Of soul subdued, and utter loneliness,
As haunted memory, like a troubled dream.
Time sped away, and when again I passed
That quiet village, I inquired for him,
And one who knew him told me how he prized
The Blessed Book, which teacheth that the dead
Shall rise again, and o'er its pages hung
Each leisure moment, with a wondering love,
Until he learned of Jesus, and laid down
All sorrow at his feet.
But then there came
A fearful sickness, and in many a cot
Were children dead, and he grew ill, and bore
His pain without complaint, and meekly died,
And went to join the mother that he loved.
Saturday, Nov. 7, 1840
"Deep excavations, and dark wreaths of smoke."
In the towering cliffs of Dover, which are chalk, with a mixture of flint stones, are cut various subter- ranean ways, magazines, and barracks for soldiers. The latter are capable of containing more than 2000 men, and are constructed in the side of perpendicular precipices, to which you ascend, by an internal winding stair-case, some two hundred steps. Light and air are conveyed to them by well-like apertures in the
