Break Superstition's magic spell,
And drive the gloomy demon down
In her own native shades to frown
With Horror, Cruelty, and Hell;
May Piety her rights regain,
And o'er according nations reign!
Attendant on her sovereign state
May all the daughter Virtues wait!
May earth and all her hundred seas
Become one temple of thy praise,
The glorious dwelling of thy Grace,
And Britain be its holiest place!

REV. H. MOORE.

RELIGIO LOCI.

As musing slow the seabeat shore I tread,
While the deep heaves beneath the tempest's

sway;

While all is dark, and on the white wave's head The lightning pours a momentary day;

Then through the heavens, methinks, Eternal Sire! Thy justice walks,impels the whirlwind's breath, Swells the deep thunder, barbs the lightning's fire, And shakes o'er guilty worlds the balanced death.

Then in the roarings of the blast I hear

Thy chariot wheels: O! who can hear and live? Convicted Nature dreads the vengeance near, And Guilt uplifts her hands, and cries, Forgive!

VOL. I.

U

'But when more tranquil scenes my steps invite,
Where through a fleecy veil the moonshine smiles,
Where rapid Derwent gleams with snowy light,
Or Lomond sleeps amid her wooded isles;
O, then my ravish'd soul thy mercy sees,

grove.

Inspiring all beneath, around, above; A small still voice in every dying breeze, A voice divine proclaims that Thou art Love! Then, stormy shores and surging waves, adieu! And welcome brook, and vale, and peaceful [view But whence this thought? Shall Reason's eagle In none but tranquil scenes trace heavenly love? No! place me where, on Zembla's widow'd coast, Dark Winter heaps eternal snows on high, And bids his towering battlements of frost Float on mid seas, and pillar half the sky; Or place me on Bahouda's thirsty sand, Where the parch'd pilgrim longs for dewy night, Where whirling pyramids of fiery sand

O'erwhelm the panting Arab in his flight;

Still heavenly mercy o'er the sullen hours
Shall breathe a charm which all those hours
shall cheer,

Bid storms be still, and amaranthine flowers
Spring from the ashes of a polar year.

New worlds, new seasons at her beck shall rise,
Soft branching groves the sunburnt desert

shroud,

A sudden fragrance flow through tropic skies,
A sudden rainbow blush on every cloud.

G. O. BUSH.

AN ANGEL'S SURVEY OF THE WORLD.

'AMONG the tribes that float in air around, Or cleave the curling wave, or graze the ground, Is there no being of superior frame?

No master work of Heaven,

To whom more awful powers, a purer flame,
A reasoning mind is given,

By the First Father form'd sublime to sway
O'er the wide land and loud resounding sea!

There is I see this earthly demigod;

I see the graceful form, the meaning face, Erect, and towering to yon bright abode,

Where, with majestic beauty stamp'd, I trace The' inspiring soul that fills the lovely shrine, Reason's keen piercing beam, and Virtue's air divine.'

So spake a spirit of ethereal flame,

When first to earth a visitant he came;
To view the glories of his God display'd
In shining orbs, and rolling worlds unknown,
In varied forms, in varied grace array'd,
He left his native skies, and kindred sun,
And, on the pious thought intent,
To this terrestrial ball his course he bent.

Awhile the purple-pinion'd stranger stood,
And with an angel's ken, that wide and far
Glanced like the lightning's instantaneous glare,
Our idle, busy, bustling race he view'd.
He saw with sorrow there

His Maker's image, stamp'd divinely fair,

Profaned by Folly, or by Vice defaced;

All quench'd the sacred Soul's ethereal flame;
Forgot her being's nobler end and aim;

Her reason slave to sense, and bending to the beast.
Unchain'd the fiercer passions madden round;
Pride, Envy, Lust, Ambition, Rage, confound
The world's fair order,—and, like hellhounds

driven

By scourging furies, waste the works of Heaven.

Here Vice he sees, enthroned in Virtue's shrine,
With idol pomp adored, and rites divine,
Her secret mysteries unabash'd display,
And act her orgies in the face of day.
Her impious sons still riot uncontrol'd;
Not fiercer midnight wolves that thin the fold;
No ties confine their rage, no sanctions awe;
To them no God, no Gospel, and no law;
Yet is their spreading glory seen,
Tall as the palm, and as the laurel green;
For them fair Plenty heaps her ample stores,
And on the genial board unsparing pours;
For them the weary peasant ploughs the soil;
Theirs is the fruit, for which ten thousand toil;
Sublime on Fortune's airy height they stand,
Her shining fane command,

Rush on her glittering spoils with rapine bold,
And share at will her honours and her gold.

Now strike his startled ear from far The din and deafening clamours of the bar. There with arch leer and ever pliant tongue, Stands Sophistry, confounding right and wrong; With Impudence, nor man nor God can awe, And stern Oppression, sanctified by law;

While Perjury, without remorse or dread,
Hears the hoarse thunder murmuring o'er his head,
Justice, with weeping eyes,

Her rightful seat and sacred temple flies;
Chicane with thousand tongues usurps her reign,
Loud as the clangors of the storm-vex'd main.

There sees he blazing in imperial pride
On Freedom's prostrate neck the despot ride!
Furious and gloomy as the northern wind,
He shakes the sword of vengeance o'er mankind,
Like a red comet with his flaming hair;
Oppression, Rapine stalk beside the car,
Captivity and Grief and gory Death behind.

But now the martial clarion's shrill alarms
Call all the furies-rouse the rage of war.
He hears the prancing steed, the clattering car,
And vales and rocks rebellow loud- to arms!'
In shining pomp, and awful beauty gay,
Fierce for the bloody business of the day,
See front to front two kindred armies stand!
Discord, with serpents hissing round her head,
Bids to the sky the purple banners spread,
Her torch of flame high waving in her hand;
With frantic mien she runs from band to band,
Tries every beating breast, and sows the seed
Of rancour, rage, and death, and every dreadful
deed.

Now meet the charging legions-hate and ire Edge their keen swords and sparkle in their eyes: The glowing field appears a moving fire:

Loud and more loud the mingling clangors rise.