this sacred roof the spots sanctified by the most remarkable incidents in the life of the Lord Jesus; and, by a bold violation of the unity of place, the most interesting localities of the gospel pass before you in a succession of magical scenes. The enchanted buildings are crowded with pilgrims, kneeling and gazing, crossing their breasts and telling their beads. All is pious bustle; and the rival friars of the several monasteries are every where seen striving with an emulation which is sometimes more zealous than decorous.

Nearly in the centre of the church of the Holy Sepulchre there rises a very small chapel, built, if I remember right, of various coloured marbles, but which may be truly described, both in design and ornament, as the most unseemly structure in the world. Entering this chapel, you find yourself in a cell about three yards square, cut out of the rock over which this chapel is raised, and flagged with white marble. The cell is nearly filled by a large stone, said to be the one on which the angel sate when the celestial messenger notified to the two Marys that the Lord Jesus had risen. On the opposite side of this cell is a passage in the rock, in height about half a man's stature, and difficult to pass, through which you enter another cell, also covered with marble, about eight feet square, and nearly filled by a tomb about a yard in height, and made in the form of an altar.

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A PILGRIMAGE TO THE HOLY SEPULCHRE.

The altar is enclosed; over it a number of silver lamps perpetually burn before a small picture of the Resurrection, sullying the marble roof of the cell with their smoky flame, and heating the sanctuary with an immoderate fervour. A venerable friar, with a long, flowing beard, whiter than the marble, sits by the side of the altar; before which two or three pilgrims can with difficulty find space enough to humble themselves; and, as they kneel, the venerable friar, making on their foreheads the sign of the cross with rosewater, says, in a solemn voice, " Behold the sepulchre of thy Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, who died for thy sins!'

THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "CORN-LAW RHYMES."

STRONG climber of the mountain's side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is rolled;
The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.
But here the titling* spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;
And here the sunflowert of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.
To mountain winds the famished fox
Complains that Sol is slow,

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

*The hedge-sparrow.

†The dandelion.

G

But here the lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils, in light, the snake;
And here the fire-tuft* hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.

Oh! then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane !

For, oh! I love these banks of rock,

This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,

And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth, secure,

Look here, and wonder, and survey
A world in miniature :

A world not scorned by Him who made
E'en weakness by his might;
But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.
Light!-not alone on clouds afar,
O'er storm-loved mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,
Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh, no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land—

*The golden-crested wren.

A page on which the angels look,

Which insects understand!
And here, O light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,

Like splinters of a crystal hair,

Thy bright small hand is here! Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide, Is Huron, girt with wood;

This driplet feeds Missouri's tide

And that, Niagara's flood.

What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,

That down from heaven in madness flings

The blind foam of its might?

Do I not hear his thunder roll-
The roar that ne'er is still?

'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul

It roars, and ever will.

What forests tall of tiniest moss

Clothe every little stone !

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss

O'er pigmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,

Ambitious of the sky,

They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom-high.

Oh, God of marvels! who can tell

What myriad living things