SONNET ON SEEING THE GRAVE OF AN UNFORTUNATE GIRL.

A PASSING sigh is due to every bier ;

Yet he who came with mournful ditties vain,
On every grave to murmur and complain,
Must drop on this a more peculiar tear.
Fly far from hence, ye righteous and severe!
Who ne'er the grief of honour's stain,

For one, alas! whom sore remorse has slain,
And shame for erring love, lies sleeping here,
O! Agnes I have wept on many a tomb-

Of some that like the flowers in ripe decline,
And some in bud had fallen, and some in bloom;
And most o'er infant graves would I repine:
Yet thou hast taught me, by the sadder doom,
To weep that such a grave has not been thine!

POPULAR LITERATURE OF 1824. AMONG the most profitable speculations of this year, may be reckoned Sayings and Doings by Theodore Hook, and the Tales of a Traveller by Washington Irving. The publisher of the former of these very popular works is said to have paid £800. for the copyright. As sketches of men and manners, and of the philosophy of every-day life, they are inimitable; Mr. Irving may be said to have laid the foundation of his fame by his Sketch Book and Bracebridge-Hall, and in his department he is without a rival. He may be deemed the Goldsmith of the present day.

Sir Walter Scott, who may now be said to have passed the zenith of his glory: he writes periodically.

It must always be gratifying to intelligent minds to see genius thus liberally rewarded; but it would be doubly grateful, were writings of more acknowledged soundness and decided utility patronized with greater zeal. Life is but short, and with this maxim before us the improvement of the mind should certainly take precedence in li

terature: but the public ordain it otherwise. Be this as it may, mere works of imagination will never stand the test of time, because all pleasure sickens by repetition. Philosophy will at length prevail in spite of these meretricious allurements, and conduct us to her refreshing springs, whence flow exhaustless instruction and infinite delight.

For modes of faith let graceless zealots fight;
His can't be wrong, whose life is in the right;
All must be false, that thwart this one great end,
And all of God, that bless mankind or mend.

HAIL, pure Religion! sacred science!
Best learnt from Holy Writ:

Teach me to bid the world defiance;
Make flesh and blood submit.
Correct and moderate each passion;
But not its use exclude;
Since heaven made us in this fashion,
And all it made is good.
Doubts concerning immortality,
Whene'er they rise repel;

Fix my faith in the reality

Of judgement, heav'n, and hell.
Thy name but one, yet how various
Different climes adore!

Nor are thy documents mysterious,
When stript of priestly lore.
Oft ceremony's made thy essence;
Farce assumes thy face;

Each party arrogates thy presence;
Yet how few share thy grace!
Thou art not those singularities
That sectaries applaud;
Nor the vain-glorious charities,
From riches got by fraud.
Nor art thou transubstantiation,
Chrism, beads, nor keys;
Penance, nor excommunication;
Pardons, nor jubilees;

Nor organs, chantings, elocution,
Imposition of hands;

Nor consecration, absolution,
Cassocks, scarfs, roses, bands:

Pope.

Nor art thou election, reprobation,
Nor the long formal cloak;
Nor yet the supper ordination,
Nor preaching from an oak:
Nor art thou a disuse of greetings,
Hat on, contracted brow;
No, nor perfection, silent meetings,
Nor language thee and thou:
Nor imaginary revelations,
Or intercourse divine;

Nor supernum'rary prostrations,
To alter heav'n's design.

To give a summ'ry of thy beauties,
An abstract of thy plan,

No round thou art of useless duties,
But "Love of God and man."
The first consisteth in adoring
His sov'reignty and grace;

In praise, thanksgiving, and deploring
Our present lapsed case!

The last, in treating all as brothers;
Forgiving, just, and true :

Doing sincerely unto others

As we'd be done unto.

This is the Law and Prophets join'd,
Of gospel 'tis the sum;

Who has Religion thus defined,
Has hope in life to come;
Whether he approve of liturgies,
Or give assent to none;
Whether he attend communities,
Or worship God alone.

AIR was thy blossom, tender flower,
That opened like the rose of May,
Though nursed beneath the chilly shower
Of fell regret for love's decay!
How oft thy mother heaved the sigh
O'er wreaths of honour early shorn,
Before thy sweet and guiltless eye

Had opened on the dawn of morn!

How oft above thy lowly bed,

When all in silence slumbered low,

The fond and filial tear was sbed,

Thou child of love, of shame, and woe!

Her wronged, but gentle, bosom burned,
With joy thy opening bloom to see,
The only breast that o'er thee yearned,
The only heart that cared for thee.
Oft her young eye, with tear-drops bright,
Pleaded with heaven for her sweet child,
When faded dreams of past delight

O'er recollection wandered wild.
Fair was thy blossom, bonny flower,
Fair as the softest wreath of spring,
When late I saw thee seek the bower

In peace thy morning hymn to sing!
Thy little feet across the lawn

NO. III:

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