The child of a West India Planter, whose mind has never been tinctured with a single prejudice in favour of the rights of man, who has been brought up in the school of despotism, and taught from infancy, to consider the happiness of the many as a proper sacrifice to the avarice and luxury of the few, will not, I apprehend, be found to possess notions of filial obedience of a very exemplary kind. By impressing children with a proper sense of their own weakness, by inspiring them with gratitude and love towards all those from whom they receive assistance and protection, and by teaching them, from infancy, habits of submission to the dictates of superior age and wisdom, a foundation will certainly be laid for filial obedience, independent of any political creed; and if, in the cultivation of the understanding care be taken not to destroy what has been done for the cultivation of the heart, by an improper application of the stimulants of envy and vanity, we have reason to hope that the superstructure will be agreeable to our wishes. E. Hamilton.

A WAR POEM.

On the late Mr. Blythe, a Midshipman on
board the Mars.

HARK,-how the church-bells' thundering harmony,
Stuns the glad ear! tidings of joy have come,
Good tidings of great joy! Two gallant ships
Met on the element,-they met, they fought
A desperate fight!--good tidings of great joy!

They fought a desperate fight; the English guns Ploughed up the hostile deck! they shattered her,Old England triumphed! yet another day

Of glory for the ruler of the waves!

For those who fell 'twas in their country's cause,
They have their passing paragraphs of praise,
And are forgotten.

There was one who died

In that day's glory, whose obscurer name,
No proud historian's page will chronicle.
Peace to his honest soul! I read his name,
'Twas in the list of slaughter, and blest God
The sound was not familiar to mine ear.
But it was told me after, that this man
Was one, whom lawful violence had forced
From his own home, and wife, and little ones,
Who by his labour lived;-that he was one
Whose uncorrupted heart, could keenly feel
A husband's love, a father's anxiousness;-
That from the wages of his toil he fed

The distant dear ones, and would talk of them
At midnight, when he trod the silent deck
With him he valued,-talk of them, of joys
That he had known,-oh God! and of the hour
When they should meet again, till his full heart,
His manly heart, at last would overflow,
Even like a child's with very tenderness.
Peace to his honest spirit! Suddenly
It came, and merciful the ball of death,

For it came suddenly and shattered him,
And left no moment's agonizing thought
On those he loved so well.

Now lies at rest.

He ocean-deep,

Be Thou her comforter,

Who art the widow's friend! Man does not know
What a cold sickness made her blood run back
When first she heard the tidings of the fight ;-
Man does not know with what a dreadful hope
She listened to the names of those who died;- ་
Man does not know, or knowing will not heed,
With what an agony of tenderness

She gazed upon her children, and beheld
His image who was gone. O God! be Thou,
Who art the widow's friend, her comforter.

Southey.

HANNAH MORE in her essays on the character and writings of St. Paul, thus speaks of true faith: That vital faith, with which the souls of the scripture saints were so richly imbued, is an animating and pervading principle. It spreads and enlarges in its progress, it gathers energy as it proceeds; the more advanced are its attainments, the more prospective are its views; the nearer it approaches to the invisible realities to which it is stretching forward, the more their dominion over it increases, till it almost makes the future present, and the unseen visible; its light becomes brighter, its flame purer, its aspirations

stronger, its increasing proximity to its object fills the mind, warms the heart, clears the sight, quickens the pace.

But as faith is of a spiritual nature, it cannot be kept alive without spiritual means, it requires for its sustenance aliment congenial with itself; meditation familiarizes it with its object, prayer keeps it close to its end. If thus cherished by perpetual exercise, sustained by the habitual contemplation of the oracles of God, and watered with the dews of his grace, it becomes the pregnant seed of every christian virtue.

St. Paul, among the other sacred authors, seems to consider, that faith is to the soul what the senses are to the body; it is spiritual sight. God is the object, faith is the visual ray; Christ is the substance, faith is the hand which lays hold on it; by faith the promises are in a manner substantiated. Our Saviour does not say, "He that believeth on me shall have life, but has life." It is not a blessing, of which the fruition is wholly reserved for heaven: in a spiritual sense, through faith, the promise becomes performance, and assurance possession. The immortal seed is not only sown, but already sprung up in the soil of the renewed heart; the life of grace becomes the same in nature and quality with the life of glory to which it leads. And if in this ungenial climate, the plant will not attain its maturity, at least its progress intimates, that it will terminate in absolute perfection.

Hannah More.

B. BRAIDLEY'S SUNDAY SCHOOL MEMORIALS.

THERE is an hour of peaceful rest,

To mourning wanderers given; A balm for every wounded breast, "Tis found above-in heaven.

There is a soft and downy bed,
Smooth as the breath of even:
Where we may lay our aching head,
And find repose-in heaven.

There is a home for weary souls,
By sin and sorrow driven;
No storms arise, no ocean rolls,
But all is calm-in heaven.

There love lifts up the tearful eye,
The heart with anguish riven;
The evening shadows quickly fly,
And all's serene-in heaven.

There, beauteous flowers immortal bloom,

And joys supreme are given;

Beyond the confines of the tomb,

Appears the dawn of heaven.