THE UNIVERSALIST.
'to a friend who questioned the propriety of his
religious opinions.
'You ask what creed is mine? and where
I seek the Lord in holy prayer?
What sect I follow? by what rule,
Perhaps you mean, I play the fool?
I answer, none; yet gladly own
I worship God, but God alone.
No pious fraud or monkish lies
Shall teach me others to despise;
Whate'er their creed, I love them all,
So they before their Maker fall.
The sage, the savage, and refined,
On this one point are equal blind:
Shall man, the creature of an hour,
Arraign the all-creative Power?
Or, by smooth chin, or beard unshaved,
Decree who shall or not be saved?
Presumptuous priests, in silk and lawn,
May lib'ral minds denounce with scorn;
The reason's clear—remove the veil,
Their trade and interest both must fail.

I hold that being worse than blind,
Where bigotry usurps the mind;
And more abhor him who for pelf,
Denouncing others, damns himself.
Look round, observe creation's work,
From Afric's savage to the Turk;
Through polish'd Europe turn your eye,
To where the sun of liberty
On western shores illumes the wave,
That flows o'er many a patriot's grave;
As varied as their skin's the creed,
By which they hope they shall succeed
In presence of their God, to prove
Their claim to his eternal love;
A claim that must and will have weight,
No matter what their creed or state.
By modes of faith let none presume
To fix his fellow-creature's doom.'"

"A truce with religion, Horace," said I; "it is a controversy that generally ends in making friends foes, and foes the most implacable of persecutors: with the one it shuts out all hope of reconciliation, with the other breeds a war of extermination; so come, lad, leave theology to the fathers—we that have liberal souls tolerate all creeds. More hollands, steward: here's a glass to all our college acquaintance, not forgetting grandmamma and the pretty nuns of Saint Clement's. Where the deuce is all that singing we hear above, steward?" "On board the Transport, your honour." "Ay, I remember, I saw the poor devils embark this morning, and a doleful sight it was—one hundred of my fellow-creatures, in the prime of life, consigned to an early grave, transported to the pestilential climate of Sierre Leone: inquire for them three months hence, and you shall find them—not where they will find you—but where whole regiments of their predecessors have been sacrificed, on the unhealthy shores—victims to the false policy of holding what is worse than useless, and of enslaving the original owners of the soil.

Liquor, and the reflection of their desperate fortunes, have driven them mad, and now they give vent to their feelings in a forced torrent of wild mirth, in which they would bury the recollections of those they are parted from for ever. On the beach this morning I witnessed a most distressing scene: wives separated by force from their husbands, and children torn from the fond embraces of parents whose parting sighs were all they could yield them on this side the grave. 'Push off the boat, and, officer, see that no women are permitted on board,' said the superintending lieutenant of the depot, with a voice and manner hard and unfeeling as the iron oracle of authority. My heart sickened at the sight, and the thrilling scream of a widowed wife, as she fell senseless on the causeway, created an impression that my pitying Muse could not resist recording.

'THE SOLDIER'S WIPE.
'There's a pang which no pencil nor pen can express,
A heart-broken sigh which despondency breathes,
When the soul, overcharged with oppressive distress,
Of the tear of relief the sad bosom bereaves.
'Twas thus on the shore, like a statue of grief,
The wife of the soldier her babe fondly press'd;
Not a word could she utter, no tear gave relief,
But sorrow convulsively heaved her soft breast.
Now nearer she presses—now severed for life
The waves bear the lord of her bosom from view;
Distraction suspends the red current of life,
And she sinks on the beach as he sighs out adieu.'"

"Zounds, old fellow, how sentimental you are growing!" said Horace: "you must read these pathetic pieces to the marines; they will never do for the sailors. Here, steward, bear a hand, muster the crew aft, and let us have a tune, Jack's Alive, Malbrook, or the College Hornpipe;" an order that was quickly carried into execution, as most of the men on board I found played some wind instrument, the effect of which upon the stillness of the water was enchantingly sweet. During the occasional rests of the band, Horace sung one of those delightful melodies, written in imitation of Moore, for which he was celebrated when a boy at Eton.

THE EVENING TIDE.
Tune—" The Young May Moon."
Whither so fast away, my dear?
The star of Eve is bright and clear,
And the parting day, as it fades away,
To lovers brings delight, my dear:
Then 'neath night's spangled veil, my dear,
Come list t' the young heart's tale sincere;
Yon orb of light, so chaste and bright,
Love's magic yields within her sphere.
Then through the shady grove, my love,
Let's wander with the cooing dove,
Till the starry night, to morning's light,
Shall break upon our wooing, love.
As life's young dream shall pass, my love,
Together let us gaily row,
And day by day, in sportive play,
Enjoy life's Meeting gloss, my love.

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It was on one of those warm evenings in the month of July, when scarcely a zephyr played upon the wanton wave, and the red sun had sunk to rest behind the Castle turrets, giving full promise of another sultry day, that our little band had attracted a more than usual display of promenaders on the walk extending from the Fort point to the Marine Hotel. With the report of the evening gun, or, as Horace termed it, the admiral's grog bell, we had quitted the cabin, and mustering our little party upon deck, suffered the Rover to drift nearer in shore with the tide, that we might enjoy the gratifying spectacle of more closely observing the young, the beautiful, and the accomplished elegantes who traversed to and fro upon the beach to catch the soft whispers of the saline air.