No rumor has come back of good or ill, The sense of being, and involve him quite By fleshly cares polluted and unmeet Illusive aspirations! daring hope! Vain desire! Worm that I am, who told me I should know More than is needful, or hereafter dive Into the counsel of the God of worlds? Or ever, in the cycle unconceived Beyond the narrow sphere, by Him assigned Denuded of their love! Where are ye gone, Equal illusion? Father, whose strong mind That smiled upon my budding thoughts most dear! C. C. COLTON, THE author of "Lacon," was educated at Cambridge, where he obtained a fellowship. He entered the established church, and though he held the vicarage of Kew with Petersham, in Surrey, he was a well-known frequenter of the gaming-table; and, suddenly disappearing from his usual haunts in the metropolis, about the time of a murder that attracted much attention, it was suspected he had fallen by the hand of an assassin. It was however afterwards ascertained that he had absconded, to avoid his creditors; and, in 1828, a successor was appointed to his living. He then went to reside in America: but subsequently lived in Paris, a professed gamester. He committed suicide at Fontainebleau, in 1832. His principal poems are in three volumes, entitled "The Conflagration of Moscow," "Hypocrisy," and "Modern Antiquity, and other poems." LIFE. How long shall man's imprisoned spirit groan And all that can be known, alas! is nothing worth. Untaught by saint, by cynic, or by sage, And all the spoils of time that load their shelves, We do not quit, but change our joys in age— Joys framed to stifle thought, and lead us from ourselves. The drug, the cord, the steel, the flood, the flame, And lust of change, though for the worst, proclaim Known were the bill of fare before we taste, Who would not spurn the banquet and the board— Prefer th' eternal, but oblivious fast, To life's frail-fretted thread, and death's suspended sword? He that the topmost stone of Babel planned, And he that braved the crater's boiling bed Did these a clearer, closer view command Of heaven or hell, we ask, than the blind herd they led? Or he that in Valdarno did prolong The night, her rich star-studded page to read— Could he point out, midst all that brilliant throng, His fixed and final home, from fleshy thraldom freed? Minds that have scanned creation's vast domain, Extinct, have nothing known or nothing have revealed. Devouring grave! we might the less deplore Th' extinguished lights that in thy darkness dwell, Wouldst thou, from that last zodiac, one restore, That might th' enigma solve, and doubt, man's tyrant, quell. To live in darkness-in despair to die Is this indeed the boon to mortals given? Is there no port-no rock of refuge nigh? There is—to those who fix their anchor-hope in heaven. Turn then, O man! and cast all else aside : Direct thy wandering thoughts to things above Low at the cross bow down-in that confide, Till doubt be lost in faith, and bliss secured in love. 34 REGINALD HEBER. THIS eminent person was born at Malpas, in Cheshire, on the 21st of April, 1783, and in the seventeenth year of his age, he entered Brazen Nose College, Oxford, where he obtained the chancellor's prize for a Latin poem, and greatly distinguished himself by an English poem, entitled "Palestine." Leaving the University, he travelled on the continent, and on his return was presented with a living in Shropshire, where for several years he devoted himself with much assiduity to his profession. It was here that he wrote most of his hymns and other poems, made his translations from Pindar, and prepared his edition of Jeremy Taylor. In 1822, he was appointed Bishop of Calcutta, and soon after his arrival in India, he died of apoplexy, at Trichinopoli. Heber was one of the sweetest of the poets who have sung of religion. His hymns are for the Christian what the unchaste songs of Moore are for the sensualist. THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA. FOR many a coal-black tribe and cany spear, The parched and sinewy sons of Amalek, While close behind, inured to feast on blood, Decked in Behemoth's spoils, the tall Shangalla strode. Saw ye how swift the scythed chariots rolled? So these are they, whom lord of Afric's fates, Old Thebes, has poured through all her hundred gates. And still reponsive to the trumpet's cry, Why swell these shouts that rend the desert's gloom, |