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How should she move then her grief-laden wing,
Or leave my sad complaints, and pæon's ring?
Six Pleiads live in light, in darkness one,

Sing mirthful swains; but let me sigh alone."

We scarcely know how to extract, so many fine passages abound,
and so many that we must of necessity leave for the reader to ex-
tract for himself. One more lyric in its entirety we must give.
Nevermore let holy Dee,
O'er other rivers brave,
Or boast how, in his jollity,
Kings rode upon his wave.
But silent be, and ever know

That Neptune for my fare would row.
Those were captives. If he say
That now I am no other;

Yet she that bears my prison's key
Is fairer than love's mother!

A god took me, those, one less high,
They wore their bonds, so do not I.
Swell then, gently swell ye floods
As proud of what ye bear,
And nymphs that in low coral woods
String pearls upon your hair,
Around; and tell if ere this day,
A fairer prize was seen at sea.
See the salmons leap and bound
To please us as we pass,

Each mermaid on the rocks around,
Lets fall her brittle glass.

As they their beauties did despise,
And loved no mirror but your eyes.

Blow, but gently blow, fair wind
From the forsaken shore,
And be as to the halcyon kind,
Till we have ferried o'er :

So may'st thou still have leave to blow,
And fan the way where she shall go.

Floods, and nymphs, and winds, and all
That see us both together,

Into a disputation fall,

And then resolve me, whether

The greatest kindness each can show,

Will quit our trust of you or no?

In conclusion we have only to call attention to the recent publication of a third book of the Pastorals, edited by T. C. Croker, Esq., and printed for the Percy Society. This third book justifies all we have said of Browne, and there are passages in it, if any thing, surpassing those which we have quoted. However we trust enough has been given to enlist the sympathy of the reader, and to relieve us from the charge of having gained his ear under false pretences.

EPILOGUE.

THE first volume of the Midland-Metropolitan is now completed, and it is with great pleasure that the Editors are engaging in the task of commencing a second, under far better auspices than those with which the first was begun.

In this second volume, it has been proposed to make a number of slight alterations as to form, type, &c., and general management, which the experience of the last seven months has shown to be very advisable.

The number of able writers interested in the success of this Magazine has greatly increased, and it is with much satisfaction that the Editors are able to announce that they expect shortly to receive articles from some of the first authors of the day.

The review department will for the future receive more careful attention, and the general tone of the serial will be strengthened by a series papers on the great subjects of the time, and others of a more scientific nature than have yet appeared.

At the same time that the Editors have been gratified by the many kind opinions of the press, and of private friends, they hope in their future course to be much more deserving of them than they have proved themselves at present. Still

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enlisting themselves on the side of intellectual progress," they hope to make what has been styled their " earnestness of purpose, and fervid enthusiasm," serve a practical purpose, and to write equally for the information as for the amusement of their readers; and with that hope they have con

fidence in asking their former friends not only to continue their support, but to use their kind endeavours for the increase of their circulation, for on this its ultimate success depends.

THOMAS RAGG, PRINTER, HIGH STREET, BIRMINGHAM.

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WHAT a chaotic whirlpool, or beautifully flowing river, is life, according to the stand-point whence we survey it! With this philosophical, or it may be rhapsodic, exclamation, we commence our narrative; which, being a life one, will either appear as a poor bit of mosaic, or the complete part of a complete whole: complete in itself, yet by rigid laws related to the one great ocean of life whence it draws its vitality and being. From this curious alembic where so many diverse elements are ceaselessly going through the fire-process of purification, and coming forth pure gold, or mere scoria-increasing the mighty heap of refuse which nature takes to herself, and by her own peculiar processes converts to her sustenance and support,- -we propose to select one, to take his height and his depth, to note how he conducts himself in this strange era, how he passes through his Slough of Despond, and settles for himself, after much battle with doubt and scepticism, the mystery of the Universe and his own relation thereto. For we hold that every true history of a soul that has struggled and wrestled with the mystery of Being, and won for itself somewhat of peace and certainty, must be of use to his still struggling and wrestling fellows. There is such a monotony in the human heart, that the doubts and sorrows of one may be the doubts and sorrows of many-the same sun sheds his glory on all-the same Universe propounds its fearful Sphynx-riddles, and ruthlessly demands some answer from every child of earth: the VOL. II. [No.

B

course of one who has, in some way, reached the place of reonciliation and trust, may guide cther foot-worn and weary wanderers to a goal of peace and rest. However, "the lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposal thereof is of the Lord."

How much do we not owe to our birth! Nay, considered rightly, does it not to an almost fatal extent depend upon the mother who bore us and the place in which we were cast "to be, to do, and to suffer," as to what we shall become and how we shall comport ourselves in the after years of life. The cradle in which we were rocked is often a prophecy of our future. The air which we first inspired is a tell-tale of the breath we shall afterwards expire a blessing or a curse. The light in which the yet unformed vision beholds the phantasmagoria of life and its strange ongoings, is almost a revealment of how we shall look on the world, interpret its meaning, and rede its riddle, in the years that should bring the philosophic mind. It is necessary, therefore, that we look at the birth-place and birth-giver of our little John Edway, who may prove a hero or a histrio, a man or a mask, as the Fates in their high council determine.

These large towns of modern civilization, in the which are thrown the lots of so many human beings-where roses and darnels grow up together in wild disorder-where wealth and comfort, poverty and squalor, touch and elbow each other in uncouth familiarity-where the blackest crimes and virtues of the purest beauty dwell together in outward peace and amity—where no man knoweth his neighbour, but all live in a crowded isolation and myriadpeopled solitude-are places worthy of the closest examination. Strange seething pots, too often fierce volcanos of man's construction are they. Yet, if from them have come most of what looks so base in the history of man; from them, also, have come most of what raises humanity so very near its God-origin, and is so full of rich promise in the fair page of that otherwise black history. In towns have been born and nurtured the best and the worst of the species. There have germinated, bloomed, and borne fruit all the projects for the betterment of man. There, even now, is being done nearly all that is done for the ignorant, the sorrowing, and the suffering of our race. Healthful they are not; moral they are not; but promising of health and morality they are; and in them will be won the liberties and well-being of the people.

In one of the most thickly populated towns of the midland counties was our little Edway born. His parents-ah, it is worth while to glance at them for a moment! His parents were of the middle class; industrious, careful, pains-taking. Few men toiled more severely than his father. From a journeyman he, by constant industry and self-denial, had become a small master. Work was his characteristic. Early and late he was at his bench; and a more skilful carpenter was not to be found for twenty miles round. Winter and summer, morning and eventide, he was ever there. In his love for, and belief in work, he was a man after Carlyle's own heart. His soul had never questioned Nature as

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