Then, arching far and wide, his boughs descend,
Brushing, with every breeze, the ground beneath.
Forth from the elm's deep roots, and 'mid the sand
That intervenes, there gush'd a bubbling fountain.
The sparkling water for a moment boil'd
In its pure basin; lingering to bathe

The dipping leaves of the o'erhanging elm ;
Then swept away o'er beds of glistening pebble,
Till, in the gloom of yonder thicket hid,
Nought but the murmuring of its waters told
Its secret progress.-Bending o'er the roots
Of the majestic tree, I drank. The draught
Was cool and pure, fraught with returning life.

Here was a time to lye, and muse, and dream
Of that primeval age of happiness,

When cooling breezes, and refreshing springs,
And fruits and flowers, made Eden paradise;
When man was innocent, and had not brought
Upon his soul the alternate light and shade,
The moment's brilliance, and the long deep gloom,
Which, all too late, he learn'd to be the sum
Of the high vaunted bliss of 'knowing good
And evil.'

Summer was in her sickly wane. A drought
Had parch'd the earth; a hot and feverish air
Breathed over nature, and dried up her freshness.
Floweret and leaf were shrivell'd, and had bowed
Their heads in temporary death. The sun
Was at its height. The air was motionless.
The birds were dumb upon the drooping boughs.
A weary traveller, I had toil'd my way,
Scorched by the sun, while burning thirst
Was preying on my strength; ere I had reach'd
The fountain whose pure waters erst restor❜d
My drooping spirit. Eagerly I sped

To breathe the coolness of the shade, and drink
Again from that reviving stream. There stood
The hoary rock, the venerable elm ;-

But where the fount whose deep clear water played
In gladness at their foot?-Where? It was gone!
Vanish'd, even as the brightness of a dream!

So fares it with the unhappy man who seeks For lasting pleasures in the stream of life.

The draught he swallows now, so eagerly
That its fell power makes reason itself to reel,
He fondly dreams waits but for his return :
He does return, with greedier thirst, to quaff
The treacherous stream, but finds the channel dry.
Sore disappointinent blights his idle hopes,
And preys upon his spirit, like the worm
That never dies.--Oh! heard he but the voice
Of Grace, 'Ho! every one that thirsteth, come!
And drink ye of the waters of that fount
Which flows exhaustless from the lips of Truth.
Here is no giddy, brief, deceptive, draught.
Taste but the stream, and it becomes a well
Within you, springing up to life eternal.'

W. R.

Review.

ART. X.-The Leper of Aost, translated from the French of Lemaistre. Boston, Cummings & Hilliard. 1825. pp. 37.

We have often had delineations of the feelings of those who. have been confined in dungeons, and compelled, by public or private cruelty or justice, to linger years in solitude, shut out from the light of day and the face of man. Those who have afterwards obtained liberty have told us the secrets of their prison-house, have recorded their sufferings, their sickness of heart at hope deferred-the support imparted by that visiter, that comes to all' the long struggle between pride exasperated by neglect and misery, and that resignation to fate or Providence which remains when all other human feelings have departed. Others have imagined the workings of the heart in its miserable abode of darkness and sorrow-have shut up a victim and stripped him, one by one, of all the dear objects to which his affections clung-maddening him by accumulated wretchedness-cold and hunger and chains-till reason and the power of suffering departed with the power of enjoyment. The song of a bird of the air has brought reason back, by recalling remembrances of happiness and light-and the view from the narrow

window of his dungeon of the beautiful heaven itself, the green earth and moving waters, has been more horrible, than darkness and silence and desolation.

The Leper of Aost is one, who suffers, not from the cruelty, but from the benevolence of man; for the victim of the dreadful leprosy must not be allowed to hold communion with his fellow men. The contagion was supposed to be communicated even to a distance, and a solitary tower, with a garden surrounded by a wall, is appointed as his abode. He is avoided by all; but an officer is attracted by curiosity-enters his garden, and engages in conversation with him.-This imagined conversation

constitutes the volume.

The manner in which his time is past he thus describes.

"He who loves his cell, will find peace therein," as we read in the Imitation of Jesus Christ. I know something of the truth of these comforting words. The impressions peculiar to seclusion are soothed by useful employment of our time. Those who work are never entirely miserable, and in this too I may serve as an example. During the fine season, the culture of my garden, and of my parterre, occupy me sufficiently. During the winter, I make baskets and mats; I make my clothes, prepare my daily meal; and prayers fill the time that is not otherwise filled. In this way the year ends, and when it is gone, I have always found it to have been too short.'

His religious impressions—and nothing but religion could give him the tranquillity he enjoys-connected with the objects of nature, are very striking and natural.

'I truly love the objects that are (if I may say so) the companions of my life, and the friends I see every day. Every evening, before I retire to the Tower, I greet the glaciers of Rintorts, the dark forests of the Saint Bernard, and the fantastic peaks that rise over the valley of the Rhône. Though the omnipotence of heaven is as plain in the creation of an insect, as in that of the whole universe, the great spectacle of the mountains overwhelms my mind. I cannot without religious rapture look on these enormous masses, covered with perpetual snow. But in the midst of this splendid scenery, which surrounds me, I have some favourite places which 1 prefer, one of which is that hermitage which you see on the summit of Mount Carvensod. Insulated in the midst of groves, in the vicinity of a desert field, it receives the last beams of the retiring Though I have never been there, I delight in gazing on that spot. When the day declines, I sit down in my garden, keeping my eyes fixed on that solitary abode, and my fancy finds there a

sun.

I

happy repose. It has become to me like a possession; it seems as if some confused recollection was bringing me back, to a time when I was happy there, and the memory of which is effaced. like still more to contemplate the distant mountains, which separate themselves only by feeble outlines from the blue horizon. Like futurity, distance awakens hope in me; my oppressed heart attaches itself to the possibility of a far existing land, where, at some future period, I shall finally enjoy the pleasure for which I pine, and which a secret instinct shows me incessantly, if not as real, yet at least as possible.'

The delirium of his sleepless nights seems to be a fine sketch of what must be the sufferings of a sensitive person in the horrible despondency which is said to have been an attendant on this disease.

'Oh sir, these watchings, these watchings! you cannot form an idea of the misery and weariness of the nights that a wretched being passes, without closing his eyes, and with his mind fixed on a loathsome existence, and a futurity without hope. Imagination can conceive no such torments. My uneasiness increases with the progress of the night, and when the day approaches, my agitation is so great, that I know not what will become of me; my ideas grow confused; I yield to extraordinary impressions, which I only feel in these unhappy moments. Sometimes it is as if an irresistible power was dragging me to a fathomless abyss; sometimes I see nothing but black forms, and when I endeavour to examine them, they cross each other with the rapidity of lightning, increase in approaching, and soon are like mountains, which crush me under their weight. other times, I see dark clouds rise from the earth around me; they come over me like an inundation, which increases, advances, and threatens to engulf me; and when I try to rise, in order to free myself from these dreadful images, it seems as if I were retained by invisible ties, which enchain all my powers. You will perhaps believe this to be merely dreams; but I am not sleeping; I see always the same objects, and this horrible sensation exceeds all my other sufferings.'

At

In one of his agonies, after the death of his sister, who had at first been his companion, he is driven to the resolution of putting an end to his life: while preparing to execute his purpose, he finds a letter which his sister had left for him, exhorting him to live and die a christian.

'In finishing its perusal, I fainted, probably from the result of my emotions. A cloud seemed to cover my sight, and for a time I

remembered neither my afflictions nor my existence. When I awoke I found myself in the darkness of night; but I felt an unspeakable quiet. All that had passed on that evening seemed to me a dream. My first movement was to raise my eyes to heaven, to thank God for having preserved me from the greatest misfortune. Never did the firmament seem so serene and beautiful. A star threw its light through my window; I contemplated it with an ineffable delight, and I found a sweet consolation in thinking that one of its rays was destined for the solitary abode of the Leper. I returned to my cell with a tranquil heart, and employed the rest of the night, in reading the book of Job. The holy enthusiasm, with which it filled my soul, dissipated finally the dark thought that had oppressed me.'

We have room for no more extracts, and those which have been made may be left to speak for themselves.

We have been induced to take this notice of a work of imagination from a feeling that it is only the strong power of religion which could support the Leper under his exquisite sufferings of mind and body; and that power is not exaggerated when it is described as capable of administering comfort, when every earthly comfort is withdrawn, and of arming the mind against the utmost agonies of despair.

This little volume receives an additional interest from the fact, that the beautiful translation, of which any American scholar might be proud, was made by a distinguished Foreigner, whose extensive learning and amiable manners have instructed and gained all who have had the good fortune to meet him during his residence amongst us.

ART. XI.-A Sermon preached to the Church in Brattle square, in two Parts. By John G. Palfrey, A. M. Boston, Oliver Greenleaf, 1825.

THIS belongs to that class of sermons, which is common among us, and not altogether peculiar to this country, in which local civil and ecclesiastical history is recorded, and the perishing fragments of tradition and memory concerning former days are collected and arranged for posterity. Many valuable facts have in this way been arrested in their passage toward oblivion. Many interesting documents have been treasured up for the future historian, and many a questionable date decided