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From the Literary Gazette.

THE OTHER DAY.

It seems, love, but the other day

Since thou and I were young together: And yet we've trod a toilsome way,

And wrestled oft with stormy weather. I see thee in thy spring of years,

Ere cheek or curl had known decay; And there's a music in mine ears,

As sweet as heard the other day!

Affection like a rainbow bends

Above the past, to glad my gaze, And something still of beauty lends To memory's dream of other days; Within my heart there seems to beat

That lighter, happier heart of youth, When looks were kind, and lips were sweet, And love's world seemed a world of truth.

Within this inner heart of mine

A thousand golden fancies throng, And whispers of a tune divine Appeal with half-forgotten tongue : I know, I feel, 'tis but a dream,

That thou art old, and I am grey,
And that, however brief it seem
We
We are not as the other day.

Not as the other day-when flowers

Shook fragrance on our joyous track, When Love could never count the hours, And Hope ne'er dreamt of looking back; When, if the world had been our own,

We thought how changed should be its state,Then every cot should be a throne,

The poor as happy as the great!

When we'd that scheme which Love imparts,
That chain all interests to bind--

The fellowship of human hearts,
The federation of mankind!

And though with us time travels on,
Still relics of our youth remain,

As some flowers, when their spring is gone,
Yet late in autumn bloom again.

Alas! 'mid worldly things and men,

Love's hard to caution or convince ! And hopes, which were but fables then, Have left with us their moral since; The twilight of the memory cheers

The soul with many a star sublime, And still the mists of other years Hang dew-drops on the leaves of Time.

For what was then obscure and far
Hath grown more radiant to our eyes,
Although the promised, hoped-for star
Of social love hath yet to rise.
Still foot by foot the world is crost-

Still onward, though it slow appear,
Who knows how small a balance lost
Might cast the bright sun from its sphere!
All time is lost in littleness!

All time, alas! if rightly shown,
Is but a shadow, more or less,
Upon life's lowly dial thrown.
The greatest pleasures, greatest grief,
Can never bear the test of years:
The pleasures vanish leaf by leaf,

The sorrow wastes away in tears.

Then, though it seem a trifling space
Since youth, and love, and hope were ours,
Yet those who love us most may trace
The hand of age amid our flowers.
Thus day by day life's ages grow;

The sands which hourly fall and climb
Mark centuries in their ceaseless flow,
And cast the destinies of Time!

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Husи, hush, he sleeps! Oh! softly tread,
Nor wake the infant's blessed dreams;
Love pillows now his precious head,
Affection's eye upon him beams;
Sleep on, dear baby boy!

Oh, watch the roseate tints that play
Upon his downy cheek, the smile
Around his tiny mouth
Oh say,
What are thy thoughts untouched with guile,
Sweet, trusting baby boy?

Have they now stray'd to that land where
Thy angel-mother's soul is flown?
Dost thou with her communion share,
With things of light around God's throne,
Thou blessed baby boy?

Or, doth her spirit hover round,
And guard thy sleep with all the care

That in a mother's heart is found;
The holiest thing that blossom'd here,
To greet thee, baby boy?

Oh may thy heart in after years,
Feel well how great her love for thee,
When thou dost know the bitter tears
She shed, ere that her soul did flee

From thee, her baby boy!

When all was brightly round her beaming,
When love had strengthened each dear tie,
The mandate came, with sorrow teeming,-
Her Father call'd, and she must die,
And leave thee, baby boy!

Meekly that angel soul obey'd,
And drank the bitter cup so young;
For all she loved she fervent pray'd,
And blessings from her last breath sprung,
Her husband and her boy.

Sleep on, sweet babe! the child of prayer
To us is left; and Heaven still
Will guard thy growing footsteps here,
And mark the path thou must fulfil,
Oh blessed baby boy !

From the Eclectic Review.

HYMN.

E. C. M'C.

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What though the vain and worldly deem The way of God a desert rude,

Green pastures and the tranquil stream Are found in that sweet solitude.

There the good shepherd loves to lead, In noontide heat His little flock: There they repose and there they feed, Beneath the shadow of the Rock.

Fearless of harm, to that clear spring

The dove descends, her wandering o'er, Laves in the stream her weary wing,

Nor leaves the quiet shelter more.

Thou God of grace, and peace, and love!
Teach me to find that region blest;
Oh for the pinions of the dove,
To flee away and be at rest!

AN EVENING HYMN.

BY THOMAS MILLER, BASKET MAKER.

How many days, with mute adieu, Have gone down yon untrodden sky! And still it looks as clear and blue,

As when it first was hung on high. The rolling sun, the frowning cloud

That threw the lightning in its rear, The thunder, trampling deep and loud, Have left no dark impression there.

The village bells, with silver chime,

Come softened by the distant shore; Though I have heard them many a time, They never rang so sweet before, And silence rests upon the hill;

A listening awe pervades the air; The very flowers are shut, and still, And bowed, as if in silent prayer.

The darkening woods, the fading trees, The grasshopper's fast feeble sound," The flowers just wakened by the breeze, All leave the stillness more profound. The twilight takes a deeper shade,

The dusky pathways blacker grow, And silence reigns in glen and glade, And all is mute below.

Now shine the starry hosts of night,

Gazing on earth with golden eyes; Bright guardians of the blue-browed night, What are ye in your native skies? I know not! neither can I know, Nor on what leader ye attend, For whence ye came, nor whither go,

Nor what your aim or what your end.

Yet there ye shine, and there have shone,
In one eternal hour of prime,"
Each rolling burningly, alone,

Through boundless space and countless time. Aye, there ye shine, the golden dews,

That pave the realms by seraphs trod;
There, through yon echoing vaults diffuse
The song of choral worlds to God.

Gold wears to dust-yet there ye are ;
Time rots the diamond-there ye roll
In primal light, as if each star

Enshrined an everlasting soul!

And does it not-since your bright throngs
One all-enlightening spirit own,
Praised there by pure sidereal tongues,
Eternal, glorious, blest alone?

Could men but see what you have seen-
Unfold awhile the shrouded past,
From all that is, to what has been,-

The glance how rich! the range how vast! The birth of time, the rise, the fall

Of empires, myriads, ages flown, Thrones, cities, tongues, arts, worships-all The things whose echoes are not gone.

And there ye shine, as if to mock

The children of a mortal sire,

The storm, the bolt, the earthquake's shock, The red volcano's cataract fire,

Drought, famine, plague and blood and flame,
All nature's ills, and life's worst woes,
Are nought to you; ye smile the same,
And scorn alike their dawn and close.

Not only doth the voiceful day
Thy loving kindness, Lord, proclaim—
But night, with its sublime array
Of worlds doth magnify thy name!
Yea-while adoring seraphim

Before thee bend the willing knee,
From every star a choral hymn
Goes up unceasingly to thee!

Oh Holy Father! 'mid the calm

And stillness of this evening hour, We here would lift our solemn psalm To praise thy goodness and thy power! And worlds beyond the furthest star Whose light hath reached the human eye, Shall catch the anthem from afar

And roll it through immensity!

Kept by thy goodness through the day,
Thanksgivings to thy name we pour;
Night o'er us, with its tears, we pray
Thy love to guard us evermore!
In grief console-in gladness bless-
In darkness, guide--in sickness, cheer-
Till, in the Savior's righteousness,
Before thy throne our souls appear!

"HAVE FAITH IN ONE ANOTHER."

BY J. E. CARPENTER,

I.

HAVE faith in one another

When ye meet in friendship's name; In the true friend is a brother,

And his heart should throb the same; Though your paths in life may differ, Since the hours when first ye met, Have faith in one another,

You may need that friendship yet.

II.

Have faith in one another,

When ye whisper love's fond vow; It will not be always summer,

Nor be always bright as now; And when wintry clouds hang o'er thee, If some kindred heart ye share, And have faith in one another, Oh! ye never shall despair.

III.

Have faith in one another,

And let honor be your guide, And let truth alone be spoken, Whatever may betide; The false may reign a season, And oh doubt not that it will, But, have faith in one another, And the truth shall triumph still.

MISCELLANEOUS.

ence in controversy; while there is a depth, a fulness, a cogency in the arguments of Edwards which we think it would not be possible for the unbiased understanding to resist,-Quart. Rev.

A BRITISH OPINION OF JONATHAN EDWARDS. -The most elaborate treatise on original sin is, confessedly, that of President Edwards, of Ame- BURYING ALIVE.-The custom of premature rica. It is not only the most elaborate, but the burial in France-or rather the law, for we bemost complete. There was every thing in the lieve it is matter of police regulation-whatever intellectual character, the devout habits, and the arguments of sound policy it may have to recomlong practice of this powerful reasoner, to bring mend it, is opposed by one of such overwhelming his gigantic specimens of theological argument force, that the continued maintenance of the as near to perfection as we may expect any hu- practice, in defiance of that, is one of those curiman composition to approach; unless we except, ous social problems, our satire against which is and even this exception is not in all respects a only disarmed by remembering how many such disadvantage to so abstract a reasoner, his compa- obstinate errors there are amongst ourselves. rative deficiency in theological learning. We There is in this neglected argument an analogy, are not aware that any other human compositions which seems to us terrible and striking, with that exhibit, in the same degree as his, the love of which we have always held to be the one unantruth, mental independence, grasp of intellect, swerable reason (supposing there to be no other,) power of consecrating all his strength on a diffi- against the infliction of death as a punishment for cult inquiry, reverence for God, calm self-posses-crime-the uncertainty of human testimony, the sion, superiority to all polemical unfairness, be- fallacy of human inference, and the irrevocable nevolent regard for the highest interests of man, nature of the penalty if a wrong be done at the keen analysis of arguments, and the irresistible instigation of the one or of the other. One sinforce of ratiocination. He reminds us of the scene gle discovery of the kind should have been described by Sir Walter Scott, between Richard enough to arrest the sword in the hand of the exand Saladin, uniting in himself the sharpness of ecutioner for ever after-a number such, make the scimitar with the strength of the battle-axe. every subsequent execution, in a doubtful case,To the doctrine of original sin, he brings his ex- surround it by what rules and formalities you perience as a polemical writer, sanctified by his will-a murder. So, when we consider the many ripening devotion as a Christian. With the ac- cases in which life puts on the temporary aspect complishments which have won the admiration of death-brought prominently before the public of the greatest philosophers, he has, in this trea- notice, too, as the instances have been by recent tise, joined the comprehensive survey of facts, discussions-it might be supposed that the Frenchthe facility in reducing these facts to a general man would shrink from the mere speculative principle, and the dignified sobriety in explain-chance of being buried alive; but if the speculaing and applying texts of Scripture, which place tion were borne out by a single fact, we can him high in the first order of Christian theologians. scarcely conceive of any sanitory or other arguHis piety is so exalted, his reasonings are so lucid, ments strong enough or inevitable enough to that we feel, in studying this production, that we maintain the practice for a day longer. What, are dealing with a man whom it is hardly possi- then, by those who know how men's fears and ble to charge either with an unsound principle, tenderness ordinarily operate, shall be said of or with a fallacious argument. His style of lan- its continued assertion in the face of such fearful guage, indeed, though not wanting in perspecuity statistics (official) as the following? The numand fitness for his purpose, is cumbrous, involv-ber of living interments that have been interrupted, and far from being elegant; but what he wants in gracefulness, he more than compensates by vigor; like the statue of Hercules, that strikes our feeling of strength rather than of beauty.

ed by accidental circumstances alone, in France, since 1833, amounts to 94! Ninety-four attested cases, in which the living have narrowly escaped being laid amongst the dead!-the wrong of the His one simple object is, to convince: with this premature death being nothing to the horror of that object nothing interferes-neither feeling, nor inconceivable awakening in the grave! In the learning, nor fancy. He seems to live in a re-eye of common sense, judged by the rules of the gion where there is no element but light, and no most ordinary inference, each one of these cases, enjoyment but the perception of truth; the light not so escaped, would have been a murder; beis felt to be from heaven, the truth relating to cause the plea of non-intention cannot be allowed God and man and immortality. It is the genius to a law which risks it against such evidence as of philosophy in the temple, laying the richest this. Of these ninety-four cases, 35 persons reoffering of intellect on the altar of God, confess-covered spontaneously from their lethargy at the ing in the name of all humanity the common sin, moment when the funeral ceremonies were about and adoring the Holy One as the spring, not of taking place; 13 were aroused under the stimulus being only, but of goodness to his creatures. We of the busy love and grief about them; 7 by the know not whether it be possible to select any fall of the coffin which enclosed them; 9 by the other human writing of the same length, in which | pricking of their flesh in sewing up the shroud; the proposed object is so steadily kept in view, 5 by the sense of suffocation in their coffins; 19 and attained by stages so natural, and so logically certain with nothing superficial, nothing irrelevant, nothing obscure, nothing to disturb the calmest intellect, or to shock the purest heart. Comparing it with the works of Jeremy Taylor on the same subject, we should say the flowing eloquence of the learned bishop cannot conceal his shallowness from the reader of any experi

by accidental delays which occurred in the interment (how significant is this item!) and 6 by voluntary delays suggested by doubts as to the death! These, then, are they who have escaped: now, think of the whole numerous family of trances and epilepsies, and remember that the population of France are habitually huddled into their narrow homes within four-and-twenty, or at most eight

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