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Then checrily, oh! with a yeo heave, oh!
Cheerily, oh with a stamp and go,

Though she roll till her yard-arms dip. Leave croakers and cowards to drivel and doubt.

The ship's heart of oak, and will stand this bout,

And be good for many a trip!

Thanks to common men, mere brains and muscles,

Neither PALMERSTONS, GORDOns, Derbys, nor RUSSELLS!

Clear the ship! Clear the ship! Clear the
ship!
(Punch.)

From Fraser's Magazine

HOME.

BROAD lands and stormy seas lie spread
Between me and my home,

But still its ancient paths I tread,
Still round its walls I roam.
A stranger hath my heritage,

But he'll ne'er be rid of me.-
I climb the stairs, I pace the floors,
I pass unchallenged through the doors,
A ghost no eye can see.

I stand in the dewy morning now,
Just as I stood of old,
Under the sweet laburnum bough,
With its showery green and gold;
I thread the orchard alleys dim,

I hear the breezy sound

Of the wind that ripples the leaves o'erhead,
And I see the apple blossoms shed
Their snow-flakes on the ground.

Poor garden! changed and sad its plight!
It seems to peak and pine,-
I miss a world of sweet delight

It owned in auld lang syne;'
The broad box-edges run to waste,

Weeds creep where flowers should bloom; The axe has plied its cruel war, And wrought its ravage wide and far; What right had strangers' hands to mar My home? still, still, my home!

By the garden hedge, ere daylight dies,
I love, in thought, to lean,

And scan, with soft, tear-troubled eyes,
The old familiar scene.

The meadow, velvet-smooth; the tall
Dark grove of ancient trees;
The little river, flashing bright,
Like a sunny beam of liquid light,

And the lowing kine, and the swallow's flight,
My heart doth yearn to these.

My heart doth yearn, despite the pain,
And gazing thus afar,

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I am young, I am young, I'm a merry boy! What's gloom? what's grief? what's doubt? What sorrow can darken or dim my joy?

I laugh, I sing,-I shout;

But the sun goes down, and the stars steal forth And the ghostly mists arise,

And fast as the night shades grow and grow,
The old care-cloud comes back to my brow,
And the tears to my troubled eyes.

Ah! then I mount the winding stair,
With faltering step and slow,
To the little room, so white and fair
In the dear old time, I go,—

To the room where my childish prayer was said,
Where slumber was sure to creep

O'er my drowsy lids, like a spell that's thrown
By a loving hand from a world unknown—
Would God! that now I could lay me down
And sleep as sound a sleep!

Would God! I could drop away from this
Dark coil of strife and pain,
And enter my long-lost bower of bliss,
And be a child again!

To wake, to feel life's freshness lie

Like dew on heart and brow,

Cool. calm!-Oh, flower of paradise!
Oh, Youth! what blessing beyond price,
What boon from heaven art thou!

Oh, little room! I used to lie

And watch, on nights like these,
The great red-visaged moon climb high
Above the ancient trees;-

Climb high in the purple heaven and pour
Broad floods of light below,
Paler and paler, pure and clear,
Till the lawns and gras-y levels near
Lay white as fields of snow.

And at dawn how pleasant to hear the brief
Brisk swallow's chirp again:
And the flapping and fluttering ivy leaf
Tap, tap, on the window pane.
To rise with the sun, to wander forth,

Free-hearted, blithe and wild,

And be wooed by the morning's rosy kiss-
What rapture hath life more rare than this?
Would God! I could enter my bower of bliss,
And be again a child!

No more! no more! wi'd waves outspread
My yearning footsteps hold,
And wastes ne'er tracked by mortal tread
My bower of bliss enfold;
But hearts in pious pilgrimage,

Flit past o'er land and sea,

Like wandering birds. no skill can cage.—
Oh! a stranger hath my heritage,

But he'll ne'er be rid of me!

T. WESTWOOD.

BROWN AND JONES.

"Lord Palmerston said that Mr. Layard had indulged in what he must be permitted to call vulgar declamation against the aristocracy. Talk to him of the aristocracy! Why in the charge at Balaklava, Lord Cardigan (loud cheers), etc.

Debate, Monday, Feb. 19th. VULGAR? How sad! But then he spoke Of vulgar, low, and common things, Such as with gay WAT TYLER joke, A Viscount to oblivion flings. Of common honor, common sense,

Of common soldiers' wasted bonesAnd bored the Commons with defence

Of common folks like BROWN and JONES.

He talked of armies doomed to die Through dull officials' want of thought; Your Lordship stated in reply,

How nobly CARDIGAN had fought. That "points" of yours but rarely miss A docile House of Commons owns, But really logic such as this

Would hardly do for BROWN and JONES.

Such audience as your Lordship finds
Accept and cheer each jaunty flash,
But vulgar and plebeian minds

Regard it as evasive trash.
"Twill hardly teach us to forget

Who caused sad Balaklava's groans, And there's another matter yet

That will occur to BROWN and JONES.

Three lords were mixed in that affair,
LUCAN and RAGLAN blundered, botn,
The third, who showed a hero there,

Did their joint bidding, greatly loath
Two Lords were blunderers out of three,
(One bee between a brace of drones),
A chance of better odds you'd see

In taking SMITH, and BROWN, and JONES.

But not at Lords he aimed his shot-
You ne'er mistook what he was at :
You talk some folly, but you 're not
Quite such a MALMESBURY as that.
He spoke (unhappily he's young,

And has to learn convention's tones),
The words you'd hear from every tongue,

If Lords could mix with BROWNS and JONES.

He cursed our great State Lottery scheme, Whose prizes fall to Wealth and Rank, While Merit wakes from patriot dream

To find he draws a hopeless blank. He banned the System, where Routine Jobs, shuffles, bullies, shirks, postpones, Until its clumsy working 's seen

By those vulgarians, BROWN and JONES.

He told you. (Punch has said the same)
JOHN BULL at many a fault will wink,
But ruined armies, sullied name.

And crushing taxes makes him-think.
A vulgar hint-yet those who prize

Honors whose fountains are but thrones, Should take it. lest, in coarser guise It come, some day, from BROWN and JONES. -Punch.

1.

From the Quarterly Review. only logical result of their principles. The The Eclipse of Faith. 5th Edition. Lon-elder, finding that the exercise of the understanding plunged him into the depths of 2. Phases of Faith, 3rd Edition, with a re- Pyrrhonism, fled for refuge to the authority ply to the Eclipse of Faith. By F. New

don. 1854.

man. London. 1854.

of an infallible church and renounced his private judgment altogether. The younger, by a A Defence of the Eclipse of Faith. 2nd Edi- similar exercise of arbitrary will, has checked tion. London. 1854. his downward career for a time at the stage of Deism; whereof he has adopted a peculiar THE "Eclipse of Faith" having gone modification, which professes to retain the through five editions, in less than two years, is sentiment of religion without the form. He so generally known and appreciated, that it first expounded his present creed in a work would be superfluous to recommend it to the upon "The Soul, and her Aspirations;" but notice of our readers. Moreover, its subjects the difficulties which induced him to abandon are too vast and various to be properly dis- Christianity are set forth in the "Phases of cussed in a single article; and its arguments Faith." must lose force and illustration by the conden- The form he has chosen for his argument is sation needful in a summary abstract. Hence an autobiography, in which he gives the hiswe should probably have passed over this tory of his religious experience, and describes work in silence, in spite of (and partly be- the process by which he was led, year after cause of its great merit, had it not been as-year, to reject, bit by bit, the articles of his sailed with an asperity and unfairness that belief, casting away fragment after fragment provoke us to give some account of the con- till he had reduced himself to a state of spitroversy which originated in its publication. ritual nudity. There is something in the

per

The author's main design is to apply But-sonal character of his narrative which gives ler's great argument to some recent modifica- an impression of reality and truthfulness to tions of Deism. He has thrown his reasoning the book, and it thus creates a far more lively for the most part, into the form of dialogue; interest than could be won by a mere theoloand we think that the Socratic weapons have gical treatise. Mr. Newman's objections to never, since the time of Plato, been wielded Christianity are not original; but the manner with more grace and spirit. Various talkers in which they are marshalled in detachments, are brought upon the stage, who state fair- and brought against the successive positions ly the opinions of different Deistic schools, taken up by his retreating faith, gives them an and are successively foiled by a sceptical air of freshness and novelty. The principle friend who overthrows them in succession by which he assumes throughout is that his indithe very objections they have urged against vidual consciousness is the standard of religious Christianity. This task is accomplished not truth. He agrees with those Greek philoonly with great power of logic, but also with sophers who held that "MAN is the measure unusual liveliness of illustration, seasoned of all things; only that, in practice, he reswith a plentiful admixture of sarcastic hu-tricts MAN to Newman. His development of mor; the latter being never intruded need- this idiosyncracy for the benefit of the world lessly into the argument, but springing natu- has produced a pleasant mixture of theolorally out of it. The principal representative gical argumentation with personal gossip; the of Deism in the dialogue is a disciple of Mr. Francis Newman, whose writings are made to supply a large contribution to this species of entertainment. Their author has been persuaded by his friends to reply to his critic; and has published his answer in the second edition of his "Phases of Faith," a performance of which we must give a brief account, in order to render the sequel intelligible.

whole being blended and harmonized by a neutral tint of egotistic naïveté which often reminds us of the "Confessions" of Rousseau. The taste of the performance also not seldom recalls that of the French autobiographer. For instance, it is usual in English writers to shrink from details of their domestic history and family feuds. Mr. Newman by discarding such scruples makes his book far more amusWe must premise that Mr. F. Newman, ing than those of his predecessors. Thus he like his more celebrated brother, is a disciple describes "a painful and injurious conflict" in of the logic of difficulties. The former has which he was involved with "a superior kinsbeen led to Deism, the latter to Romanism, by man" in his early youth; he gives the parthe same bias of understanding, differently ticulars of an uneasy collision" with his modified in the two cases by a different moral brother at Oxford; he informs us that in conconstitution. Each brother alike is irresisti- sequence of theological differences the same bly impelled to reject creed after creed, as he relative at a later period" separated himself discovers in each some difficulty which he entirely from his private friendship and accannot solve; but neither of them will acquaintance."

66

quiesce in the absolute scepticism which is the The same reference of all truth to the

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