or more undeviatingly directed to objects of substan-
tial importance; and it is painful to reflect, that his
fatal illness was prematurely induced, in consequence
of such exertions. Let the qualities of his heart and
his moral excellence command our regard; for the
services he has rendered, let the debt of gratitude be
paid to his memory. W.

The following specimens of Mr. Eddy

's poetry are
sufficient to convince any one who reads them, that
he had a cultivated mind, a feeling heart, and a fine
imagination. THE LAMENT on his misfortunes, writ-
ten when the author was only eighteen years of age,
is, beyond all question, an honourable proof of mind
and taste.—

In former days how blithe my moments past,
Each New Year's day was happier than the last;
Unknown to sorrow, and serenely gay,
In mirth and frolic passed my harmless day;
Unconscious of the il1 by fate design'd
Fond dreams of glory filled my youthful mind—
Now, sad reverse! though scarce to manhood grown,
Has dire misfortune mark'd me for her own.
No social converse charms my listless ear,
In death-like silence rolls my lonely year,
Lonesome I sit, of every hope despoil'd,
The sons of pleasure shun misfortune's child.
Unfit for me are those whose hours employ
The voice of gladness and the song of joy.
In careless apathy I pass the day
With some dull book to trifle time away,
Or take a lonely walk, or pluck a flower,
Or mark the presage of a coming shower,
Or paint some landscape on the verdant plain,
Or bounding vessel on the wat'ry main,
Or muse in silence on an absent mind
And dream of pleasure that I ne'er shall find,
Or pore upon the news with serious face,
And mark what slaughter Europe

's realms deface.
Thus pass my days—but when the evening ray
Smiles in the west, with purple lustre gay,
I mark the moon that skirts the fleecy cloud,
Or veils her beauty in the misty shroud,
While stars unnumbered deck the blue profound,
Whose sparkling fires her silver throne surround,
Light all the vast expanse, and move sublime
Thro' Heaven's vast concave from the depths of time;
Then shine the streams where silent vessels glide,
And scarce a zephyr curls the glassy tide.
O'er misty vales the mountains rise to sight,
And shadowy grandeur fills the vault of night—
This is reflection's hour—the shining scene
Sheds o'er my pensive mind a soft serene,