divinity. Learning, alas! has too many sons thus loving darkness rather than light.”

I was lamenting the feebleness of modern Christianity." How weak," he exclaimed, with much fervour, "is the faith even of the most sincere! Jonas taken from the sea, Lazarus from the grave, Jeremy from his dungeon, Daniel from the lion's den are not these instances of the Divine protection sufficient to inspire us with confidence? But we are still bowed by every wind.

Our faith

is dead and powerless; nothing starts into life beneath its embrace. Yet the Arm is not shortened that it cannot save. He who walked in the flames with the Hebrew brethren, was also present with Latimer and Ridley. And wherever two or three are gathered together in the name of Jesus Christ, there will He be in the midst of them. Oh, let us trust in HIM; and in our darkest and dreariest path walk on with cheerful hope, fearing nothing, since the great SHEPHERD is always nigh at hand, with his rod and staff ready to comfort and protect

He spoke with affectionate kindness of Henry Martyn, and mentioned a remark he had made to him, of the influence of religion even upon the accomplishments of literature. "Poetry itself," he observed, " 66 grew more sweet and beautiful when read by the light of the Star of Bethlehem."

On commencing his residence at Cambridge, Henry had, by the advice of his friends, relinquished his poetical pursuits; but he occasionally indulged his fancy in writing verses, some of which were hastily scrawled on his mathematical papers. This, he told me, was like refreshing his senses now and then with a nosegay. Brief and imperfect as these fragments are, they are enough to fill us with regret that the harvest was never reaped. He had made some progress in a sacred poem, which he called The Christiad. The two following stanzas, says Mr. Southey, affected me strangely; and who can read them without experiencing the same sensations!

THUS far have I pursued my solemn theme,

With self-rewarding toil thus far have sung Of Godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem

The lyre which I in early days have strung; And own my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell that solaced me in saddest hour

On the dark cypress: and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan and are heard no

more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?

Shall I no more reanimate the lay?

Oh! thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,

F

One little space prolong my mournful day! One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way,

And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free!

The mournful close of Kirke White's history is too familiar to the memories of us all to require any further mention. What I could add would only deepen the melancholy of the story. The "youthful traveller" has reached that Home, where no harp hangs upon the cypress!

COWLEY,

AND HIS FRIEND WILLIAM HERVEY.

He was my friend, the truest friend on earth;
A strong and mighty influence joined our birth.
Nor did we envy the most sounding name

By friendship given of old to Fame-
None but his brethren he, and sisters knew
Whom the kind youth preferred to me;
And even in that we did agree,

For much above myself I loved them too.

Cowley on the death of Hervey.

COMPLAINTS of the dreariness of Cambridge are as old as Milton. In our own days it was said, with some exaggeration, to have driven Robert Hall mad. "When I look upon a tree," he remarked, "it seems like Nature putting out signals of distress." Yet there is one walk behind the colleges which Meditation might love to haunt; and here we know that Cowley delighted to wander, or muse by the river side, as he has told us in his own beautiful verses:

Cum me tranquilla mente sedentem,
Vidisti in ripa, Came serene, tua.

The very name of Cowley has a peculiar charm. The sunshine of his temper diffused a warmth and

beauty over a cold and melancholy fortune. Johnson has ridiculed his love of the country, yet his writings amply prove it to have been sincere. He said finely, that he always went with delight out of the world, as it was man's, into the world, as it was Nature's, and as it was God's. And in another place,

God the first garden made, and the first city, Cain.

A line in which we have the probable original of Cowper's celebrated verse—

God made the country, and man made the town.

Cowley's sojourn at Trinity forms the pleasantest passage in his history. Cambridge, although reckoning our greatest poets among her children, has no cause to boast of their gratitude or affection. Milton's hostility and hatred are, alas, too well remembered; Spenser, indeed, has mentioned the University in terms of regard, but of his own college not a single notice any where occurs; while Dryden's preference of "Athens in his riper age," shows how freshly he bore in mind the fortnight's confinement within the college walls, &c. But with Cowley, his college seems to have possessed all the charm of a home, and he pours out his love for it, as for a mother. We hear of no