o'er,

In person Mr. Wilberforce was not calculated to excite attention; but, when his countenance was animated by conversation, the expression of the features was very striking. An admirable likeness of him, though inferior as a work of art, was lately painted for Sir Robert Inglis, by an artist of the name of Richmond. It appeared in the late Exhibition.

His remains are interred close to those of Pitt and Canning. It was not less honourable to the age than to his memory, to witness men of every rank, and every party, joining together to pay the last tribute of homage to a man whose title to public gratitude was exclusively founded upon his private worth and disinterested services to mankind.

"Oh! may I die the death of the righteous, and may my last end be like his!"

From the New Monthly Magazine.

THE FACTORY.

VOICE of humanity! whose stirring cry,
Searches our bosom's depths for a reply,
Long hast thou echoed from the distant wave
The faint heard moaning of the shackled slave;
But England claims her turn,-afraid to roam,
Our hearts turn sadly to the woes of home.
Know ye the spot where sickly toil abides,
And penury its load of sorrow hides?

Go, watch within, and learn-oh! fond to blame-
How much of slavery is in the name!
There, starting from its pain'd and restless sleep,
The orphan rises up to work and weep-
Waits without hope the morning's tardy ray,
And still with languid labour ends the day.
There, the worn body dulls the glimmering sense
And childhood hath not childhood's innocence,
And on the virgin brow of young sixteen
Hard wrinkling lines and haggard wo are seen;
Sullen and fearless, prematurely old,
Dull, sallow, stupid, hardened, bad, and bold,
With sunken cheek and eyes with watching dim,
With saddened heart and nerveless feeble limb,
They meet your gaze of sorrowful surprise
With a pale stare, half misery, half vice.

The day is done-the weary sun hath set-
But there no slumber bids their hearts forget;
Still the quick wheel in whirling circles turns-
Still the pale wretch his hard won penny earns
And choked with dust, and deafened with the noise,
Scarce heeds or feels what toil his hand employs!
Pent in the confines of one narrow room,
There the sick weaver plies the incessant loom;
Crosses in silence the perplexing thread,
And droops complainingly his cheerless head.
Little they think who wear the rustling train,
Or choose the shining satin-idly vain,
Fair lovers of the sunshine and the breeze,
Whose fluttering robes glide through the shadowy

trees

What aching hearts, what dull and heavy eyes,

C. E. N

THE WATER-LILY.-BY MRS. HEMANS. The Water-Lilies, that are serene n the calm clear water, but no less serene amung te black and scowling waves.

Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life OH! beautiful thou art,

Thou sculpture-like and stately River-Queen!
Crowning the depths, as with the light serene
Of a pure heart.

Bright Lily of the wave!
Rising in fearless grace with every swell,
Thou seem'st as if a spirit meekly brave
Dwelt in thy celi :

Lifting alike thy head

Of placid beauty, feminine yet free,
Whether with foam or pictured azure spread
The waters be.

What is like thee, fair flower,
The gentle and the firm? thus bearing up
To the blue sky that alabaster cup,
As to the shower?

Oh! Love is most like thee,
The Love of Woman; quivering to the blast
Through every nerve, yet rooted deep and fas
'Midst Life's dark sea.

And Faith-oh! is not Faith
Like thee, too, Lily? springing into light,
Still buoyantly, above the billows' might,
Through the storm's breath!

Yes, link'd with such high thoughts.
Flower, let thine image in my bosom lie!
Till something there of its own purity
And peace be wrought:

Something yet more divine
Than the clear, pearly, virgin lustre shed
Forth from thy breast upon the river's bed,
As from a shrine.

SONNET.

BY ROBERT CHAMBERS.

LIKE precious caskets in the deep sea casten, On which the clustering shell-fish straitway fast Till closed they seem in chinkless panopar So do our hearts, into this world's moil thrown, Become with self's vile crust quick overgrown,

Of which there scarce may any breaking be. So be not mine though compassed all around With worldlings' cares; still for the young parted,

And more for the surviving broken-hearted, For all who sink beneath affliction's wound, Let me at least some grief or pity feel;

Still may religion's mild and tender flare, Still may my country's and my kindred's nagy Have power to move! I would not all be steel