POETRY.

THE ACQUITTAL OF THE SEVEN BISHOPS.* (June 30th, 1688.)

NIGHT fell on London, summer night,
So brief, that scarce the last red light
Died in the west, ere faintly-bright
Awoke morn's earliest ray;

In Westminster of old renown,
On sleepless eyes the day went down,
And through that twilight night, the town
Was peopled as by day.

When sunrise flushed the abbey tall,
More thickly round the ancient hall,
Did steps of gathering thousands fall,
The nation's heart was stirred;
For there all night by close debate
Engrossed, a jury gravely sate,

And paused in doubt, while England's fate
Hung trembling on its word.

Seven faithful Bishops true and good,
The mandate of a king withstood,
When bid to crouch, as hirelings should,
That Romish power might rise;
Impeached for this, as crime, that band
Champions of God's pure truth did stand,
While anxious eyes through all the land
Watched o'er their bold emprise.

High rose the sun; the mighty throng
Grew denser yet, and all along
The distant streets in current strong,
The living tide rolled on ;

Two hours ere noon the court had met,
The judges there in place were set,
The long debated verdict yet,

Was secret and unknown.

Vide Macaulay's History of England.

As death's own stillness, fell around;
Are the defendants guilty found?

"Not guilty, on our word!"
Up sprang one ardent man, and high
For signal, waved his hat—a cry
Of triumph shook the roof, reply
Pealed through the larger hall, and by
The listening crowd was heard.

And each and all, released from doubt,
Uplifted one exulting shout,

It rang the hall within, without

It echoed all the streets about,

Ee'n to the waters' flow;

From boats that thronged the river wide,

Guns to the people's voice replied,
And sent the news along the tide,
Far down to where the vessels ride,
Anchored, the bridge below.

Joy on the waters! joy ashore!
Was never town so glad before,
The merry church-bells evermore
Rang out, and swelled the blythe uproar,
That still broke forth anew;

While mounted horsemen lingering near
The dense crowd's verge, with ready ear
Caught the first cry when rose that cheer,
Dashed spur in steed, and swift as fear,
To spread the tidings flew.

As forth the sturdy jurors went,
The people thronged them, each intent
To grasp a hand, or down they bent
Low in the path, and blessings spent
Upon the stones they trod;

And round the rescued Bishops prest
For benison, until distrest

And e'en with o'erwrought joy opprest,
They stole away awhile to rest,

In the calm house of God.

Triumphantly the live long day,
From city-spires rang music gay,
The rustic village towers that lay
Beside the flying courier's way,

Gave answering peals of mirth;
And London streets throughout the night,
With blaze of joyous fires were bright,
And casements all with tapers dight,

Till radiant with a purer light,

The Sabbath morn had birth.

LYRA.

THE HA' BIBLE.*

CHIEF of the Household Gods

Which hallow Scotland's lowly cottage homes!

While looking on thy signs

That speak, though dumb, deep thought upon me comesWith glad yet solemn dreams my heart is stirr'd,

Like childhood's when it hears the carol of a bird!

The mountains old and hoar

The chainless winds-the streams so pure and free-
The God-enamel'd flowers-

The waving forest-the eternal sea

The eagle floating o'er the mountain's brow

Are teachers all; but, Oh! they are not such as Thou!

Oh! I could worship thee!

Thou art a gift a God of love might give ;

For love, and hope, and joy

In thine Almighty-written pages live!—

The slave who reads shall never crouch again;

For, mind-inspired by thee, he bursts his feeble chain!

Thou doubly-precious Book!

Unto thy light what doth not Scotland owe?——

Thou teachest Age to die,

And Youth in truth unsullied up to grow!

From "The Family Sunday Book," a little work distinguished alike for the tact and sound sense displayed in its original papers, and the taste which marks its selections of poetry.

In lowly homes a comforter art thou

A sunbeam sent from God-an Everlasting Bow!

O'er thy broad ample page

How many dim and aged eyes have pored? How many hearts o'er thee

In silence deep and holy have adored?

How many mothers, by their infants' bed,

Thy holy, blessed, pure, child-loving words have read!

And o'er thee, soft young hands

Have oft in truthful plighted love been join'd, And thou to wedded hearts

Hast been a bond-an Altar of the Mind!Above all kingly power or kingly law

May Scotland reverence aye-the Bible of the Ha'!

THE DEPARTED.

PLEASANT garden!—

Here my heart reposes
While the sun is shrouded
By this bower of roses.

The far-off waters

Send out a dreamy sound

And the green leaves rustling

Shed delights around.

The nightingale is trilling

Her own sweet song,

But a thought my heart is chilling-
A whisper says How long?
And then I think of nightingales
Which sang in the olden day,
And then of the gay roses

Whose bloom has pass'd away.

And then of those departed
Who in their darker hours
Like me, too, might be dreaming
In these rose-scented bowers.

But now, their home is vocal

With a far loftier song

And their hearts have solved the mystery
"How long, O Lord! how long?"

Lyme Regis.

NICOLL.

E. L. A.