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Mr. Love was himself no ordinary poet, as the following elegant effusion of his pen sufficiently proves. Not long before his death, a redbreast took up its abode on one of the pinnacles of the great organ in Bristol cathedral, where, during the time of divine service, it never failed to accompany the solemnity with its melody. This incident Mr. Love thus improved :

Sweet social bird, whose soft harmonious lays
Swell the glad song of thy Creator's praise ;
Say, art thou conscious of approaching ills ?
Fell winter's storms—the pointed blast that kills ?
Shun'st thou the savage north's unpitying breath?
Or cruel mian's more latent snares of death?
Here, dwell secure; here, with incessant note,
Pour the soft music of thy trembling throat :
Here, gentle bird, a sure asylum find;
Nor dread the chilling frost, nor boist'rous wind.
No hostile tyrant of the feather'd race
Shall dare invade thee in this hallow'd place ;
Nor, while he sails the liquid air along,
Check the shrill numbers of thy cheerful song.
No cautious gunner, whose unerring sight
Stops the swift eagle in his rapid flight,
Shall here disturb my lovely songster's rest,
Nor wound the plumage of his crimson breast.
The truant schoolboy who, in wanton play,
With viscid lime involves the treach'rous spray,
In vain shall spread the wily snare for thee,
Alike secure thy life and liberty,
Peace then, sweet warbler, to thy flutt'ring heart:
Defy the eye of hawks, and toils of art ;
Now shake thy downy plumes, now gladlier pay
Thy grateful tribute to each day :
While crowds below, their willing voices raise,
To sing, with holy zeal, Jehovah's praise !
Thou, perch'd on high, shalt hear th' adoring throng,
Catch the warm strains, and aid the sacred song,
Increase the solemn chorus, and inspire

Each tongue with music, and each heart with fire. The Editor has often heard this extraordinary bird, and witnessed with pleasure its ready obedience to the call of the old verger, from whose hand it received the morning and evening crums of bread, which prolonged its existence till the winter of the year 1781.

ON THE

REV. SIR JAMES STONHOUSE, BART. M. D.

In the Chapel at the Hot-wells, Bristol.
HERE rests awhile, in happier climes to shine,
The Orator, Physician, and Divine.
'Twas his, like Luke, the double task to fill,
To heal the natural and the moral ill.
You, whose awakened hearts his labours blest,
Where every truth by every grace was drest;
Oh! let your lives evince that still

you
Th' effective influence of his fervent zeal.
One spirit rescued from eternal wo
Were nobler fame than marble can bestow;
That lasting monument will mock decay,
And stand, triumphant, at the final day.
He died December the 8th, 1795, in the 80th year of his age.

feel

BE FAITHFUL.

Sir James Stonhouse was, for more than twenty years, physician to the infirmary at Northampton, of which excellent charity he was, indeed, the founder. In 1763 he took orders, and obtained first the living of Little Cheverel, in Wiltshire, to which, afterwards, was added that of Great Cheverel, and this was all the preferment he ever obtained. His first wife Anne, the eldest daughter of John Neale, Esq.of Allesley, near Coventry, died at Northampton, and lies in the church of All Saints, in that town.

His second wife was Sarah, the only child of Thomas Ekins, Esq. whose estate she inherited. Dr. Doddridge was her guardian ; but he died before her marriage. Dr. Stonhouse was an admirable preacher, and truly evangelical, without the least approximation to enthusiasm.

The following encomium by his friend Hannah More, written on the fly leaf of Saurin's Sermons, which she had borrowed of the doctor in 1775, is no exaggeration. EPITRE AU DR. STONHOUSE SUR LES SERMONS DE

M. SAURIN.
Ces divines ardeurs, cette sainte éloquence,
Ces sublimes pensées, ces conceptions immenses,

Ces essors évangeliques, cette humilité profonde,
Cette connoissance unie à ce mépris du monde,
Cet horreur du vice, cet amour de la virtu,
Cette extréme soumission à la volenté de Dieu,
Cette heureuse indifference pour un monde incertain,
Cette compassion pour les maux du genre humain,
Cet amour, et cette crainte de l'eternel Créateur,
Cette parfaite espérance dans le sang du Redempteur ;
Enfin, ces grandes idées-ce language divin-
Qui charme, qui eleve, qui transporte en Saurin,
J'admire en le lisant, ces beautés eclatantes,
En t'ecoutant, Docteur, les mêmes beautés m'enchantent,
Semblable au prophête qui, la Sainte Ecriture dit,
Laisse* a son successeur son manteau et son esprit.

These Lines may be chus literally translated. That warmth divine, that holy eloquence, Those thoughts sublime, conceptions so immense, That holy zeal, that deep humility, Extent of knowledge, perfect charity, That dread of vice, of virtue such a love, That true submission to the Will above, That calm indifference to this changing scene, That pity for the woes of mortal men, That love and fear of the eternal Good, That perfect hope in thc Redeemer's blood; Those grand ideas, language so divine, Which charm, exalt, transport us in SAURIN; In reading him, these beauties still appear, In hearing thee, these beauties charm mine ear; Like to that prophet, who, as scriptures say, His cloak and spirit left, then wing'd to heav'n his way.

• 2 Kings, ii. 31.

ON SARAH STONHOUSE

Second wife of Sir James Stonhouse, Bart. COME, Resignation ! wipe the human tear, Domestic anguish drops o'er Virtue's bier; Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint, Nor, from the God she lov’d, detain the saint.

Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade, were

thine;
And holy hope, and charity divine;
Though these thy forfeit being could not save,
Thy faith subdued the terrors of the grave.
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech :
Let death thy strongest lesson then impart,
And write, PREPARE TO DIE, on every heart.

She died December, 10, 1788 aged 55 years.

BE SERIOUS.

ON MR. SHAPLAND,

An eminent Apothecary in Bri Wouldst thou inquire of him who sleeps beneath,

This tomb shall tell thee, 'tis no common dust, That, crush'd at length by oft-defeated death,

Fills the cold urn committed to its trust.

Stranger! this building fallen to decay,

Was once the dwelling of a honest mindA spirit cheerful as the light of day

The soul of friendship-milk of human kind.

His art forbade th' expiring wretch to die,
Empower'd the nerveless tongue once more to

speak,
Restor'd its lustre to the sunken eye,

And spread fresh roses on the livid cheek. Each various duty bound on social man,

Twas his with glowing duty to perform, As crystal pure, his stream of conduct ran,

Unstain’d by folly, undisturb’d by storm

With me, then, stranger ! mourn departed worth •

Steel'd is the heart that can forbear to sigh; Let deep regret call all thy sorrows forth

Live as he liv'd—and fear not then to die.*

* Dr. Stonhouse had the highest esteem for Mr. Shapland, who attended his family, as well as that of Mrs. More, even after he had left off general practice. Dr. Stonhouse, in 1789, presented to Mr. Shapland a piece of plate" as a testimony of his gratitude for the restoration of health, through the blessing of God.”

The Editor trusts to be excused for subjoining to the sepulchral Inscriptions, the following “Lines, which were suggested by seeing a rustic structure in Mrs. Hannah More's Garden, at Barleywood, and hearing it called a Classical Temple.

What have we here?-a temple! if 'tis such,
Art has done little-if a shed, too much.
Four wooden pegs a wooden roof sustain,
Just wide enough to shield you from the rain;
If in the middle bolt upright you stand,
Expos’d to all the winds on either hand :
This pride of Barley-wood, how can I name?
And how inscribe it on the roll of fame ?
It is not Tuscan, Saxon, nor yet Doric,
Commemorative, votive, or historic :-
'Tis but an emblem of its Owner's mind,
Erect and firm, by no false taste refin'd ;
Of steady fabric, pointing to the skies ;
A friendly beacon to inquiring eyes ;*
Open to all, by all reputed good,
And often prais'd when little understood.

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