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breathed his last. His remains were committed to the earth on the 15th of the following month, in St. Helen's Church, Bishopsgate Street, where they still repose. The funeral was one of extraordinary splendour, as it cost no less than £300.

“ His only son Richard, had died in 1564. Sir Thomas had a natural daughter named Anne, whom he carefully educated and provided with an ample dower, and who eventually became tlie sister-in-law of Lord Bacon. Lady Gresham survived her husband seventeen years, and died at Osterley House, November 23, 1596. She was buried at St. Helen's, with great pomp, on the 15th of December, in the same grave with her hinsband, and, by a curious coincidence on the anniversary of his funeral.”

Poems. By JAMES HEDDERWICK. This beautifully printed work is dedicated to Mr. Charles MACLAREN, the editor of the “Scotsman Newspaper," in whose columns many of the pieces first appeared when the author was assistant editor of that journal. They indicate a cultivated mind, breathe an amiable spirit, and in several instances furnish proofs not to be mistaken, that the author has much of true poetry in his composition. Mr. Hedderwick is yet but a young man, and therefore other and still better things may be expected from him. We give as specimens of his powers two pieces. The first appears under the very general head of

Let not our lips pronounce the word Farewell

To those we cherish-if we needs must part,
On hope's illusions let the fancy dwell,

Nor deem that distance can divide the heart!
Though I should look through sorrow's dim eclipse,
And print warm parting on the loved one's lips-

To speak the last sad word my tongue were dumb:
Or, if it syllabled my soul's emotion,

"Twould be to tell how pilgrim steps have come
To worship at the shrine of love's devotion !

So be the language of despair unspoken
By those whose hearts nor time nor space can sever-
A fountain seal'd till hope be lost for ever,

And only gush when the heart is broken!
The other piece is of some length. It appears under the title of

It was a gloomy Sabbath eve.-

I felt in dreamy mpoo,
And wander'd to a lone churchyard

To muse in solitude.
The village groups had all withdrawn ;

But through the twilight grey
I saw a lonely woman stand

As loth to go away.

She was arrayed in widow's weeds,

I could not see her face,
Which might have told why at that hour

She sought that silent place.
I stole aside with soften'd step,

No rude annoy to bring
To one bowed down with grief-

For grief's a sacred thing.

The shadow of the old


church Fell round me like a pall, But the mourner's figure I could see

Upon the churchyard wall.
She knew not any eye was near

Except the eye of Him
Whose presence we the more behold

The more our eyes are dim.

Long, long she gazed upon the ground,

On one small spot, alas !
Which seemed to swell to meet the hand

She laid upon the grass.
Her hand she laid



grass Retired yet ling’ring staid, And aye upon the silent grass

Her long thin hand she laid.

That hand had often smooth'd the couch

Of him who slept beneath And the love by which 'twas guided, seemed

Of love that knew not death;
And so she knelt, as if to feel

If earth were warm and soft,
As the pillow-vacant now—on which

His head had lain so oft.

Ah me! what depth of love was hers,

Who thus her home forsook,
And all the living world beside,

Upon his grave to look !
I could not see the tears she shed,

They flowed not to be seen-
But well I knew the grass was wet,

O’er which her eyes had been.

And still the grass she gently touch'd,

And bended meekly o’er,
As if to give her hand to him,

Who took it once before ;
That so she might bring back the time,

The morning-time of life,
When by his side a girl in years,

She felt in heart a wife.

Or happy 'twas in memory

Of some old early vow,
To love him even after death,

That she sought his grave-place now;
Or, for some word unkindly said,

Though not unkindly meant,
Perchance upon

his grave to shed
Atoning tears she went.

And oft upon that grave she look'd,

And oft she look'd above,
As if between that spot and heaven

She shared her whole heart's love!
'Twas long before she left the place,

And as she moved away,
Methought her inmost bosom yearn'd

For ever there to stay.

A few stars glimmer'd over head

Deep darkness crept around-
Beneath, old generations slept-

I stood on holy ground !
All silent through the dull grave mounds

I homeward sadly turn’d,
Yet almost deem'd 'twere sweet to die

To be so loved and mourned !

A History of the Protestant Episcopal Church in America. By SAMUEL

WILBERFORCE, M.A., Chaplain 10 H.R.H. Prince Albert, and Arch

deacon of Surrey. This is a very interesting work on a very interesting subject. Mr. Wilberforce has evidently been most careful to produce a volume which should be at once worthy of his subject and of his character as a literary man. The great objection which many will have to the book is, that it is pervaded throughout by a spirit of church exclusiveness We cannot sufficiently commend the boldness and energy with which the reverend author denounces slavery in America, and the forcible way in which he points out the grievous sin of those professing religion who, in the United States, defend slavery by their speeches and writings, and uphold it by being participators in its pecuniary gains.

First Latin Grammar and Exercises, on Ollendorff's Method.

By WILLIAM HENRY PINNOCK, Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. This is is a very valuable little work, and will, there can be no doubt, acquire an extensive circulation as its merits become known. It is very much calculated to facilitate the study of the Latin. The author displays a thorough knowledge of the subject, and the work will give the learner a better idea of the development of the structure of the Latin language than any other with which we are acquainted. It ought to be in the hands of every learner of that language.

A History of England from the first Inrasion by the Romans to the Ac

cession of Queen l'ictoria. By the Rev. G. A. Poole. Vol. I. This volume, which brings down the history of England till the close of Henry the Eighth, is well digested and carefully written ; but we regret to say that we can detect the poison of Tractarianism lurking in it. It is one of the ingenivus devices of the Oxford school of theologians, to avail themselves of fiction, of history, and of every variety of light literature to disseminate covertly their pernicious principles. We regret that a work otherwise of so much merit as the one before us, should be disfigured by these objectionable theological views.

Wallace, Bruce, and the Bard. A Poem. The author states, in a modest preface, that the sale of this little work, extending to two hundred verses, will be, in a pecuniary point of view, an object to him. This at once disarms criticism. It is due, however, to the author to say, that there are many parts of his little book which indicate the possession of respectable poetic talents. We hope the work will sell. As a specimen we give the closing verses, which refer to


“ Your King, my matchless Scots, dash on with him to glory now, Let the trembling King who mocks a throne to the shade of Wallace bow. Though dead, he lives; though the lately living are dead, great Ellerslie's

ghost is here, And Wallace, Scots, and Bruce with you the flying field will clear.

Shame, shame, oh! shame to thy well-earned fame, great Glo’ster, come not

To rush on death when hope has fled, to kiss the first murderous spear-
Perchance some Scottish traitor's lance; no true Scot e'er will taint
The Bruce's joy by spearing thee; fly, Glo'ster, fly, avaunt!'

Thus thundered Bruce; then rushing mid flying squadrons and the slain,
The resistless torrent rolled with him o'er the deeply-sanguined plain,
When a second victim bared his breast, Sir Giles d'Argentine,
* To die, I know,' said the valorous knight; 'to fly was never mine.'

A panic ran then through their lines, when the hills around displayed,
With thousands strong, new banners aloft, and noises that dismayed,
The disconcerted foes who came from English lands to spoil
Poor Scotland in her days of woe, her king and kingdom to embroil.

The Bruce signal given, from earth and heaven, from dales and hills there rose
Seven loud hurrahs, and high in the air th’ ensigns of new and numerous foes.
Then Edward cried, “If the tide we stem of victory threatens now
T'engulph our flying thousands, how stem that novel torrent's flow?'

' Douglas,'cried Bruce, “thy wounds redress’d, while in the flickering taper's

Of their battle lost, but burning still, 'tis thou shalt hunt the royal foe.
Let him 'scape not the doom I suffered ; bring to me, ere I sleep,
Proud Edward's person, Douglas; go, great glory shalt thou reap.

Not dead or alive, like his barbarous sire, when our sacred hero's head
Ile priced, as if his brutal soul, while living, e’er matched that jewel
Of nightly honour, no-bring him alive, not dead, or thy king's thanks are

not thine; I slew the traitor Cummin even at the altar; but Edward's life, I charge you,

guard as you would mine.

Then sounds the view-halloo, when Edward flew on the wings of life and

And the Douglas strained with sixty steeds to gain the glorious wreath,
To hold him bound, who dared to ground pretensions to the crown
Of old Scotland, whose head and hand so feebly bore his own.

“ Mowbray, I come,” said the fugitive King, “ this fatal day is o’er,
From Stirling walls, to send my calls for aid from land and shore.'
“ Great Sire," said Mowbray, “ stay not here, this castle is not mine,
My honour's pledged, unrelieved this day, the fortress to resign.”

To Dunbar fled by stealth, Earl March received the royal guest,
And a fishing skiff in haste her sails to the favouring winds had prest,
When a sealed despatch reached the skiff in haste, and thus the terror ran,
"All hopes are gone for ever, Sire, we have lost all power in the land.”

Nine times three barons, of highest fame in England's annals, dyed
With princely streams the ghastly field , and two hundred knights beside
Seven hundred squires of high degree, of loyalty and faith,
And thirty thousand Englishmen, horrid holocaust to Death!”


The Mother's Practical Guide in the Early Training of her Children.

By Mrs. BAKEWELL. Second Edition. The present work is the production of a mother, of whom we may say, judging from its subject matter, that she is in truth a crown to her husband.” She has deeply studied her theme, and with an affectionate interest in the class for whose benefit she has written. Such works as this are much needed; for though many and successful efforts have of late been made for the promotion of education, still, that particular branch which devolves upon a mother, has not been considered of sufficient importance. As an illustration of the kind of information imparted by this valuable little book, we extract a portion from the section on Exercise :

“The best bodily exercise for young children is doubtless running and playing in the open air, from which they should not be debarred by the slight variations in the weather. In large towns, the getting children out of doors, especially so far as to inhale a tolerably pure air, is very difficult; but no sac

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