self-support, will make use of the vigour of its shoots and beauty of its blossoms, solely for those purposes pointed out by the hand which guided its infant growth. No doubt, many benefits arise from this all-pervading system; without it the unaided power of reason would perhaps be inadequate to the task of impressing on the rising generation a due respect for the memory, and obedience to the institutions, of their fathers. If, then, these barriers to innovation were removed, to what an extent would the established harmony and organized principles of society be endangered. On the other hand, a venial doubt may be entertained, whether mere partial respect for antiquity may not sometimes induce us to cling too closely to its institutions, and oppose with too narrow a jealousy, the introduction of those improvements which the extended views, or pressing exigence of the time may suggest. On such adoption of principles and accommodation to circumstances, rests the welfare and indeed existence of every community, no less than the pureness of the ocean depends on the fluctuation of its

waters.

It may perhaps be objected, that the different usages of society are originally suggested by the dictates of nature, and regulated by the peculiar character of their respective climates, and that consequently the customs handed down from early, and held in respect by succeed. ing, ages, would have been equally observed, had posterity been left to follow the unbiassed impulse of their genius. But if among the imperceptible revolutions and progressive expansion of the mind, such a principle were to become prevalent, who could analyse its powers, or who

could appoint the limits of its action? Where must we fix the boundary, within which, it would merely tend to confirm the natural tenor of our energies, but beyond it, would prove a fatal obstruction to the spirit of enterprise and improvement?

But are national customs always the offspring of nature, harmonizing with the temper and complexion of their climate? Do the banks of the Niger enforce any indispensable necessity of the tattoo? Do the forests of Germany inculcate the use of the segar, or the summer skies of Constantinople that of opium? Has oriental scenery alone superinduced that elaborate barbarism, that immutable bigotry to their own and abhorrence of foreign institutions, which has for ages rendered China the historical phenomenon of the world? All-powerful, then, as that feeling appears to be, which has reconciled the captive to his dungeon, and the Indian widow to the pile of her husband, with what daring and capacious energies must those master-minds have been endowed, which, throwing off the shackles forged by chance, and rivetted by habit, have pointed, from time to time, the path of progressive improvement-a task, for which even their powers would perhaps have proved inadequate, could they not have called to their aid that love of novelty, which induces us to turn from happiness at our door, to pursue those visionary prospects, only bright from their uncertainty.

To this latter passion may be ascribed the evils of licentious innovation, as well as to the former those of narrow-minded bigotry; while from a just amalgamation of the two, that tranquillity may truly claim its origin,

which is ensured alike from the over-bearing tyranny, and the violent subversion, of established custom.

F.

RICHARD CŒUR DE LION.

Bright beam'd the sun on England's smiling land,
Calm flow'd the waves to kiss the silent strand;
St. George's banner floated high in air,
And many a gallant band was marshall'd there,
And England's monarch England's children led
The pathless waste of eastern shores to tread.
Yes, many a youthful heart is beating high,
And valour beams in many a youthful eye :
But darker soon the beaming eye shall glow,
And hotter yet the life-blood's current flow,
When England's sons ten thousand glaives unsheath,
To stem the Moslem in the strife of death.

Oh, could'st thou check that dark and mad career,
Rein the hot charger, break the glitt'ring spear,
Bid the wild clamours of dissension cease,
And taste the joys of harmony and peace-
But no- -the clouds have gather'd in the sky,
The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls on high;
And that dread bolt's unseen, unheeded, stroke
Must blast the glories of the British oak.

That flashing eye and heaving bosom tell
How stern the voice, how potent is the spell
That bids thee leave thy kingdom and thine all,
To lend thine ear to mad Ambition's call.
Fair was the semblance, fair the accents sound,
When Richard's voice in thunder peal'd around :-
"Oh, if for you the Lord of Glory bled,
And sought the regions of the silent dead:
If He, Omnipotent to slay or save,
Lay cold and torpid in an earthly grave ;
By His pale brow and agonized eye,
By His deep-drawn and quick-returning sigh,

By all the tortures of a ling'ring death,
By the last anguish of His parting breath-
On, on, to dare the squadrons of the foe!
On, on, to lay the proud invader low!

Sons of the prophet, haste ye to the fight,

And meet the torrent stream of England's might!
Then who are they, whose craven bosoms quail ?
They hear the howling of the distant gale;
Go, servile throng: be ours the nobler doom
To seek the meed of glory, or a tomb :
Yes, be it ours to purge the holy spot,
By foes polluted, and by friends forgot:
To tread the desert and the pathless wild,
Speak aid and hope to Salem's weeping child :
On o'er the plains of yonder glitt❜ring sea,
For God, for England, for St. George, for me."
Yes, Salem's child laments her country's fate,
The gorgeous temple, and the Golden Gate;
Mourns for the relics of forgotten fame,
Mourns the sad day when Alla's children came :
Once led the dance, once join'd the choral band,
That sang the triumphs of Judæa's land,
That the proud courts of Salem's temple trod
To hymn the victories of Salem's God;
Now fix'd in sadness, deep in grief and gloom,
With tears bedews the scarce more silent tomb:
No burst of rage, no furious torrents there,
But the dark, hidden, anguish of despair;
In plaintive accents now her bitter wail
Sounds mid the rushing of the frantic gale:
Her home forgotten, and her harp unstrung,
And e'en the sad tale of her woes unsung :
Unseen, unheeded, friendless and alone,
Heaves the deep sob, and draws the frequent groan.
Pale as yon marble from the Parian isle,

She knows not joy, she may not, must not, smile;
Yet still, at times, her thoughts can upward fly,

And seek for refuge in the courts on high;
Can bid the raging storm of anguish cease,

Can hush its billows to the calm of peace;

Then Hope is there, and rays of heavenly light
Dispel the clouds of sorrow and of night.
She hears the footstep of th' avenger nigh,
She sees the fire that sparkles in his eye.
Loud rise the voices from the distant surge,

With "God, for England, Richard, and St. George !"
Again in fancy gleams the Christian spear,
And joy, and glory, and repose, are here.
Again the standard of St. George on high
Spreads all its splendors to the eastern sky,
And he, the hero of the Lion Heart,

Draws the bright sword, and hurls th' unerring dart.
Then the wild glow of exultation high

Can tinge her cheek, and sparkle in her eye:
"Yes, and again," in joy she cries, "again
Shall Salem echo to the victor's strain;
Again the long-drawn aisle and pealing choir
Shall hear the echo of the victor's lyre;
For lo, he comes: he comes to burst in twain
The iron links of slav'ry's galling chain :
New strength shall nerve the mighty hero's arm,
That shields the chosen of our God from harm;
That wars to cleanse that stain'd, yet holy, place,
And dash the hopes of Ali's treach❜rous race.
And shall it be? and shall my list'ning ear
Again the music of our fathers hear?

And this enfeebled and emaciate hand

Strike the glad string, and lead the virgin band?

Ah, me! the prophet's sons are dark and wild,

Their hands are drench'd, their swords in blood defil'd ;
And never, never can their countless host

Yield the proud tenure of their native coast:
And none may see the haughty crescent fall,
The cross triumphant rising over all.
Ah, me! ye are but victims more and more,
Swift as ye sail from far Europa's shore ;
Ye are but victims for the Moslem sword,
In battle vanquish'd, yet in death ador'd!"

Yet Richard comes: th' opposing blast in vain
Hath rous'd the stormy billows of the main ;