STANZAS.

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;
Now the seventh last seal is broken,
And the sun in blood is set.

All the powers of Heaven are shaken;
Ocean yet suspends its roar;
While the eternal oath is taken,
"Time itself shall be no more!"

Hark! what voice of more than thunder
Fills the wide expanse of air?
Mid the purple clouds asunder,
See the Son of Man appear!

Robed in Bozrah's garments gory,
Edom's colours round him spread,
Travelling from the heights of glory,
In his strength, the earth to tread !

Not despised, forlorn, rejected,
As on Calvary's mount he stood,
By his timid friends neglected,
"In the vesture dipp'd in blood."

By his seraph-guards attended,

Down he bends his sovereign way
At that light of lights offended,

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

MARRIAGE PRESENT.

I'VE not forgot the sisters fair,
I've not forgot the beauties rare,

I've not forgot the presents due,
E'en from the cradle marked for you,
When Hymen's torch, with spiral flame,
Should seek you in a husband's name.

I've not forgot the promise made,
Ah! no-nor that beloved shade,*
So wont to muse, and take a part
In all that touched a husband's heart.

How oft, when evening's cooler hour
Enticed us from the leaf-clad bower,
And forest † glade and tangled walk,
Provoked the stroll, and then the talk.
How oft would then her guileless lips
(As bee a roseate banquet sips)

With rapture dwell (so sweet the theme),

On these fair sisters-love's night-dream!

*The late Mrs. General G.

Epping Forest, where was situated a summer lodge of the General's.

BB

STANZAS.

BY THE LADY E. S. WORTLEY.

My deep unutterable distress

Now will I fashion, mould, and dress,

Till it shall look like Happiness!

Heart, heart, be strong!

I will each sad emotion hide,

And arm myself with loftiest pride,
And thrust each sign of grief aside,

Even now-ere long!

And many a one shall say of me,
"Oh! who beside so bless'd may be,

So glad, so buoyant, and so free?"

Ah! false and wrong!

But one, perchance, with deeper skill,

May mark the hidden, secret ill,

And with a kind compassion thrill!

'Mid the light throng!

And, oh! if such a one there be,

And yet that one will smile with me,

I will forswear my misery!

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 in the top lefthand corner, and the autograph of Archibald Leslie written in the diagonal righthand one, must have been more opulent