Of youth had past unclouded by---
While art essayed in vain to save,
Or smoothe his passage to the grave.
Whate'er his inward pangs might be,
He told not-mute, and meekly still,
He bowed him to Jehovah's will,
Nor murmured at the stern decree;
For gently falls the chastening rod
On him, whose hope is in his God:
For her too, who beside his bed

Still watched with fond maternal care,
For her he breathed the pious prayer-
The tear of love and pity shed.
Oft would he bid her try to rest,

And turn his pallid face away, Lest some unguarded look betray The pangs, nor sigh nor sound expressed. When torture racked his breast, 'twas known By sudden shivering starts alone: Yet would her searching glance espy The look of stifled agony

For what can 'scape a mother's eye?

She deemed in health she loved him more
Than ever mother loved before;
But oh! when thus in cold decay,
So placid, so resigned he lay,
And she beheld him waste away,
And marked that gentle tenderness
Which watched and wept for her distress:---
Then did her transient firmness melt
To tears of love, more deeply felt;
And dearer still he grew-and dearer-
E'en as the day of death drew nearer.
The very spirit of domestic love must
have watched over the young poet,
when he wrote what follows:
Noon came and fled-and evening grey

Cast o'er the room a sombre shade:
Alike to her were night and day-
Her eye was never turned away

From the low couch where he was laid. She could not weep-she could not pray, Her soul was dark-and with despair Devotion mingles not-the prayer Breathed hopelessly, was breathed in vain: Her all of being centred there,

And dragged her thoughts to earth again.

Her's was that bitterness of woe,

Which sighs or tears can never reach, Which mocks, the bounded powers of speech

A recklessness of all below

Of all around-above-but oneThe dying youth she gazed upon. So looks the mariner on the wave, Which onward rolls his opening grave;On battle fields, with slaughter red,

Where friend by friend has fought and bled, So looks the dying on the dead.

Her hopes, her love, her earthly bliss,

Her very soul was bound in his;

And now the fatal hour was nigh,
When all but life with him must die,
And what-when he had ceased to be,
Oh! what was life but misery?
A night with cheerless gloom o'ercast,
A maddening memory of the past;—
The desert of the joyless breast,
Death's apathy-without its rest.

Mute, motionless, as if he slept, His head upon her breast reclined; And yet, though horror coldly crept Through every vein, she never wept,

Calm and resolved, but not resigned. When Hope's last lingering ray was o'er, Despair itself her heart might steel, Through all that she had felt before

And all that she was now to feel.
Ha! why that wild convulsive start?
The agony has reached his heart;
The parting pang, that throbs no more,
Has withered life, and all is o'er.-
No! still he lives; th' unequal strife
Still nature bears, if that be life-
A closing conflict-soon to cease-
A prelude to eternal peace.

A moment as the fiery ball
Flashes, but darkens ere it fall;

A moment, waked from that deep trance,
His eye beamed forth, and in its glance
There was a fiery energy-

A lambent ray, life's last endeavour
To sparkle ere it fade for ever-
And summon all its strength-to die.
Still heavenly Hope's undying flame
Shone 'midst the wreck of nature's frame;
And through the mortal could she see
The germ of immortality,

He strove to speak-he gasped for breath-
Not all in vain though instant death
Had touched his heart; one faltering word

He spoke, and yet another ;-
(The rest were as a dying groan,
An indistinct and hollow moan :)
And all he said, and all she heard,

Was, "mother! dearest mother!"
Life could no more: he sighed-he ceased-
His head upon her bosom lay;-
She looked without a groan released,
The soul had passed away.

A smile was still upon his face,

A placid calmness on his brow, Which Death itself could not erase; These might have soothed her once, but

Now

'Tis eve-the sun's departing beam
Serenely sheds his purest gleam;
The liquid clouds of airy lightness,
Which tempered his meridian brightness,
Float graceful thro' the fragrant air,
And thousand hues reflected there,

In varied lustre shine;

Day, like a virgin, whose young bloom,
Lost love, and blighted hopes consume,
Is loveliest in decline.

It beams for all-yet only he,

Whose breast from pining care is free,
(If such, alas! on earth there be,)
Will gaze on that fair eastern sky,
With bounding heart and raptured eye.

We cannot resist quoting one more exquisite passage from this beautiful version of one the most beautiful stories told in Holy Writ. We do so chiefly, (not solely) on account of the singular felicity of the description

of our Saviour's personal appearance. It is the first time, we speak, so far as we know, without exaggeration, that words have been found capable of expressing what long ago the angelic pencil of Raphael dared and delighted to pourtray. The funeral procession is going on when our Lord appears→→→→ and says, to the widowed mother, 66 weep not."

"The mourner-speechless and amazed,
On that mysterious stranger gazed,
If young he were, 'twas only seen

From lines that told what once had been ;-
As if the wind of Time

Had smote him ers he reached his prime.
The bright rose on his cheek was faded,
His pale fair brow with sadness shaded-
Yet through the settled sorrow there

A conscious grandeur flash'd-which told
Unswayed by man, and uncontrolled,
Himself had deigned their lot to share,
And borne-because he willed to bear.
Whate'er his being or his birth,
His soul had never stooped to earth;
Nor mingled with the meaner race,
Who shared or swayed his dwelling place:
But high-mysterious-and unknown,
Held converse with itself alone:
And yet the look that could depress
Pride to its native nothingness;
And bid the specious boaster shun
The eye he dared not gaze upon,
Superior love did still reveal-
Not such as man for man may feel→
No-all was passionless and pure-
That godlike majesty of woe,
Which counts it glory to endure

And knows nor hope nor fear below;
Nor aught that still to earth can bind,
But love and pity for mankind.
And in his eye a radiance shone-

Oh! how shall mortal dare essay,
On whom no prophet's vest is thrown,
To paint that pure celestial ray?
Mercy, and tenderness, and love,

And all that finite sense can deem Of him who reigns enthroned above;

Light-such as blest Isaiah's dream, When to the awe-struck Prophet's eyes, God bade the star of Judah rise→→→ There heaven in living lustre glowedThere shone the Saviour-there the God."

The other poem is founded on a well known and most beautiful passage of Eusebius, which relates the ecclesiastical tradition concerning the events of St John the Apostle's visit to Ephesus, after he had been set free from the confinement of Patmos, in consequence of the death of Domitian, and the toleration extended to all the Christians

by Nerva, on his suceession to the throne. We believe there is no rea son to doubt the accuracy of this tradition; but if invention it be, surely it is one of the most touching and beautiful of inventions. The Apostle,

we are told, was one day engaged in a solemn ordination of ministers to serve in the church of Ephesus, when, looking round, his eye rested on, and was detained by the extraordinay love liness and apparent innocence of the countenance of a certain youth who stood in the midst of the congregation. Turning to the bishop, on whom he had just laid his hands, he exclaimed, "In the presence of the church, and in the sight of Christ, I commit this young man to your utmost diligence." The presbyter received the charge, and in obedience to it, admitted the youth into his own family, where he was baptized, instructed, and reared up to manhood with all manner of kind and christian superintendence. In process of time, however, he becomes acquainted with a set of dissolute youths, who make it their whole business to exercise upon him every instrument of temptation-and, at last, he falls. One degree of vicious indulgence succeeds to another; until, at length, as the ecclesiastical historian has finally said, "he, like a spirited and unbridled charger, galloping from theright path, and champing his reins, is hurried, by the very nobility of his soul, more deeply into the abyss." The end of his wicked course is, that he retires to Mount Taurus, with a number of the wild young men who had corrupted him, and, being elected their captain on account of his superior bravery, holds the whole region in terror by the boldness of his depreda tions.

A few years having elapsed, the old Apostle returns to Ephesus, and after transacting all public business of the church, turns suddenly round to the bishop, saying, "Now, O bishop, restore to me the deposit which Christ and I, in the sight of this people, committed to thy care." The bishop understands him not at first-but being asked in more explicit terms concerning the young man, rends his garments, and tells the story of his per-. version, as it had happened.

VOL. VIII.

2 A

The aged Apostle immediately inquired in what part of the mountain the young man lay with his band. Being provided with a guide, he penetrates the defiles of Taurus till he approaches the region infested by them. His guide then leaves him but John advances, having determined to see the captain of the band. The old man is captured by some of the robbers, and is soon carried into the presence of their chief. We shall give the result in the words of Eusebius himself.

"The leader, armed as he was, awaited his arrival. And when he recognized John advancing towards him, overpowered with shame, he betook himself to flight. But the apostle, forgetful of his age, eagerly pursued him, exclaiming, • Wherefore do you fly from me, oh my son! from your father, aged and unarmed? Pity me, oh my child, and fear me not: you still possess a hope of salvation. I will make atonement for you to Christ. Willingly would I endure death on your behalf, even as the Lord died for me. I will give my own life as a ransom for you: stop, and believe: Christ hath sent me.' The youth hearing these words, at first stood still, with his eyes fixed upon the ground: next he threw off his arms, and, trembling, burst into a good of tears. He then met the old man advancing, and with bitter sighs and la mentations implored his pardon, being, as it were, baptized a second time in his tears, only concealing his right hand. Then the apostle, pledging his faith, and swearing that he would obtain pardon for him from his Redeemer, having fallen on his knees and prayed, kissed the right hand of the young man as if it had been purified by repentance, and led him back to the church. Having besought God on his behalf with many prayers, and striving together by frequent fastings, and soothing his soul by many scriptural exhortations, the apostle, as they say, did not depart till he had restored him to the church, having afforded a signal example of sincere penitence, an illustrious instance of regeneration, and a trophy of a conspicuous resurrection."

Our readers will see at once what a fine field of poetical embellishment this narrative must have opened up to such a poet as Mr Dale; but in truth, here, as in the story of the widow of Nain, there is so much beauty in the simplicity of the original sketch, that we doubt, whether, after all, it was possible, that the effect should have been improved or strengthened by means of any poetical embellishment whatever. Much as we admire Mr D., we certainly can by no means compliment him on a judicious selection of subjects-but

that is a matter of very inferior consideration in regard to a writer of his standing. It is enough for us, and will be enough for our readers, to see that Mr D. possesses the strong elements of poetical power; and no fear but he will hereafter know better how and on what subjects to employ them. To speak in the language with which he himself is most familiar, the s and the are very subordinate affairs to the ri.

We have already quoted so much from the "Widow of Nain," that we must keep within bounds as to "The Outlaw of Taurus;" and yet we know not well what passages to select, for the whole piece flows on in a very equable strain of elegant ar

dour.

We shall give the description of St John himself, as he first appears in the temple of Diana in the midst of all the splendours of the heathen worship.

And now the festive pomp proceeds
But lo! amidst th' adoring train
Which Grandeur gilds, and Beauty leads;
Who circle that majestic fane,
One lonely pilgrim wends along
Unheeded by the busy throng;
He only breathes no lowly prayer,
And bends no glance of rapture there.
Robed in a simple pilgrim's vest
His arms are folded o'er his breast-
Wave o'er a wan and wasted brow,
Thin scattered locks of purest snow
Whence Time's soft touch hath swept away
Each trace of Passion's earlier sway;
And all that once was wont to move

Hath changed to that meek placid love
Which speaks a heart-a hope above.
But wherefore doth he shrink to bow
Where myriads plight the willing vow?
Say, whence his brow is wrapt in sadness?
When every cheek is flushed with gladness,
And why, when mingling choirs prolong

In Dian's praise the votive hymn-
Why turns he from that raptur'd song
With mien as sad-and eye as dim-
As if that bright exulting train

Were mourners o'er a hero's bier-
That melting lay—so soft—so dear—
Were but a deep funereal strain.
It is not that he proudly deems

His breast from earth's emotions free ;
Not his such cold unfeeling dreams,
No rigid heartless stoic he.-
No lofty philosophic lore
Hath led him to contemn mankind;
And lured him vainly to explore

The mazes of th' Eternal Mind ;And learn-what nature taught beforeThat God is wise, and mortals blind. The vaunting sophist, weak as proud, May turn disdainful from the crowd,

And smile in selfish scorn to see
Their blindness and their misery-
More gently he hath learnt to scan
The errors of his fellow-man;
His tears were early taught to flow,
His heart to bleed for others' woe;
When not a sigh, or murmuring groan
Had spoke the pressure of his own.
And ask ye whence that ray of Heaven,
No high philosophy could teach--
No bard's enraptured visions reach-
That noble generous love was given ?
O gaze upon his wasted cheek,

His pensive brow, and lowly mien ;
These lineaments too well bespeak
The persecuted Nazarene.

And such he was! the tear that steals
Unmarked-his secret soul reveals;
He turns but from that idle shrine
To seek a Saviour more Divine;
And breathe the meek imploring prayer,
For those who kneel deluded there.

But know-though driven perchance to roam
Without a refuge or a home-
To meet the sneer of cold disdain-
To pine in peril or in pain-

To share the base marauder's doom-
Or sink unpitied and forgot,
And moulder in a nameless tomb-

Thrice blessed is the Christian's lot!
In darkest shame-in deadliest ill
Jehovah is his solace still;

And hope to cheer his path is given,
While peace and love from mortals driven
-Await him in his destined heaven.
And seems it strange, when Time hath shed
A hundred winters o'er his head;
When from his eye the fire hath fled-
His limbs are weak and withered-
Why, bent with sorrows and with age,
He yet pursues his pilgrimage?
Ah! man is ever doomed to roam,

Till Peace, that flies a world unblest,
And rarely dwells in human breast,
Shall soothe him in his last long home.
On that pale cheek, and patient brow
Dejection deep is lowering now-
But say, what earthly fears controul,
What woes can wring a saintly soul?.
"Tis not the frown of regal hate,

This hath he borne, and still could bear'Tis not the impending stroke of Fate;

A Christian knows no terrors there-
Though lone he seems-and desolate,

"Tis not despondence or despair-”
Yes-guilt may stain our best estate-
But grief like his might angels share.
A work of mercy leads him on
To seek and save a wandering son;

We shall conclude with part of the energetic address of the same personage, at the close of this poem. It is to be understood, that the outlaw has already sealed his repentance, and re

ceived, at the hands of the apostle, the most precious of its earthly rewards, in the shape of the heroine of the poem, by name, Irene. St John speaks

"But what are earth's vain fleeting charms To that bright blest eternity

Which waits-O favoured maid-for thee?
The very thought my bosom warms,
As when in rocky Patmos lone

I communed with the Holiest One,
And o'er my head dread thunders broke,
And thus the viewless seraph spoke-
• Mortal! from earth awake! arise!
And view the secrets of the skies.'
Hearken, my children--and behold
The glories of the latter day;
When heaven its portals shall unfold,

And earth and skies shall pass away.
It is the Eternal Sire's decree,
That thus the final hour should be-
Pomp-glory-grandeur shall decay,
But his high word endure for aye.

One foot on earth, and one on sea,

A mighty Angel towers to heaven; Before his glance the mountains flee;

Beneath his tread the depths are riven
Wreathed radiant round his brows divine
The bright hues of the rainbow shine;
His aspect-like the broad red glare
Of the fierce sun's meridian ray,
Beams forth intolerable day-
The glory of the Lord is there.
Loud as the maddening lion's roar,
Or as the wild surge beats the shore,
He speaks-blue lightnings rend the sky,
And heaven in thunder gives reply.
Ne'er be those sounds, in mystery sealed,
To human ear on earth revealed.
And when that fearful sign was given,
He raised his dread right hand to heaven,
And thus the oath he swore-
Ye spacious skies, thou rooted earth,
By Him who called you into birth
Your destined date is o'er ;

I swear by Him, whose sovereign sway,
The bright angelic hosts obey,
By Him who died, and lives for aye,

That time shall be no more."
Earth trembled at the sound, but O
What shrieks of wailing and of woe,
What frantic yells of wild despair,
Tumultuous rend the troubled air;
In vain, the day of grace is o'er,
And love and pity plead no more.
Mark, where the rock-hewn cavern breaks,
And to his doom th' Oppressor wakes;
Mark, where the fear-struck Despot now
Dashes the diadem from his brow;
Beneath his foot the firm earth rends;
The heavens are darkening o'er him;
The Judge the Sovereign Judge descends
And who may stand before him?