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might without difficulty be accomplished in a hundred circles; has been accomplished here at an expenditure which, divided into shares, must be comparatively trivial; and by an exercise of mutual trust, uncommon only in social life, and freely offered to a tenfold extent, and as a matter of course, by every business man to his mere business connections.

But I have said enough, and the real value of the subject lies in a direction more practical than that of speech. My readers may frame the peroration to their own liking; for myself, I am but a poor second fiddle, content to preach while others have practised.

SPRING.

ACHESPE

"Melt and flow,

Cold white snow;

Sunshine, bid the buds unfold."

So whispers in a south wind Spring's sweet voice!
She comes-fair Queen,

Pale-robed in green

Spangled all with white and gold,

To mount her mossy throne;

Nor cometh she alone.

Attendant choirs of amorous birds rejoice!

Blue skies, red-blossomed trees and lengthening hours,
Sweet-briar fragrance and the warm soft showers

Say "Winter's reign is over,-He is dead,

And buried in the swollen river bed !"

J. B.

LINES ON THE BURNING OF THE FREE LIBRARY AT BIRMINGHAM.

Hark! through the streets that sudden cry of fire!
Frighting composure, as with clamours loud
The dread alarm is bruited by the crowd,
Now madly rushing where yon flames aspire.
Ah! what hath thus aroused Destruction's ire ?
Say ruthless fiend, what prompted thy design
To make a holocaust of Learning's shrine?
Why such malignant fury at thy hands?
Why on this temple fall thy burning brands?

Here Wisdom lived serene, and might be found
In various guises on the walls around;

And here were quaint and curious records stored,
Eventful chronicles-a public hoard.

Both Art and Science, with consummate toil,
Had garnered here a literary spoil,

The dower of ages long since passed away,
And the ripe genius of our later day.
Within a bower, to his great use ordained,

Amid his works, the shade of Shakespeare reigned,
That glorious being, whose immortal name,
Shines daily brighter from the scroll of fame.
Others there were, a host, of mighty mind,
Skilled in the arts to teach or please mankind :
'Mong these, Cervantes dwelt, a special guest,
Lord of the choicest lore that Spain possest.

Here too, might intellectual students gain
That mental food, which fortifies the brain;
And cultured scholars, on researches bent,
Commune with Knowledge to their sage content.
The devotees of Truth who sought the place,
Had frequent revelations of her grace,
For Truth, to frank intelligences kind,
Unveils her charms to the enquiring mind:
While many a toiler, when his task was done,
Instructive hours of entertainment won.
Throughout the dome such tranquil favors spread,
Great spirits seemed to fondly breathe o'erhead
Until, disastrous demon, it befel

For thee to make this hallowed place a hell.
Lo, how the red and vapoury glare grows higher,
As from the charnel of a funeral pyre,

While through the windows liberated flames
Leap like live lightning and devour the frames.
The engineers, a prompt obedient band,
From every side on coigns of vantage stand,
And stimulated by the roaring din

Inject swift floods to quench the foe within.
But vain their efforts, for the liquid stream
Rolls back-a scalding atmosphere of steam;
While sheets of smoke, depending like a pall,
Conceal, at times, the sorry scene from all;
Anon, chance breezes lift the lurid leaven,
And purge its sooty filthiness from heaven.
Towards the fane, but late so richly graced,
A sadly serious population haste;

Ten thousand souls, twice told, a rueful band
Of public sorrowers, round the precincts stand.
Their loud laments invade the realms of air,
In dismal syllables of grief and prayer;

For much they mourn, their native boast destroyed-
Their favorite temple, and especial pride.
But unavailing rise the notes of woe,
Availless too the watery torrents flow;
The furious fire its fatal force maintains,
And every instant gives it greater gains.

Up the tall columns flaming phantoms steal,
And scale the ceiling with conspicuous zeal;
Where each with each in burning ardour vies,
Like salamanders fighting for a prize.
Anon, the roof deprived of all its props,
A cumbrous mass, into the furnace drops-
Drops thundering like an avalanche of fire,
Whilst igneous atoms rocket-like aspire:
And the dread element, without a check,
Devotes its rage to leave the whole a wreck ;
On each combustible alternate preys,
Or wraps the whole in one consuming blaze.
From shelf to shelf the conflagration crawls,
And tongues ignipotent involve the walls;
O'er which they breathe an incandescent glow,
Or flaunt defiance on the crowd below;
While thoughts, disbodied from burnt pages, rise
In radiant satisfaction to the skies;

As if those sapient souls who gave them birth,
Disguised like sparks, had caught them up from earth.
Terrific scene-calamitously great,

Harsh manifesto of unfavoring Fate.

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Now, day declining seeks his wintry lair,
And shadowy evening dims the frosty air;
Seldom the sun on such a sight hath set,
Seldom such ruin on his journey met,
Seldom hath night, to darkness drear allied,
Such memorable mischief sought to hide.
At length the misty-mantled morn draws near,
And round the spot spectators sad appear;
Dejectedly they scan with curious eye
The empty chambers, open to the sky.
There, yester-morn, in sequent order reared,
Five times ten thousand treasured tomes appeared;
Now charred and valueless-a filthy load,
Behold them ashes o'er the floor bestrowed.
Ashes, wherewith but lately was combined
Inherent power to entertain the mind;
Akin to bodies, whence the soul has fled,
They lie a mouldering mass, beneath the tread.
For every beauty that their being graced,
A fiery dissolution has erased.

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Enough of gloom-the muse would now impart
A cheering message to the tortured heart,
Conclude her numbers in a happier vein,
And faltering hope propitiously sustain.

Know then, that while the kindled flames rose high,
Branding the leaden forehead of the sky,
And while loud lips a general sorrow spoke,
The sovereign Genius of the city woke-
Woke and affected with considerate care,
Addressed herself our losses to repair.
She first inert despondency supprest,

Then roused such generous ardour in the breast,
That subtly moved, the public spirit rose
Filled with the bounty that rich gifts disclose.
Each lapsing hour remits a wealthy tide
To be in schemes restorative applied.
Resuscitate from ashes, 'fore our eyes,

Ere long, shall Learning, like the Phoenix rise--
Rise up re-plumed, to occupy yon halls,
Enriching, more than formerly, the walls;
So that indemnified with greater gains,
The future may appreciate our pains.

C.

SAVONAROLA.

WITH the sole exception of the Holy Land, there is no country exercising a greater fascination over the minds of men than Italy. Its great men are the world's great men; giants in intellect, to whose names succeeding ages seem but to add additional lustre.

The birthplace of our modern civilisation, it has produced some of the greatest and noblest names in politics, theology, literature, science, and art. It is the country of Cicero and of Dante; of Michael Angelo and of Petrarch; and, if some cynic should add, of Pope Alexander the Fourth, we would reply, "Yes, and of Savonarola." And if we claim for the latter a place in the bead-roll of fame, which contains the illustrious names we have just mentioned, and many more, surely we may appeal confidently to those who have studied his life, to say whether or no we are guilty of exaggeration. He who could lead captive one of the principal cities of Italy, and could win over that modern Sybaris, even though but for a time, to a nobler and a higher life, was surely possessed of no mean genius, and has a good title to be classed among the world's great men.

Girolamo or Jerome Savonarola, came of no mean family. His grandfather Michael, a native of the city of Padua, attained such eminence at the University of that city, as a physician, that he was invited to settle in Ferrara, at the especial request of the Marquis of Este. His father Nicholas, has few claims upon our attention. He married a daughter of the house of the Buonacorsi, of Mantua, one of the most illustrious families of Italy; a lady possessed of those graces and accomplishments, which are not the necessary concomitants of noble birth. Such was the mother of Girolamo Savonarola, and we see in the son many qualities which he cannot but have inherited from her.

He was born on the 21st of September, 1452, at Ferrara: the third of a family consisting of seven children. The eldest son entered the army; the second chose rather to manage his father's property; and so it happened that Girolamo was destined, in the minds of his parents, for the study of medicine. His grandfather too, as grandfathers will, seems to have made a pet of him; and there is little room to doubt, that had his inclinations lain in that direction he might have become a famous physician. But this was not to be, for his natural temperament was of a grave cast and inclined him to the cloister. When he was but ten years old, his grandfather died; and his father then undertook his education. That was the time of scholastic philosophy; and so, at an age when most boys are struggling with the merest rudiments of learning, Girolamo was studying the works of Aquinas and Aristotle. We are told too, that in addition to these more serious studies, "he read the

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