* * * * *

Stanzas.

(Written on a stone, part of the ruins of Chertsey Abbey, Surrey.)

(For the Mirror.)

  From gayer scenes, where pleasure’s mad career
    Infects the milder avenues of thought,
  Where secret Envy swells the note of Fear,
    And Hope is in its own illusion caught.

  Where, in Ambition’s thorny path of power,
    Contending votaries bow to toils of state,
  I turn, regardless of the passing hour,
    To trace the havoc of avenging fate.

  Ne’er may the wanton love of active life
    Control the sage’s precepts of repose,
  Ne’er may the murmurs of tumultuous strife
    Wreck the tranquillity of private woes.

  Here, on the crumbling relics of a stone,
    O’er which the pride of masonry has smiled,
  Here am I wont to ruminate alone. 
    And pause, in Fancy’s airy robe beguil’d.

  Disparting time the towers of ages bends,
    Forms and indignant sinks the proudest plan,
  O’er the neglected path the weed extends,
    Nor heeds the wandering steps of thoughtful man.

  Here expiation, murder has appeased,
    Treason and homicide have been forgiven,
  Pious credulity her votaries eased,
    Nor blamed th’ indulgent majesty of heaven.

  Some erring matron has her crimes disclosed,
    Some father conscious of awak’ning fate,
  Safe from revenge, hath innocence reposed,
    Unseen and undisturbed at others’ hate.

  Some sorrowing virgin her complainings poured
    With pious hope has many a pang relieved;
  Here the faint pilgrim to his rest restored,
    The scanty boon of luxury has received.

  Sated with conquest from the noise of arms,
    The aged warrior with his fame retired,
  Careless of thirsty spoil,—­of war’s alarms—­
    Nor with imperial emulation fired.

  Where once her orisons devotion paid
    By fear, or hope, or reverence inspired,
  The sad solicitude of youth allay’d,
    And age in resignation calm attired.

  The houseless cottager from wind severe,
    His humble habitation oft has made;
  Once gloomy penitence sat silent there,
    And midnight tapers gleam’d along the shade.

  The lonely shepherd here has oft retired,
    To count his flock and tune his rustic lay,
  Where loud Hosannas distant ears inspired,
    And saintly vespers closed the solemn day.

Hugh Delmore.

* * * * *

Book-machinery.

(To the Editor of the Mirror.)

The world being supplied with books by machinery is almost, literally, a fact.  Type-founding and stereotyping are, of course, mechanical processes; and lately, Dr. Church, of Boston, invented a plan for composing (setting the types) by machinery; the sheets are printed by steam; the paper is made by machinery; and pressed and beaten for binding by a machine of very recent date.  Little more remains to be done than to write by machinery; and, to judge by many recent productions, a spinning-jenny would be the best engine for this purpose.