THE GOOD MISSIONARY.

He was a man of ten and two score years;
Of piety sincere, and learning great;
Much knowledge of mankind; as it appears,.
And as it is, he'd sorrow to relate,

And inly weep that this our mortal state
So sinful was, and to such frailties given;
His kind he pitied, but did never hate;

And it did glad him much to spread the leaven Which softens every heart, and lifts the soul to heaven.

He had seen much of evil in his time,

For he had widely wandered this fair earth;
Had been where virtue was less loved than crime;
Had poured the fervor of a warm heart forth,
And seen it wasted; with ungodly mirth
Most godly precepts had he seen received;

And oft when speaking of the Saviour's birth,
And death, and mission, had been sorely grieved
To find himself abused, scoff'd at, and not believed.

But he did ne'er despair of doing good,

For this his knowledge taught him to expect.
He let no chance escape to spread the food
Of righteousness, and erring hearts direct
In wisdom's ways, and cause them to reflect:
And many on their sinful lives looked back,

And shudder'd, and became more circumspect:
O, how he joy'd to point to such the black,
Destructive gulf of sin, and virtue's shining track.

And he would tell how easy 'twas to bear

The Cross, and follow in the steps of Truth;
That these would lead unto the regions where
All is perpetual joy, and fadeless youth;
But that the steps of Sin, slippery, uncouth,
Would lead to regions of eternal night,

Where nothing could the soul's deep suffering soothe: "O! choose thou," he would say, "the way of light, That leads from sinful thirst, and carnal appetite." ·

Much loved by men, and much revered, was he;
And he was missioned to the far-off West,

To raise the standard of the ministry,
And fling its glory on the savage breast:
He faltered not; the luxuries, and rest,

And comforts of his lov'd and happy hearth,

Weighed not with him against the high behest;

And soon he took the Cross, to wander forth

And sow the seeds of Truth, where there was frightful dearth.

But one thought troubled him: a wife had he,
Of gentle nature, and devotion high;
Two mindful sons, and lovely daughters three;
And it did pain him much to say "good-bye!"
O, how he strove to check the rising sigh,
And to allay the almost blinding tear

That stood and glistened in his aged eye.
"Long time," he said, "he might be gone: a year,
Or two, or three-perhaps-again might find him here."

It was the evening of the Sabbath day,
And on the morrow he was to depart;
Amid his family he knelt to pray-

And then arose the fervor of a heart

In nature's richness warm, unschooled by art.
And long and fervently the good man pray'd;

And from all eyes the briny tears did start

For every fount of feeling then obey'd

The call on them his warmth and eloquence had made.

He warned them of the quicksands of this life,

And bade them keep their thoughts on Him above; "Existence is of disappointments rife,

And many a fiend seems gentle as a dove,"
He said; "and O, do thou each other love,

And always help each other those to bear,

And these avoid." Such were the thoughts he strove
To press upon their hearts, and fix them there;
And tolerant, like this, ended his feeling prayer:

"Compared to glory in the world to come,

What is the value of each earthly pleasure?
And when the transient joys of earth ye sum,
Will all their value weigh against that treasure?
Let me conjure ye, not to spend your leisure,

In dissipation, and unholy glee;

Indulge your longings, but not without measure;. Avoid ye not the house of Misery;

Aye enter that of Want: great your reward shall be.

Be ye not bigots: there is much to do

While on this earth, and life is but a day;

Your needful callings honestly pursue,

And squander not your well-earned wealth away.

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Do not neglect, each night and morn, to pray;
Be ye unto each other ever kind,

And reverence your mother dear alway."
The pious father rose: he felt resign'd,
In such a holy cause, to leave so much behind.

The morrow dawns, a morning prayer is said,
And soon the simple morning meal is o'er;'
Brief time elapses; scarce an hour is fled,

An hour of blessings, hopes, and fears-before
The Missionary leaves his native shore,
And shapes his course for the far wilderness-
Pausing, at times, before some humble door,
An hungered, or athirst; while round him press
Small boys, and flax-haired girls, anxious for his caress.

His grave is in the Wilderness! He sleeps,
Father of waters! on thy lonely shore:
And many an eye its bitter tribute weeps,
In his far home; and many a heart is sore
With grief, that it shall leap in joy no more
At coming of the guileless man of God,

Who aye his Master's cross so meekly bore.
Well scattered he the seed, where'er he trod,
Of Truth, till it took root e'en in the heathen sod.

He strove, a soldier on a glorious field;

He sank, a martry in a glorious cause:
Only to Death, all-faithful, would he yield;

And only when the grave received him, pause.
His days were never spent in picking flaws
In human creeds, to win renown, or fame:
Enough for him the Saviour's golden laws;
With them, he never feared to come to shame,
Or leave at death one spot or stain upon his name.

W. D. G

ART. IV. THE PILGRIMS OF THE RHINE.

The Last Days of Pompeii. By the author of "Pelham,” "Eugene Aram," &c.

Mr. Bulwer has always seemed to suppose that, in the kindness and indulgence of his American readers, he should find a safe refuge from the censure he has provoked from many of his own countrymen. The friend of free institutions and of abstract, as opposed to arbitrary right, he rationally expected gentle judgment in this Utopia of the liberal school.

We think, however, he has been, if not as rudely assailed, quite as severely judged here as at home. Here, as there, his works have had extensive circulation; for the young they are calculated by the young everywhere, they have been bought and read. But the elder, and, at present, leading portion of the community, have almost unanimously condemned his writings as "of immoral tendency," and endeavored to check their influence on the growing mind.

But his late books seem to have reversed the decree of the censor, and fairly "won the wise who frowned before, to smile at last." "The Pilgrims of the Rhine" and "Last Days of Pompeii," seem to have been received with general approbation; but, at the same time, their author is considered as a convert, a new or regenerate man.

Although this opinion is in some degree correct, we consider this regeneration to be, not in the Calvinistic sense, an era, an immediate change produced by emanation from a favoring Deity; but rather that gradual renovation and gentle healing of the diseased soul which, where the love of earth exists, is always, to be hoped, amid the most unpropitious circumstances.

It is the way of the world, and perhaps in the end a not undesirable way, to judge from first and carelessly considered impressions. For what else could teach that prudence, which is as a protecting seal to the generous virtues and maturing strength of the character? But, as every strong action requires a reaction, so does every author and every man of any mark or likelihood, require a little band of faithful friends who will not only buckler him against the hostile, but explain him to the careless millions, who, grateful for the fertilizing influence of his onward mind upon their own, will be indulgent to his efforts, mindful of his intentions, correct him tenderly where he fails, and warmly applaud him where he succeeds; in a word, will study him faithfully, and interpret him to the throng, whom business, or indolence renders less needful of strict justice.

If a warm interest in the progress of Mr. Bulwer's mind, and a watchful sympathy with its struggles, fit the writer for this very pleasant office, some comments on his works may not be unacceptable. And in the first place, we would disclaim indiscriminate admiration. His friends, by excusing or denying his defects and errors, have done him more harm than his enemies ever could.

A key for explaining most, perhaps all of the fantastic disguises which character puts on in this our nineteenth century, has been furnished by one, whose profound wisdom and keen powers of observation would, in earlier ages, have entitled him to the honors of a Seer, when he said that the great misfortunes of our day consists in our being obliged to get rid of the false, before we can arrive at the true. An intense light is shed upon the world, the eye of youth vainly strives to scrutinize every object in its wide horizon: alas! we have the ambition, but not the strong unerring vision of the eagle.Our views are wide, but their limits are often ill defined, the details misunderstood, and the coloring confused. We find ourselves obliged to pace, snail-like, over the ground we surveyed with a monarch's ken, in order to correct those trifling errors, which have perverted the whole idea. Too many dazzled eyes love the ground ever after their first over-bold essays. And those, of more enduring nobleness, who persist in patient strivings to arrive at a more just estimate of that beauteous empire which lies beneath the Sun of truth, too often fall asleep amid the dews of evening, before a fit result has crowned a day of such toil.

This process, so curious, so unlike the simplicity of antique development, and now obvious in every form of intellectual life, can nowhere so conveniently be studied as in the successive efforts of a writer like Mr. Bulwer, born ambitious, with strong feelings and passions as the imagination which represents them, educated in the bosom of the most sophisticated society of modern Europe, daring in thought, and free in speech, not obliged by any prudential motives to consult the superficial tastes and wishes of the public, his first aim the doing justice to the powers he feels himself to possess-his second, Fame.

I am about to speak of Mr. Bulwer's novels exclusively, as it is through them that he is best known; and his other works are comparatively unimportant. He is in popularity, the successor to Walter Scott, and, though following with no equal step, has attracted the public attention more than all the disciples of the Waverly school. The public love, indeed, will