By Death and Hell; —

'I charge thee LIVE!- repent and pray; In dust thine infamy deplore:

There yet is mercy;-go thy way,

And sin no more.

For friendship's gold.

'Seek the true treasure, seldom found,

Of power the fiercest griefs to calm,
And soothe the bosom's deepest wound

With heavenly balm.

'Whate'er thy lot-whate'er thou be,

THE GALLICAN CHURCH, AT THE PERIOD OF THE REVOLUTION.

Croly.

[An example of elevated and impressive narrative, combining depth and force of expressive tone.]

It is among the most memorable facts of intellectual decline, that of the forty thousand clergy of France, not one man of conspicuous ability was roused by the imminent danger of his church. Like a flock of sheep, they relied on their numbers; and the infidel drove them before him, like a flock of sheep. While the battlements of their gigantic church were rocking in every blast, there was no sign of manly precaution,

none of generous self-exposure for the common cause, and scarcely any even of that wise suspicion which is the strength of the weak. They took it for granted that the church would last their time, and were comforted. The pride of the day was distinction in literature; but the whole ecclesiastical body of France saw the race run, without an effort for the prize. They sat wrapped in their old recollections, on the benches of the amphitheatre, and looked on, without alarm, while a new generation of mankind were trying their athletic limbs, and stimulating their young ambition, in the arena where they had once been unrivalled. Raynal, and the few clerics who distinguished themselves by authorship, were avowed deists or atheists; and ostentatious of their complete, if not contemptuous separation from the establishment.

The last light of ecclesiastical literature had glimmered from the cells of Port Royal; but, with the fall of the Jansenists, "middle and utter darkness" came. During half a century, no work of public utility, none of popular estimation, none of genius, none which evinced loftiness of spirit, vigour of understanding, or depth of knowledge, had been produced by a churchman.

The consequence was inevitable and fatal. The old awe of the church's power was changed into contempt for its understanding. Ten thousand rents were made in the fabric: still they let in no light upon the voluntary slumberers within. The revolutionary roar echoed through all its chambers; but it stirred no champion of the altar. The high ecclesiastics relied upon their connection with the court, their rank, and the formal homage of their officials;-shields of gossamer against the pike and firebrand of the people. The inferior priesthood, consigned to obscurity, shrank into their villages into cumberers of the earth, or were irritated into rebels. The feeble contracted themselves within the drowsy round of their prescribed duties; the daring brooded over the national discontents and their own, until they heard the trumpet sounding to every angry heart and form of ill in France; and came forth, a gloomy and desperate tribe, trampling their images and al

tars under foot, and waving the torch in the front of the grand insurrection.

NIGHT.-J. Montgomery.

[The following piece is peculiarly expressive in its style of elocution as well as of sentiment and language. It exemplifies, successively, the tones of tranquillity, wonder, joy, pathos, regret, horror, sublimity, and devout emotion.]

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labours close,

To gather round an aching breast
The curtain of repose,

Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head

Upon our own accustomed bed.

Night is the time for dreams ;

The gay romance of life,

When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife:

Ah! visions less beguiling far

Than waking dreams by daylight are!

Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,

Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;

Till all is ours that sages taught,

That poets sang, or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears

Those graves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years,

Hopes that were angels in their birth,

But perished young-like things of earth.

Night is the time to watch;

On ocean's dark expanse,

To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance,

That brings unto the home-sick mind

All we have loved- and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours mis-spent,
To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;

[The prevalent Expression' of the following passage, is that of admiration rising to rapture;-the tone of joy, however, softened by that of sacred and solemn feeling.]

No other language than that of Bunyan himself, perused in the pages of his own sweet book, could be successful in portraying the beauty and glory of such a scene; for now he seems to feel that all the dangers of the pilgrimage are almost over; and he gives himself up without restraint so entirely to the sea of bliss that surrounds him, and to the gales of heaven that are wafting him on, and to the sounds of melody that float in the whole air around him, that nothing in the English language can be compared with this whole closing part of the Pilgrim's Progress,' for its entrancing splendour, yet serene and simple loveliness. The colouring is that of heaven in the soul; and Bunyan has poured his own heavenentranced soul into it. With all its depth and power, there