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Death comes down with reckless footstep

To the hall and hut:
Think you Death will stand a-knocking

Where the door is shut?
Jesus waiteth-waiteth-waiteth;

But thy door is fast !
Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth:

Death breaks in at last.
Then 'tis thine to stand-entreating

Christ to let thee in :
At the gate of heaven beating,

Wailing for thy sin.
Nay, alas! thou foolish virgin,

Hast thou then forgot,
Jesus waited long to know thee,

But he knows thee not!

THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND.

The chimes, the chimes of Motherland,

Of England green and old,
That out from fane and ivied tower

A thousand years have tollid;
How glorious must their music be

As breaks the hallow'd day,
And calleth with a seraph's voice

A nation up to pray!
Those chimes that tell a thousand tales,

Sweet tales of olden time!
And ring a thousand memories

At vesper, and at prime; At bridal and at burial,

For cottager and king-
Those chimes——those glorions Christian chimes,

How blessedly they ring!
Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland,

Upon a Christmas morn,
Outbreaking, as the angels did,

For a Redeemer born;
How merrily they call afar,

To cot and baron's hall,
With holly deck'd and mistletoe,

To keep the festival!
The chimes of England, how they peal

From tower and Gothic pile,
Where hymn and swelling anthem fill

The dim cathedral aisle ;
Where windows bathe the holy light

On priestly heads that falls,
And stain the florid tracery
And banner-dighted walls !

And then, those Easter bells, in Spring.

Those glorious Easter chimes; How loyally they hail thee round,

Old queen of holy times !
From hill to hill, like sentinels,

Responsively they cry,
And sing the rising of the LORD,

From vale to mountain high.
I love ye-chimes of Motherland,

With all this soul of mine,
And bless the LORD that I am sprung

Of good old English line!
And, like a son, I sing the lay

That England's glory tells ; For she is lovely to the LORD,

For you, ye Christian bells !
And heir of her ancestral fame,

And happy in my birth,
Thee, too, I love, my forest-land,

The joy of all the earth ;
For thine thy mother's voice shall be,

And here—where Gov is King,
With English chimes, from Christian spires,

The wilderness shall ring.

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Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt find

How he cau charm thy way,
And lead thee with a quiet mind

Into his perfect day.
His love shall cheer thee, like the dew

That bathes the drooping flower,
That love is every morning new,

Nor fails at evening's hour.
Oh, walk with God, and thou with smiles

Shalt tread the way of tears,
His mercy every ill beguiles,

And softens all our fears.
No fire shall harm thee, if, alas!

Through fires He bid thee go;
Through waters when thy footsteps pass,

They shall not overflow.
Oh, walk with God, while thou on earth

With pilgrim steps must fare,
Content to leave the world its mirth,

And claim no dwelling there.
A stranger, thou must scek a home

Beyond the fearful tide,
And if to Canaan thou wouldst come,

Oh, who but God can guide!

Oh, walk with God, and thou shalt go

Down death's dark vale in light,
And find thy faithful walk below

Hath reach'd to Zion's height !
Oh, walk with God, if thou wouldst see

Thy pathway thither tend:
And, lingering though thy journey be,

'Tis heaven and home at end !

OXFORD BOAT-RACE.

Going into Christ Church Meadows, in company with several gownsmen, we soon joined a crowd of under-graduates, and others who were seeking the banks of the Isis. The rival boats were still far up the stream; but here we found their flags displayed upon a staff, one above the other, in the order of their respective merit at the last rowing-match. The flag of Wadham waved triumphant, and the brilliant colors of Balliol, Christ Church, Exeter, &c. fluttered scarce less proudly underneath. What an animated scene those walks and banks exhibited, as the numbers thickened, and the flaunting robes of the young academics began to be seen in dingy contrast with the gayer silks and streamers of the fair! Even town, as well as gown, had sent forth its representatives, and you would have said some mighty issue was about to be decided, had you heard their interchange of breathless query and reply. A distant gun announced that the boats had started, and crowds began to gather about a bridge in the neighboring fields, where it was certain they would soon be seen, in all the speed and spirit of the contest. Crossing the little river in a punt, and yielding to the enthusiasm which now filled the hearts and faces of all spectators, away I flew towards the bridge, and had scarcely gained it when the boats appeared,—Wadham still ahead, but hotly pressed by Balliol, which in turn was closely followed by the crews of divers other colleges, all pulling for dear life, while their friends, on either bank, ran at their side, shouting the most inspiriting outeries! The boats were of the sharpest and narrowest possible build, with out-rigged thole-pins for the

The rowers, in proper boat-dress, or rather undress, (closefitting flannel shirt and drawers,) were lashing the water with inimitable strokes, and “putting their back” into their sport, as if every man was indeed determined to do his duty. Wadham !” “Now, Balliol !" “ Well pulled, Christ Church !" with deafening hurrahs and occasional peals of laughter, made the welkin ring again. I found myself running and shouting with the merriest of them. Several boats were but a few feet apart, and, stroke after stroke, not one gained upon another perceptibly. Where there was the least gain, it was astonishing to see the

Oars.

- Now, pluck with which both winner and loser seemed to start afresh; while redoubled cries of “ Now for it, Merton !” “Well done, Corpus !” and even “Go it, again !"—which I had supposed au Americanism,—were vociferated from the banks. All at once“a bump!” and the defeated boat fell aside, while the victors pressed on amid roars of applause. The chief interest, however, was, of course, concentrated about “ Wadham,” the leader, now evidently gained upon by “ Balliol.”. It was indeed most exciting to watch the half-inch losses which the former was experiencing at every stroke. The goal was near; but the plucky Balliol crew was not to be distanced. A stroke or two of fresh animation and energy sends their bow an arm’s-length forward. “Hurrah, Balliol !"_“Once more !”—“A bump!”—“Hurrah-ah-ah !"—and a general cheer from all lungs, with hands waving and caps tossing, and every thing betokening the wildest excitement of spirits, closed the contest; while amid the uproar the string of flags came down from the tall staff, and soon went up again, with several transpositions of the showy colors,— Wadham's little streamer now fluttering paulo-post, but victorious Balliol Aaunting proudly over all.

It was growing dark; and it was surprising how speedily the crowd dispersed, and how soon all that frenzy of ex. citement had vanished like the bubbles on the river.

Impressions of England.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

This distinguished poet and essayist, the son of Rev. Charles Lowell, D.D., for nearly fifty years pastor of the West Church, Boston, was born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on the 22d of February, 1819. He was graduated at Harvard College in 1838, and, after studying law, opened an office in Boston. But he soon found the profession not congenial to his tastes; and, as he was not compelled by neces. sity to pursue it as a means of living, he returned to his books and trees at his father's residence, Elmwood, near Mount Auburn, determined on making literature his reliance for fame and fortune.

In 1841 appeared a collection of his poems, entitled A Year's Life, which gavo great promise of future excellence. In 1843, in conjunction with his friend Robert Carter, he commenced the publication of a monthly magazine, called “The Pioneer;" but only three numbers were published. Soon after this, he was mar. ried to Miss Maria White, of Watertown,-a lady of a highly-cultivated mind, of congenial literary tastes, and adorned with every womanly grace and aceomplish. ment. In 1814 appeared the Legend of Brittany, Prometheus, and Miscellaneous Poems and Sonnets, which secured the goneral consent to his admission into the company of men of genius. In 1845, he published his Conversations on some of the Old Poets ; and in 1848, another volume of Poems; The Vision of Sir Laun. ful; and that unique and remarkable book, A Fable for Critics, containing por.

traits of eminent contemporaries, most faithfully and exquisitely drawn. The same year, he gave to the world, from his prolific and caustic pen, The Bigelow Papers, 2 written in the broad Yankee dialect, no little characterized. It is a keen and well-merited political satire against our Mexican war, and the ascendency so long maintained in our Government by the slave-power.3

Since 1848, Mr. Lowell has published no volume, but has written for many roviews and magazines ;5 and—whatever the publishers may say-common fame will make him the editor of the ablest magazine ever published on this side the Water,--" The Atlantic Monthly."

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THE HERITAGE.

The rich man's son inherits lands,

And piles of brick, and stone, and gold,
And he inherits soft, white hands,

And tender flesh that fears the cold,

Nor dares to wear a garment old;
A heritage, it seems to me,
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.

The fine lines under Washington Irving, page 274, will show what the book is, more effectually than any criticism.

? " The rhymes are as startling and felicitous as any in Hudibras, and the quaint drollery of the illustrations is in admirable keeping with the whole character of the forlorn recruit from Massachusetts.”- North American Review, Ixviii. 187.

3 “All at once we have a batch of small satirists--Mr. Bailey at their head-in England, and one really powerful satirist in America,-namely, Mr. J. R. Lowell, —whose Bigelow Papers we most gladly welcome as being not only the best volume of satires since the Anti-Jacobin, but also the first work of real and efficient poetical genius which has reached us from the United States. We have been under the necessity of telling some unpleasant truths about American literature from time to time; and it is with hearty pleasure that we are now able to own that the Britishers have been, for the present, utterly and apparently hopelessly beaten by a Yankee in one important department of poetry. In the United States, social and political evils have a breadth and tangibility which are not at present to be found in the condition of any other civilized country. The ‘peculiar domestic institution,' the fillibustering tendencies of the nation, the tyranny of a vulgar public opinion,' and the charlatanism which is the price of political power, are butts for the shafts of the satirist which European poets may well envy Mr. Lowell. We do not pretend to affirm that the evils of European society may not be as great, in their own way, as those which afflict the credit of the United States,—with the exception, of course, of slavery, which makes · American freedom' deservedly the laughing-stock of the world; but what we do say is, that the evils in point have a boldness and simplicity about them which our more sopbisticated follies have not, and that, a hundred years hence, Mr. Lowell's Yankee satires will be perfectly intelligible to every one."-North British Review.

* In 1857, Ticknor & Fields issued a beautiful edition of all his poems, in two volumes.

5 His reviews and essays have appeared in the “North American Review,” “ Southern Literary Messenger,” “Knickerbocker," “ Democratic Review," Graham's Magazine,” “Putnam's Magazine,” “Boston Miscellany,” and “Na. tional Anti-Slavery Standard."

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