« AnteriorContinuar »
BY ARCHDEACON SPENCER,
" Who is this that cometh from Edom? with dyed garments from Bozrah?– He that is glorious in his apparel, travelling in the greatness of his strength.”—Isaiah, c. xiii. v. 1.
Days are gone, by many a token,
Long foretold, but slighted yet ;
And the sun in blood is set.
All the powers of Heaven are shaken ;
Ocean yet suspends its roar ;
" Time itself shall be no more !”
Fills the wide expanse of air ?
See the Son of Man appear!
Edom's colours round him spread,
In his strength, the earth to tread !
As on Calvary's mount he stood,
“ In the vesture dipp'd in blood."
Down he bends his sovereign way
Sun, and moon, and stars decay!
One known tongue to every nation
Strikes the ear, and bursts the tomb: Each long slumbering generation,
Wakes to individual doom.
Midst that host of sinners crowded,
Not one deed of guilt concealed, Every wicked act unshrouded,
Every shameful thought revealed ! Where is now the bold blasphemer?
Palsied is his daring tongue, While he looks on that Redeemer,
Whom his impious words have stung.
If the best thy great salvation
Must attain with trembling fear, Lord and judge of all creation,
Where shall sinful man appear?
God of love! and mercies tender!
Stern to vice, to weakness mild; Teacher, Saviour, Sire, Defender !
Save, oh save, thy suppliant child !
By the claims which saints inherit,
From thy blood, for converts poured, By thine all-prevailing spirit,
By thy covenanted word;
By thy tears, in sorrow weeping,
Over hardened sinners doom ; Take me to thy gracious keeping,
Lead me to thy glorious home!
TO THE COUNTESS OF CHESTERFIELD, AND HER SISTER, THE HON. MRS. COL. ANSON, ON BEING REMINDED OF A PROMISE OF A
I've not forgot the sisters fair,
I've not forgot the promise made,
How oft, when evening's cooler hour
* The late Mrs. General G.
Epping Forest, where was situated a summer lodge of the General's.
BY THE LADY E. S. WORTLEY.
My deep unutterable distress
Heart, heart, be strong!
I will each sad emotion hide,
Even now-ere long!
And many a one shall say of me,
Ah! false and wrong!
But one, perchance, with deeper skill,
'Mid the light throng!
And, oh! if such a one there be,
Now, heart, be strong!
THE FANCY BALL.
BY THE HONORABLE CHARLES PHIPPS.
I DARE say few of my readers have ever visited the little town of Homesgrove; indeed, unless they had been determined to travel very far out of their road to wherever they were going, or had a second sight of the fame it was to acquire through the medium of this eventful tale, it is very improbable that they should have discovered a place which neither Mogg or Patterson have been able to coax into any cross road between Falmouth and Berwick. Unknown, however, as Homesgrove may generally be as yet, and undiscovered by many as it may still remain, I can assure my readers that the interests, consequence, and notoriety of that small, unchartered collection of bricks and mortar appeared to its inhabitants as important and as worthy of attention as those of any city, reformed or unreformed, in the united kingdom. It had its great people, swelling with their own grandeur ; its little people, puffing up to become of consequence; its select society and its vulgar set; its aristocrats and republicans; its geniuses and its men of sense; its wits and its buts; in short, an epitome of the whole household stuff of a large metropolis.
Amongst the greatest of the great, and the richest of the rich, was Mr. Leslie, the banker, who, if his wealth was to be estimated by the number of notes in circulation with the design of Leslie Priory engraved the top lefthand corner, and the autograph of Archibald Leslie written in the diagonal righthand one, must have been more opulent