354 ADVENT. 



DEC. 19. St. Nemesion, martyr, &c. a.d.250. 

 St. Samthana, virgin, abbess in Ireland, 738. 



Ob^. St. Hemesion was an Egyptian, He was persecutpd, and at length suffered 

 a cruel martyrdom at Alexandria, where, in more perfect imitation of our divine Re- 

 deemer, he was put to death among tliieves. 



St. Samthana was the foundress of the monastery Cluambronach, on the borders of 

 Meath in Ireland, where she probably died in 738. 



Twocoloured Heath Erica bicolor still fl. 



We extract the following: from the Perennial Calendar: — Almost all writers of taste 

 have alluded to the deliprhtful recollections of early childhood, and it has been a fa- 

 vourite theme of the poets; hut the cause of those very acute sensations of pleasure 

 which come across the mind when certain early scenes are recalled to view, have never 

 been explained. They are beautifully described by Addison and other writers in the 

 Spectator, Tatler, Guardian, and similar periodical works. Some persons have ima- 

 gined the recollections of the past to make up part of the pleasure of eternal life, and 

 that the recoUectins; old scenes with pleasure is a favourable omen. Of all these things, 

 however, we are confessedly ignorant, and must content ourselves with enjoying the 

 passing phenomena, and await for a knowledge of their causes the event of the great 

 change that the soul probably undergoes at the dissolution of this body, spirare et sperarc. 



Infantine Recollections ; being some Verses found this Day among the Papers of 

 one of the Editors, evidently some Parody. 



In Fancy how dear are the scenes of ray childhood, 



Which old recollections recall to my view ; 

 My own little garden, its plants, and the wild wood. 



The old paper Kite that my infancy (lew. 

 The cool shady Elm Grove, the pond that was by it. 



My small plaything Mill where the rain torrent fell; 

 My Father's Pot Garden, the Drving Ground nigh it. 



The old wooden Pump by the Melon Ground well. 

 That Portugal Laurel I hail as a treasure. 



For often in Summer, when tired of play, 

 I found its thick shade a most exquisite pleasure. 



And sat in its boughs my long lessons to say. 

 There I first thought my scholarship somewhat advancing. 



And, turning my Lilly right down on its back. 

 While my thirst for some drink the Sun's beams were enhancing, 



I shouted out learnedly — Da inihi lac. 



No image more dear than the thoughts of these baubles, 



Ghigs, Peg Tops, and Whip Tops, and infantine games ; 

 The Grassplot for Ball, and the Yewwalk for Marbles, 



That leads to a temple which nobody names. 

 Those three renowned Poplars, by Summer winds waved. 



By Tom, Ben, and Ned, that were planted of yore, 

 'Tw"ixt the times tliat these wights were first breeched and first shaved, 



May now be hew n down, and may waver no more ! 

 How well I remember, when Spring flowers were blowing. 



With rapture I cropt the first Crocuses there ! 

 Life seemed like a Lamp in eternity glowing. 



Nor dreamt I that all the green boughs vvould be sear. 

 In Summer, while feasting on Currants and Cherries, 



And roving through Strawberry beds with delight, 

 I thought not of Autumn's Grapes, Nuts, and Blackberries, 



Nor of Ivy decked Winter cold shivering in white. 

 E'en in that frosty season, my Grandfather's Hall in, 



I used to sit turning the Electric Machine. 

 And taking from shockbottles shocks much less galling. 



If sharper than those of my manhood I ween. 



The Chesnuts I picked up and flung in the fires. 



The Evergreens gathered the hot coals to choke. 

 Made reports that were emblems of blown up desires, 



And warm glowing hopes that have ended in smoke. ; 

 How oft ha\e I sat on the green bench astonished 



To gaze at Orion and Night's shady car, 

 By the starspangled sky's magic lantern admonished 



Of time and of space that were distant afar ! 

 But now, when embarked on Life's rough troubled ocean^ 



While Hope with her anchor stands up on the bow, 

 May Fortune lake care of my skiff put in motion. 



Nor sink me when coyly she steps on the prow. 



