422 
•v 
[Dec. I, 
Original 
What fingers brace the tender nerves ? 
The twisting fibres spin ? 
Who clothes in flesh the hard’ning bone, 
And weaves the silken skin ? 
Whence learnt the liver to digest 
The silver floods of chyle ? 
And in the jaundic’d gall, confine 
The saffron-colour’ d bile ? 
Who taught the wand’ring tides of blood 
To leave the vital urn, 
Visit each limb in purple streams, 
And faithfully return ? 
How know the lungs to heave aud pant, 
And how the fringed lid 
To g'uard the fearful eye, or brush 
The sullied ball unbid ? 
How know the nerves their active power, 
The hinged limbs to wield ? 
The tongue ten thousand tastes discern — 
Ten thousand accents yield ? 
How delicate the winding ear, 
To image every sound ; 
The eyes, to catch the pleasing view, 
And tell the scenes around. 
Why chanc’d the head and tender heart, 
Life's more immediate throne, 
Where fatal every touch—to dwell 
Immail’d in solid bone ? 
Who taught the babe new launch’d in life, 
The milky draught t’arrest. 
Or with the eager fingers press 
The nectar-streaming' breast ? 
Or who, with love too big for words. 
The mother’s bosom warms, 
Along the rugged paths of life 
To bear it in her arms ? 
A God ! a God ! Creation shouts, 
A God ! each insect cries ; 
He moulded in his palm the earth. 
And hung it on the skies. 
“ Let us make man,” O voice divine, 
“ And stamp a God on clay 
To govern nature’s humbler births, 
And bear an earthly sway,’’ 
He said : with strength and beauty clad, 
Young health in ev’ry vein, 
With thought enthron’d upon his brow, 
Walks forth majestic man. 
Around he turns his wond’ring eyes, 
All nature’s works surveys, 
Admires the earth, himself, the skies. 
And tries his tongue in praise. 
“ Ye hills, ye vales, ye meads and woods. 
Bright sun and glittering stream ; 
Fair creatures ! tell me if you know 
From whence and what I am ? 
“ What Parent Power, all great, all good. 
Do these around me own ? 
Tell me, fair creatures, tell me how 
T’ adore the vast Unknown : 
By whom you cross the flowing field, 
Or through the forest stray : 
Poetry . 
By whom l feel unknown delight, 
And drink the golden day ? 
Gay are the sunny plains—how fair 
Each torrent of the shade; 
And something whispers me within, 
( All these for thee were made.’ 
ie What Parent Power, all great, all good, 
Do these around me own ? 
Tell me, fair creatures, tell me how' 
T’ adore the vast Unknown j 
“ Who gives the wond’rous tongue to 
sound, 
The wpnd’rous eye to see; 
\\ ho gives the amazing thought to soar, 
The amazing soul to be.” 
THE CHIME BELLS OF MERIDEN. 
On hearing them at Midnight. 
BY DR. BOOKER, OF COVENTRY. 
What tuneful sounds are those I hear. 
Warbling so soft, so sweet, so clear ? 
’Tis not the night-bird’s dulcet lay. 
That carols in the merry May ; 
But floating down the lovely glen, 
’Tis the sweet bells of Meriden. 
Like spell-bound wight in aimour’d hall, 
I, listening, heard the waterfall; 
And while the sleeping winds were still 
In yonder wood, on yonder hill, 
The turret clock struck twelve, and then 
Chim’d the sweet bells of Meriden. 
Ye who for pleasure idly roam, 
And wish to find au inn a home, 
When shuts the live-long summer’s day. 
Hither repair, and welcom’d, stay 
To hear, in this delightsome glen 
The soft, sweet bells of Meriden. 
Meriden Inn, May 18, 1821. 
THE HERO FLOGGED. 
I pass’d the warrior’s dwelling 
I heard a dreadful moan. 
It was a mortal 's yelling— 
It was a soldier’s groan! 
Tied, pinion’d, stripp’d, 
And naked whipp’d, 
Each horrid, agonizing roar 
Was follow’d by a stream of gore! 
The cry of mercy vain, 
Was wafted by the breeze. 
Nor could extremest pain 
The tyrant’s wrath appease ! 
Mute, and transfix’d I stood 
Beholding this scene of blood— 
Officers rang’d around, 
Carelessly saw each wound. 
Smiling as ’twere a joke 
After each bloody stroke ! 
Nor did they drink the less, 
Nor sad appear at mess. 
Scarlet, feathers, and lace 
Glitter’d around the place. 
Callous are they! 
The ball, the play, 
The 
