units in the throng,
Nor yet we know the bards to come.

The veil is partly drawn aside,

And half is clear and half concealed,—
Diviner yet will be revealed,

When bridegroom shall be wed to bride.

We hear the mystic prelude now
Of that eternal bridal song;

The greatest, noblest in the throng
Hath bound the wreath around his brow.

The herald of the Deity,

He bids the yearning world prepare,
For that milennium drawing near,

For that evangele yet to be.

The cup hath well nigh overflowed,
But one shall yet avert our doom:
The stronger poet yet to come,
In form a Man, in soul a God.

For thee, my land, for ever blest,

For ever home of truth and song,

Oh, he shall burst the chain of wrong,

And perfect thee in heavenly rest.

WM. TIDD MATSON.

WHIBBLETON WIDGET

OUT FOR A HOLIDAY, WITH HIS CHARMING ROSA.

CHAPTER II.

Alas! the world is full of peril.

LONGFELLOW.

THOSE of our readers who are acquainted with the railway station at London Bridge, know that the terminus there is a complicated one, owing to the various branches of lines to Greenwich, Epsom, Tunbridge, Brighton, Dover, Hastings, &c., which all diverge from one centre. There are also two distinct ways of arriving at Eastbourne, one by the South-Eastern, via Tunbridge, and the other, the more direct route, by the London and South-Coast Railway.

When our "partie trois" arrived at the station they were rather late, as Robert Buggins had resisted several early attempts to rouse him, and had only been hurried off at last by the combined efforts of his sister (the blooming Rosa, whose eyes were sparkling and cheeks mantling in the fresh morning air with the pleasure of the adventure,) and the energetic appeals of our friend Whibby, who had purchased an especial green tie with ferocious ends for the occasion, and sported a light drab overcoat, which made him an universal object of admiration, not only to the cabmen who drove the party, but to the porters and general motely assembly at the station.

Said general assembly, however, had not, as far as the passengers were concerned at least, much time to spare for the contemplation of Widget's splendour-the bell was ringing violently-" Take your seats, ladies and gentlemen;" those pregnant words, were heard at every turn-old ladies ran against each other-railway men hastily wheeled their last trucks of portmanteaus and carpet bags wherever the crowd was thickest; the station doors were inexorably shut, just as some passengers arrived panting from round the corner (in consequence of which their execrations were not loud, as they had not breath enough for them, but deep), and it behoved our friends to be active in their movements.

The first care was for the luggage, which merely consisted of one portmanteau and a large carpet-bag, Rosa having been induced, after much entreaty, to give up a favourite idea she had formed of encumbering herself with a couple of petted bandboxes and a fragile parasol! This will surely prove, without