other language, has appeared, of more sterling value in the province of expository theology which it professes to occupy. With the exceptions which we have already pointed out, and these were chiefly matters of opinionative difference, there is no book we would more readily name as a sound authority on the subjects of which it treats. And the peculiar distinction of the work is this, that it is suited to every style and class of readers,-to the student at his desk, and to the peasant at his fireside. The transparent purity of the thought, the beautiful eloquence of the language, the philosophical views of human nature, and the earnest piety which its pages exhibit, throw around it, and Dr. Kitto's writings in general, a peculiar charm. We should also add to these excellencies of Dr. Kitto as a writer, that such is his art in grouping together incidents and characters, that he may be called a literary sculptor; and such his capacity in painting these, that he may be termed a literary painter. We are delighted to learn that he has been rewarded by a royal pension, and there is no man more deserving of it. Not obscure scribblers, who may have bolstered up a ministry in the pages of some provincial newspaper, or some scribbling Poetasters, who rhymed themselves into the poet Laureateship, but men who have done good service to the course of literature, such as brave old Samuel Johnson and Dr. Kitto, the author of the present work, and of many others equally valuable, are they who ought to be so rewarded. Royalty is itself honoured in the patronage of such men. They are the true benefactors of their race, and do more good by a single book than our military heroes by all their battles. We are glad to see that Dr. Kitto contemplates publishing a second series, and we shall be anxious till it makes its appearance. According to the present plan, the first volume is to include Job and the poetical books; the second, Isaiah and the Prophets; the third, the Life and Death of our Lord; the fourth, the Apostles and the Early Church-a wide and most interesting field of exposition; and if Dr. Kitto treat the subjects enumerated in the same masterly manner that he has done the first, he will deserve the thanks of every private Christian and every Biblical student, as well as the gratitude of the church in all time coming. The following is a specimen, out of many others, which we could give, did our space permit, of the earnest, evangelical sentiment, with which he imbues every topic of exposition, and of the evangelical application which he gives to it. The subject is Joab's fleeing to the horns of the altar, when he heard of the execution of Adonijah, fearing that Solomon would revenge the death of Abner and Amasa.—“At the commencement of the period upon which we now enter, we behold that man of blood, Joab, when he saw cause to be apprehensive of his safety, fleeing to the tabernacle of God, and placing himself in sanctuary there, by taking hold of the horns of the altar. This step taken by him when there lay, in his judgment, a step between him and death, raises some profitable suggestions in the mind. That altar, sanctified by the victims offered, and the blood sprinkled upon it, typifying the atonement made for the sins of the world by the blood of Jesus Christ,-how, in the extremity of our spiritual distresses, as our only means of safety, pardon and hope, what is there for us to do but that which Joab did,-what but to repair to this altar, grasp it with the strong hand of faith, and declare ourselves at length in refuge, that at length we have found the ransom of our souls, and that we have entered the sacred precincts, in which the enemy, the accuser, has no power to enter, and whence his hand has no power to rend us. Christ is that refuge, and beyond all men upon whom the sun shines are they happy, who have taken sanctuary in him. Nothing from without can harm, nothing affright them more. They rest secure in him; and enfolded in his protecting arms, the storms, which trouble the life of man, and sprinkle grey hairs here and there upon him, often before he knows of it, affect him not in his quiet rest, or are heard

only as the muttering thunders of the distant horizon, which only enhance his sense of safety, and do not trouble his repose. The winds may blow bitter, and cold, and fierce around him; but the house of his hope is not shaken, for it is founded upon a rock.

'Betake thee to thy closet then, and repose
Thyself in all extremities on those,
His everlasting arms,

Wherewith he girds the heavens, and upholds
The pillars of the earth, and safely folds
His faithful flock from harms;

Cleave close to him by faith, and let the bands

Of love tie thee in thy Redeemer's hands.'-Quarles.

"Yet there is a difference. The altar of the worldly sanctuary did not give its shelter to all who took hold of it in faith in the efficiency of its protection. There were exceptions. There were sins too great for it to shelter. A murderer might be torn from the altar to die, or might, as the case of Joab himself evinces, be slain even there. Here the parallel wholly fails. None, however guilty, has been cast forth from the refuge, which the cross of Christ affords, as worthy its protection, nor did ever any perish at its foot, not any cast forth on account of their sins,- For Christ came into the world, not to call the righteous, but sinners, to repentance;" and the heavier a man feels the burden of his sins, the more the refuge is dear, and the more it will be prized by him. The only ground on which, hypothetically, a man could be cast forth, would be for lack of faith; but he never is cast out on that account; for faith only, justifying faith, the faith which entitles a troubled soul to the rights of sanctuary, only such faith could have brought him where he is, to the foot of the cross. Yet there is a mirage in the spiritual as in the natural atmosphere; and many appear to be safe within the refuge, who are indeed far away from it. Their hands may seem to grasp the very horns of the altar, yet no drop of the blood of atonement can be found upon their raiment. The world yet reigns in their heart, and its lusts and lucres fill their hands. And yet the self-deceivers know it not. They like quiet in an ideal refuge of their own creation, but its walls will not stand the day of decision, which is destined to burn up the hay, the straw, and the stubble of man's confidence, and shall try even the silver and gold by the sure test of fire. These are they, who, in the greatest to man of all coming days, shall claim a favourable recognition from the great King. • Lord, Lord, have we not taught in thy name, in thy name cast out devils, and in thy name done many wonderful works?' but whose ear shall tingle even unto blood at the answer, I never knew you,-depart from me.'

We are sorry there is no index of detail at the end of the volume,-as for instance in the excellent series of Bohn's publications and we hope Dr. Kitto, or the publishers, will see to the remedying of this defect. There is such a storehouse of valuable information on almost every possible subject, that we would like to have it at command on a moment's notice.

Original Poetry.

ODE TO ITALY.

I.

LAND of the South! still summer smiles on thee,
Sweetly as summer smiled on thee before;
The hues of earth, the many-tinted sea,

The blue of heaven for ever laughing o'er,
Are yet the same: and beauteous as of yore,
The forest flings its shadow on the wave:
But long will summer smile ere time restore
Thy power to conquer, and thy pride to save,
Or bid thy Venice rise immortal from the grave.

II.

Still o'er the deep the song of Tasso floats,
Sung by the listless Adrian gondolier;
The momdolin hath yet delicious notes,
To waft soft feeling to the tranced ear;

And maidens, of dark eye, are wandering here

In glades romantic, by old minstrel sung:

But Tasso slumbers in a sunless bier,

To sorrow's lay the momdolin is strung,

And sweet lips mourn the time when Freedom yet was young.

III.

Still better far, thou ever-glorious clime!

To weep with thee beside thy fallen shrine,

Than share the trophies that the wrath of Time
Bore from their home to regions less divine.
Soft as the dew of eve Petrarcha's line-
Mild Alfieri's numbers "breathe and burn—”

Like linked stars Boccace's stories shine

And blest the tears with which thy votaries turn
To bathe the flowers that bloom o'er Dante's classic urn.

IV.

Oft from the crowd-that moral wilderness,
Unwatered by the holy fount of feeling-

I flee to solitude, and soothe distress

With thoughts and recollections calmly stealing
O'er the hushed spirit—and, in love, revealing
Glimpses of Eden lingering in the Past.-

Ah me! how Tme, with iron hand, is dealing
Death to the fair-the hallowed-while the blast
Of chill Oblivion follows, freezing, and fell, and fast!

V.

Who would be wise and happy, needs must borrow
From the Past warning-from the Future thought.
To-day is Folly's-Wisdom claims to-morrow:
Nothing save tribulation 's cheaply bought;
And ye may have it cheap enough, God wot!
The tiny insect and the weed o'erthrow

The frowning battlements, where shell and shot
Have fallen as idly as the flake of snow,

While serried legions bled, innocuous, below.

VI.

Death is the throne for which ambition toils-
A regal victim, deck'd for sacrifice

With widow's tears, and blood-baptized spoils,
Polluted shrines, and spirit-rending sighs.

Hither, ye sages! weep and moralize!
For, 'mid the future, vain imaginings
To sacred visions wed ephemeral dyes;

While from the Past no flattering folly springs-
The Past, that funeral-place of Prophets, Priests, and Kings!

VII.

Aye! there sad Truth, unbidden, stern, and bare, Speaks from the skeleton-the ruined faneThe smokeless altar-and the vacant chair, Where smiled the face that ne'er will smile again— The desolate city-and the trampled plain, Where Valour strove, and injured Freedom bled. Destruction wieldeth not the scythe in vain, If Life will gather wisdom from the Dead, And o'er the grave of Power in meditation tread.

VIII.

Affliction hath its use-and tears are better
Than orient pearls, if they unbind a rill
Of sacred feeling, leaving Man a debtor
To passing anguish, for prevented ill;
The wild volcano may unseat the hill,
Yet, in its old foundations, bring to light
Treasures that recompense man's toil and skill:
Planets and stars, unutterably bright,

Are scattered o'er the vault of Sorrow's holy night.

IX.

Down with me through the Past! there thou wilt find, Beneath the clear, cold waves of memory gleaming, In treasured caves, far richer gems enshrined, Than meet thy gaze on royal forehead beaming. Some Poet's spirit, rapt in mournful dreamingChaos beyond expression to express— The Past resembles; age on ages teeming With crumbling glories, veiled in sorrow's dress, Pleading, with awful mien, from sacred loneliness.

X.

Hark! how the Human Stream beneath me frets!
Ambition, interest, jollity, and pain;

Consuming jealousy, that ne'er forgets;

And love neglected, shedding tears in vain ;
And slavery, half oblivious of his chain,

For its few links of perishable gold;

Confiding youth, with cares like summer rain; Lips, eyes, and hearts, soon silent, dim, and coldThis this the tale of Life, unheeded-daily told!

XI.

And now, beloved Italia! fare-thee-well-
Farewell! oft spoken-oft itself belying:
Like ocean-echo breathing from the shell,
Long by the salt sea-billows idly lying,
Or note of plaintive music slowly dying,-

The spirit dreams and whispers of the Past.
Even now I hear the evening breezes sighing
By the old domes of Venice-solemn and vast-
And see her colonnades their spectral shadows cast.

XII.

Even now I wander through the grass-grown streets
Of lone Ferrara-even now, dividing,

With classic waves, green lawns and soft retreats;
Calm-flowing Arno through my dream is gliding;
And now, St. Mark's! to me art thou confiding
The names and stories of the mouldered dead.-
Hark! there again, the moonless midnight chiding,
The owl emerges from her ivied shed,

In Rome's colossal dome where saintly martyrs bled.
XIII.

Spirit of man! lament not for the gone.

A future, bright and lasting, waits for thee.
Temples and palaces-the shrine—the throne—
Enrich thy deathless land, Eternity!

The arch of love, spanning the heavens, I see-
Inviting man to mingle with the Blest.

There blows no tempest, and there raves no sea— There falls no column-clouds no sun investThe wicked come not there-the weary are at rest! -P. LELY.

THE FRIENDS OF EARLY DAYS.

THEY have faded away like dreams of the night,
Till scarcely one sparkle remains of their light;
The young and the fair, the gifted and gay,
Like fancy's own visions-they've vanish'd away.

The careless of mood, and the mirthful of heart,
All thoughtless that sorrow for them had a part,-
With song and with dance, in their young spirits' glee,
O'er youth's flow'ry pathways they wandered with me.

But soft eyes are dimm'd, and sweet voices hush'd,
And cheeks are all pale that youth's loveliness flush'd;
And clouds are on brows that once radiantly shone,
With a glory of gladness as bright as my own.

Oh! sudden and sad was the word of their doom,
And brief was the blighting of heart and of bloom;
And speedy the parting of hearts that were twined
In the holiest ties that affection could bind.

They wither'd around me like flowers in the blast,
Like flushings of light, thro' night's darkness they pass'd;
One moment all brightness and beauty they shone,
On the next I was left on their dark graves alone.