This the divine Cecilia found,

And to her Maker's praise confined the sound.
When the full organ joins the tuneful choir,

The immortal powers incline their ear:
Borne on the swelling notes our souls aspire,
While solemn airs improve the sacred fire;
And angels lean from heaven to hear.
Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
To bright Cecilia greater power is given;
His numbers raised a shade from hell,
Her's lift the soul to heaven,

THE TAMED SHREW.

SHAKSPEARE.-The story of "Catherine and Petruchio" is well known. The present extract is made by the editor in the sincere hope that his fair readers will neither deserve nor experience any conjugal humiliations.

KATH.-Fie, fie! unknit that threat'ning unkind brow; And dart not scornful glances from those eyes,

To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor;

It blots thy beauty, as frosts do bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

A woman mov'd is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch a drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance; commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land;
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience ;—
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such, a woman oweth to her husband:
And, when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And, not obedient to his honest will,
What is she, but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ?-
I am ashamed, that women are so simple

To offer war, where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world;

But that our soft conditions, and our hearts,
Should well agree with our external parts?
Come, come, you froward and unable worms!
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great; my reason, haply more,
To bandy word for word, and frown for frown;
But now, I see our lances are but straws;

Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,-
That seeming to be most, which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot;

And place your hands below your husband's foot;
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease!

GOOD WORKS.

BISHOP HALL.

GOOD deeds are very fruitful; and, not so much of their nature, as of God's blessing, multipliable. We think ten in the hundred extreme and biting usury: God gives us more than a hundred for ten; yea, above the increase of the grain, which we commend most for multiplication: for, out of one good action of ours, God produceth a thousand; the harvest whereof is perpetual. Even the faithful actions of the old Patriarchs, the constant sufferings of ancient Martyrs, live still; and do good to all successions of ages, by their example: for public actions of virtue, besides that they are presently comfortable to the doers, are also exemplary to others; and, as they are more beneficial to others, so are more crowned in us. If good deeds were utterly barren and incommodious, I would seek after them, for the conscience of their own goodness: how much more shall I now be encouraged to perform them, for that they are so profitable both to myself, and to others, and to me in others! My principal care shall be, that while my soul lives in glory in heaven, my good actions may live upon earth; and that they might be put into the bank and multiply, while my body lies in the grave and consumeth.

FAR in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a shelt'ring wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,
A humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath her mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through heav'n
When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn
The charmers of the plains;

That sun which bids their diamond blaze

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had she fired each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;

And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair;

"Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul that knew no art;

And from whose eyes serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bosom lodged a wish
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.

What happy hours of heart-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm with wicked skill
Each darker art employ'd.

The father, too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling as the rock
From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their mutual flame,
And seen it long unmoved;
Then with a father's frown at last
He sternly disapproved.

In Edwin's gentle heart a war
Of diff'ring passions strove;
His heart, which durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Denied her sight, he oft behind
The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walk'd and wept.

Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
In sighs to pour his soften'd soul,
The midnight mourner stray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,
A deadly pale o'ercast;

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed,

And wearied Heaven with fruitless pray'rs,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

""Tis past," he cried, "but if your souls Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love."

She came; his cold hand softly touch'd,
And bathed with many a tear;
Fast falling o'er the primrose pale
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care
(A cruel sister she!)

Forbade what Emma came to say,

"My Edwin, live for me!"

Now homeward as she hopeless went,
The churchyard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl scream'd
Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found

In ev'ry bush his hov'ring shade,
His groan in ev'ry sound.

Alone, appall'd, thus had she pass'd

The visionary vale,

When lo! the deathbell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale.

Just then she reach'd, with trembling steps Her aged mother's door:

"He's gone," she cried, "and I shall see

That angel face no more.

"I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side!"

From her white arm down sunk her head,

She shiver'd, sigh'd, and died.