mutes the "No" of autho- it is time for us to bring ritative detention into the our treatise to a conclusion, "Yes" of immediate dis- and we will merely observe, mission. We love-but it that whenever we see a man is time to bring our treatise engaged in a duel against to a conclusion, and we will his will, or in a debauch merely observe, that when- against his conscience; ever we see Beauty without whenever we see a patriot a husband, or Talent with- accepting of a place, or a out a place; whenever we beauty united to a blockhear a lady considered an head, we turn from the old maid, or a gentleman sight in disgust, and mutvoted a bore, we turn from ter to ourselves,-" This the sight in melancholy comes of not being able to mood, and whisper to our-say 'No.'”

selves," This comes of

not being able to say 'Yes.""

J. L.

M. O.

A LAPLAND SACRIFICE.

I.

"TWAS silence all-the glorious Sun
His daily race of life had run,
The moon her silver lamp had spread
Refulgent over Hanga's head,

And, o'er each hut and lordly tower,
Soft Sleep had spread his balmy power:
But when at morn, with giant stride,
The Sun repair'd his golden tide,
The rising winds impetuous bore
Loud shouts along the winding shore,

And Lapland hills return'd the sound,
And dale and grot re-echoed round;
In flinty splendor Hanga's rock
Received with joy the mighty shock,
And Heaven itself, with arch serene,
Gazed eager on the wondrous scene.

II.

No steeds in gorgeous trappings prance,
No warrior points his feather'd lance,
It is not war's new-kindled sound
That rushes o'er the groaning ground,
No hatchet glittering in the way,
No trumpet shrill-no opening bay
Of dogs impatient for the chase
Proclaims the panting courser's race.
But Lapland's sons and Lapland's dames
Stand gazing o'er the rising flames,
And watch with pious ken the fire
To Heaven's blue-vaulted arch aspire;
For woe to him whose impious breast
Shall scorn great ODIN's hallow'd feast,
Who shall not hear his country's call
To hail the mighty Festival!

III.

The flames rise high-the trembling sod
Scarce bears the host's unnumber'd tread,
And hearts invoke the Guardian God

To watch above each suppliant's head:
But still each breast, with chiefest zeal,
Burns anxious for its country's weal,
And calls the Arbiter of Fate

To spread his wings o'er Lapland's State;
For each with patriotic eye,

Can mark his son, his father, die ;

And praise the spirit that flits away

Amid the heart-drop's purple flood,

And glory that he prized the day
Of life below his Country's good.
Such Lapland's sons. Each bosom pray'd

To Odin's ever-watchful shade

Odin-who, living, ever saw

Whole armies quail beneath his nod;
Dying, became a nation's awe,

His Country's friend-his Country's God.

ODE TO DESPAIR.

HENCE! Fiend of Hell, who lov'st to brood
O'er sad misfortune's load of woe,
And snatch with haste, as sweetest food,
The tears that pain has forced to flow:
Nor here, thou stern, relentless Power,
Prepare to blast each sweetest flower,
That e'er adorns life's tedious way,

And blooms in gentle youth, and blushes while 't is May.

Hence for not here the guilty soul,

The conscience-stricken breast thou 'lt find,

Whom Virtue's laws could ne'er control,

Whom Honour's pledge could never bind.

With such as these thou lov'st to dwell,

And give to life the pangs of hell;
While all around fell woes appear,

Sharp Pain, and moody Hate, and self-avoiding Fear.

To thee is sweet the lonely heart

That owns no tie of love on earth,
To ease it from the frequent smart
That lurks beneath the veil of mirth;
Upon whose drear and desert state,
Not one last ling'ring ray may wait,

Of all that once was precious here,

Of all that beauty gave, or happiness made dear.

To thee is sweet the madden'd breast

That Fury's boiling passions tear,

That knows no interval of rest

From bitterest pangs the frame can bear; To thee is sweet the cold glazed eye

That glares in hideous vacancy;

To thee is sweet the gasping breath,

The blood-bespatter'd hand, and agony of Death.

Go, search thee out the blasted heath,
Where Madness walks his nightly round,
Where the owl shrieks, and deeds of death
Are whisper'd in the night-wind's sound.
Go, search thee out the darksome shed,
Where Crime conceals his guilty head,
Strikes o'er again the last death-blow,
And hears in every gale the footsteps of a foe.

Go, search thee out the wretch accursed,
Who thinks no hope for him remains,
Whose spleen, by sin and malice nursed,
Writhing beneath disease's pains,
He vents alike 'gainst Man and God,
Careless of all that o'er him nod,
Of all the terrors Fear inspires,

Of adamantine chains that wait, and penal fires.

Father of Heav'n, Almighty Power!
Let not such pangs this heart infest ;
Let not Despair's revengeful hour
Afflict thy lowly suppliant's breast:
Give me the soul, that nobly great
Can meet unmoved the shock of fate;
Bear-firmly bear-Misfortune's blow,

And smile beneath the weight and bitterness of woe.

Grant me, though doom'd by thee to drain
Its bitterest dreg from Sorrow's bowl,
Grant me to smile beneath the pain

That racks, but not subdues, my soul.
Grant me the calm, though tortured mind,
Hopeless and friendless-yet resigned;
And let me scorn the coward's cry,

Whom misery can move to "curse his God, and die."

S. D.

THOUGHTS ON THE WORDS "TURN OUT."

:

"We all, in our Turns, Turn out."-SONG.

TURN OUT!!! There are in the English language no two words which act so forcibly in exciting sympathy and compassion. There is in them a melancholy cadence, beautifully corresponding with the sadness of the idea which they express: they awaken in a moment the tenderest recollections, and the most anxious forebodings there is in them a talismanic charm which influences alike all ages and all dispositions; the Church, the Bar, and the Senate, are all comprised in the range of its operation: indeed we believe that in no profession, in no rank of life, we shall find the man who can meditate, without an inward feeling of mental depression, on the simple, the unstudied, the unaffected pathos of the words "Turn out."

Is it not extraordinary, that when the idea is in itself so tragic, and gives birth to such sombre sensations, Melpomene should have altogether neglected the illustration of it? Is it not still more extraordinary that her sportive sister Thalia should have dared indeco