when the comet's distance from the sun will be 1.4, and from the earth 2.28, the latter distance being equal to 21660 millions of miles. Though the orbicular motion of the comet will now carry it rapidly from the sun, yet it will again gradually approach the earth, or more properly, the earth may be said, in the race, to gain upon the comet till about the 22d of April; and on that day, at 5h 49m 12 M. T. its distance from the sun will be 2.27056, and from the earth 1.37183, having at the same time a geocentric longitude of 243° 49′ 46", and a southern latitude of 15° 27′ 56": hence it will be near the star in the neck of the constellation Lupus; at which time, and for a few days before and after, it may again be expected to be visible to the southern parts of the world, but its altitude above our horizon will be too small for it to be seen from our northern position; and by the beginning of May it will be too far from the sun and from the earth, to admit of its being any longer visible to the inhabitants of our globe. On the second appearance of this comet, it will, properly speaking, be divested of its tail; in which case the nucleus will only be surrounded by a nebulous light."

And nymphs the woods among. But now a nobler theme his pow'rs command, And now he strikes the lyre with bolder hand, He cries, "Prepare the way, A voice the desert cheers, Hail happy, happy day,

wears.

A god-a god appears! And, oh! amazing thought, a human form he These notes the heavenly Maids inspire, And each resum'd her golden lyre, Then all united sang in noblest strains, "The glorious Prince of peace, the true Messiah, reigns."

Next Shakspeare came, whose wood-notes wild,
Proclaim him Nature's fav'rite child.

"Twas his to make the lightnings play,
And beam around eternal day.
Creation mov'd at his command,
And heav'n obey'd his magic wand.

He sang great Cæsar's fame,
Whose deeds admiring worlds proclaim.
Now from the trembling wires
Seraphic accents flow,
And with immortal fires

His vivid eye-balls glow.
See-see, the sturdy foe appears,
Array'd in terrors dight,
The banners wave,

To arms, ye brave,

And lo! they court the fight.

But now with shouts they rend the skies,
See the victorious trophy rise,

The vanquish'd all imperial Rome obey,
The world-the world submits, and yields to
Cæsar's sway.

He ceas'd. With plaudits loud heav'n's arches

He sung of man-for happiness design'd, Form'd immortal bliss to prove,

In these pursuits the highest Pow'r above Employs his mighty mind.

On whom God's image shone display'd, For whom this universe was made, Hurl'd to the lowest depths of abject wo,

The righteous laws of God he broke,
And wretched man must feel the stroke.
See, Justice lifts the sword, and aims the blow;
But, lo! th' eternal God appears,
Jehovah man's transgression bears,

Jesus receives the wound.
""Tis finish'd," Lightning bore the cry,
And thunders shook the vaulted sky;
The everlasting hills re-echo to the sound.
Thus died Creation's Lord,

And thus to happiness was man restor❜d.
Joys immortal now are his,

The realms of glory, and the seats of bliss,-
Bliss, such as God bestows, all like his own,
Firm as his word, and lasting as his throne;
All rapt to heav'n, amidst its glorious blaze,
Tho' ceas'd, they heard-and silence spoke his
praise.

And now the God assum'd his heav'nly rays, And from his throne there beam'd a glorious

blaze;

A cloud of incense veil'd his majesty, Too bright for mortal ken.-When thus the gods decree,

"The myrtle bays to Pope be giv'n,
And around Milton's brows entwine
The laureate wreath of heav'n."

"THE DESK" TO "THE PULPIT."

SOME from the "Pulpit" tune their verse,
I from a " Desk" my lines emerse
Into a foolscap letter.

Tho' parsons in th' "Imperial" write,
I'm tempted too to send my mite,
In hope of doing better.

My brain, yet pregnant with some more,
Has sent these few lines on before,

In hope of no denial:

So in high pulpiteering lays

It would not me become to raise,

This being but a trial.

Oh! had I knowledge quantum suff.!
How I would write! I'd write enough,
To raise the price of paper!
I'd verses scribble, sonnets write,
All the day long; and then at night,
My odes by light of taper.

And education sure will prove,
The quantity of Latin love,

That's found in college sizar.
And learning, if I don't mistake,
Makes those who do not it forsake,
A very great deal wiser.

Most folks are poets nowadays,
And all do write in different ways,
According to his lore;

But better far is M's verse,
Than those who wrote in Greek or Erse,
In days of gone-by yore:

And as his lines do so transcend,
I hope he more will condescend
To write till he is weary.

87.-VOL. VIII.

But first I must a favour ask,
And hope he'll find it not a task,
To satisfy my query.
How comes it, M-

that in your verse,

(Lines which I need not now rehearse,)
You, in high pulpit strain,

First slap at one, and then at t'other,
Calling them any thing but brother,
Over and o'er again?

Tell them they lead their flock astray;
And nothing worth, but to display
A set of pretty fingers:

Some powder'd folk, some muddy are,
Some egotists, and more, by far,
Resemble opera-singers.

You Irving rap, then Keetch and Brown,
Run to and fro, and up and down,

Seeking for better game;

All sorts of faux pas you relate,
That's found in pulpiteering pate,

Or dress, (that's much the same.) With this intent, you say you shoot, (By aiming at their very root,)

Such super-stratum dollies:
Nor, like the rest, leave one alone,
But proudly call them all your own!!
My bow and arrow follies!!
How's this? I cannot make it out,
That criminals should make a rout

'Bout crimes they find in others;
And, in the self-same dictum, own
They're guilty too, but will atone,
By telling of their brothers.
To me 'tis odd, I must confess,
And hope that M- will do no less,
Than answer this my query.
And, having tried to be concise,
I'll close my Letter in a trice,
Lest I should make you weary.
Dear Editor, I hope I may
The insertion beg of this essay,
"Twill much oblige,-Yours, H. D. J.

The tempest increasing, burst over their head, And lingering Hope gave her place to Despair!

On the brink of the deep, the hard flinty strand, (Benignant his eye, and as heaven serene,) A STRANGER was seen in fix'd silence to stand, And, gazing, he watch'd all the turbulent

scene.

He beard the dire tempest repeat its rude howl, And saw the fork'd lightnings emit their dread glare;

Distinctly He notic'd each faint sinking soul,

And yet, for a season, stood silently there. At length He mov'd onwards-(his bright eye inclin'd

With beamings of love to the foundering bark,)

And He grasp'd "in his fist"* the hardstruggling "wind,"

And He caught, as it flew, each keen forked dart.

Of the "wings of the wind" he made his grand

THERE is a star that lights my way,
A star of sweetly beaming ray,
That shoots, o'er sorrow's darkest night,
A radiance beautifully bright.
This star is Hope, of beavenly birth,
Though oft a wandering star on earth;
"Tis this that tunes the Poet's lyre,
And fills with pure celestial fire.
He hopes to shine in fame's bright pages,
And live in them through future ages.
This pierces through the Warrior's steel,
His cares to soothe, bis wounds to heal;
He hopes to wear bis country's wreath,
And live triumphant after death.
He hopes that in his country's story
He'll live for ever crown'd with glory,
And in the Maniac's dark damp cell,
Of visions bright his soul can tell.
Though reason's fled, yet hope is there,
And, with a wild distracted air,

He tells of all his fancied joy,
Realities can ne'er destroy.
It is this brightly beaming star,
That lights the pilgrim from afar,
He tells of joys long since departed,
That left him lone and broken-hearted;
But hopes, once more, on earth to find
The home that's dear,-the friend that's kind.
And has the Christian not one hope,
To keep his fainting spirits up,
To cheer him on life's dreary road,
And lighten labour of its load?
Oh! yes, a star of brighter ray
Illumes his path, and cheers his way,
A balo of celestial light

His is a hope which leaves no gloom
Beams round him in grief's darkest night:
Around the dreary silent tomb;
His is a hope which death defies,
And ends not when the body dies.
Shrewsbury, Jan. 10th, 1826.

M.A. S. M.

THE NEGRO'S PETITION. "Relieve the oppressed."-Isaiah lviii. 6. PITY the sorrows of a poor black man,

Who groans beneath oppression's ruthless
reign;

Ye sons of freedom, oh! do all ye can,
Emancipation for the slave to gain!
These bleeding wounds my misery bespeak;
These deep-drawn sighs proclaim my weight
of grief;

These lurid tears, which trickle down my cheek,
In tacit language beg for kind relief.
Hard is the lot of the poor negro slave,

Short is his rest, and scanty is his fare;
A tyrant's pity he in vain doth crave,

He still the burden and the lash must bear. Flows not the vital current from my heart, As pure as his who o'er me bears control? Did not his Maker life to me impart— Give me, like him, a never-dying soul?

Let reason, let religion answer give—

And bid the oppressor cease to be unjust, Tell him that, soon, we both shall cease to live, And must claim kindred in primeval dust. How oft, alas! the sacred queen of heav'n,

Has gladden'd nature with her smiling face, Since from my bosom happiness was driv'n, By white-skinn'd monsters of the human race. One fatal eve, returning to the land,

With bosom light I plied the willing oar, My wife and children waiting on the strand, To hail me welcome with my finny store:Toward our but with pleasure soon we hied, Thought not in ambush evil was aloofBut mark, alas! beset on ev'ry side,

The blood-hounds seiz'd me, and their prey bore off.

"Adieu, I cried, my wife and babes adieu,

Farewell my friends, my native land farewell, Ah! torn for ever, dear delights, from you, With fell oppression I am doom'd to dwell." Still do my ears my children's cries retain;

Still do my eyes behold my wife's despair; Still doth my bosom feel the parting pain; Still doth fond memory each dear image bear.

LOVELY art thou, as in the heav'ns thou shin'st,
And in thy course with even pace proceed'st;
No heat thy rays contain,
Still they shine not in vain,
For safe the nightly traveller thou leadst,
And to right paths his wand'ring steps inclin'st.
Hail, lovely planet! now this world illuming
With borrow'd light, serenely bright and fair,
Cheering the reign of night,
A lovely pleasing sight:
On this calm eve, nature appears to wear
Charms greater far than when day's noon is
blooming.

In vain the painter's utmost skill essayeth
By human art refin'd to vie with thee;
Thy smiles are passing fair;
What can with thee compare?
Not aught that mortal eye on earth can see;
Thy beauties not e'en poesy portrayeth.
I, with the impulse of the muse complying.
Have tried, in lonely strains, thy praise to
sing,-

What can I offer more,
Than all my humble store?
Fair orb, I leave thee:-cease to touch the
string,

Thy countless charms my feeble powers defying. Ripon. P. P.

TO M- M

On reading his Sonnet commencing-
"Oh! let me die on a November-day!"
BARD! I have felt the spirit of thy pray'r,
When dread November, with its dark control,
Held firm dominion o'er my pathway fair,

Destroying every hope that heals the soul. When high the mountain of despair appear'd, From which I shrunk, and, with a cowardsigh,

Mas'd on my future lot, alone, uncheer'd;

Oh! I have long'd on such a day to die! Forgetting summer-suns again would pour Their light upon the verdure of the vale, And beam upon each tree and opening flow'r; When brighter clouds across the sky would

sail.

| When gloomy mists eclipse the light of day;' When melancholy, misanthropic care, Upon the lacerated bosom prey,

Bard! I have felt the spirit of thy pray'r! Nov. 28th, 1825. G. Y. H.

REVIEW.-The Difficulties of Infidelity. By George Stanley Faber, B. Ď. Rector of Long-Newton. 8vo. pp. 272. London. Rivington. 1824.

HANNIBAL, the Carthaginian general, having crossed the Alps at the head of his victorious troops, ravaged and laid waste the fertile plains of Italy, despoiling and depopulating them with fire and sword. Nor was he satisfied with offering these indignities to the proud Romans; he boldly marched up to the very gates of the city, and threatened their existence as a nation. The Romans wanted neither armies nor courage to repel their audacious invaders; but army after army was annihilated, and each battle served only to weaken the one, while it increased the insolence and arrogance of the other. At last, the conduct of the war devolved upon Scipio. He readily perceived the error of his countrymen, and profiting by the fatal experience which the examples of his unfortunate predecessors had furnished, determined to transfer the seat of war, and boldly to attack the Carthaginian territory. In this position he evidently possessed himself of the advantages which the Carthaginians had hitherto enjoyed. If Scipio had been defeated, the victorious army would have a long and harassing march before they could reach the territory of the vanquished; and at all events they were necessarily exposed to all the consequences attendant on the seat of war. We need not relate the issue of Scipio's plan." Those acquainted with ancient history know that he succeeded in every point. The Carthaginians, in a panic, and terror-struck by the appearance of a powerful army invading their territory and laying waste their lands, immediately recalled their general and his army to defend them. The hostile armies met, and the Roman arms prevailed-thus proving the superiority of the offensive over the defensive mode of warfare.

We have been led into this train of thought by a perusal of the work, the title of which we have prefixed to this article. The defenders of Christianit"