Whose brow is wreathed with lightning glare? 
  She, who treads the surgy sea
  In her stayless majesty,
  Curbs each wild (erratic) wave. 
  When Atlantic tempests rave! 
  Speaks—­the maddened storms increase—­
  Speaks again—­and all is peace. 
  ’Tis her breath’s propitious gale
  Swells the weather-beaten sail,
  Wafts the crew from Britain o’er,
  Unto India’s spicy shore. 
  ’Tis her bounty fills the earth
  With the joys of wine and mirth,
  Scatters through her broad domain
  All the blessings of her reign;
  Seasons roll at her command,
  Plenty droppeth from her hand;
  Earth and sea and spangled sky
  Own her glorious sovereignty,
  Walking with a stride immense,
  In her tall magnificence,
  Mountain heights, where wonders crowd,
  Pinnacled in solemn cloud. 
  Andes, or the snowy scalps
  Of the giant towering Alps! 
  Hills prolific, valley deeps,
  Where the muse of silence sleeps;
  Frowning cliff, and beetling rock,
  Shivered by the deluge shock,
  When the world was drowned—­and now
  Tottering before Ruin’s plough. 
  Forests green, and rivers wide—­
  Every flow and ebb of tide. 
  Rivulets, whose crystal veins
  Ripple along flowery plains,
  Leaping torrents rushing hoarse,
  Mimicking the ocean’s force,
  Leafage in its summer pride—­
  Flowers to Paradise allied. 
  Fruit inviting, luscious, such
  As seems to paralyze the touch,
  As ambrosial nectar sweet,
  Ripe and fit for Gods to eat. 
  Nature’s power is seen in all—­
  Winter’s Crown, or Spring-birds’ call—­
  Summer’s eloquent perfume,
  Autumn’s yellow-tinted bloom—­
  Every chiselled sand grain tells
  Nature’s might; the petal cells,
  Whence the bee her honey draws,
  Glorify Creation’s laws;
  Things minute, or vast expanse
  That tires the astronomic glance. 
  Ocean swathed with azure blue,
  Or the gems of morning dew.
  Past—­with all its mighty deeds,
  Nature claims its choicest meeds;
  Present—­with portentous calm,
  Nature claims its chiefest palm;
  Future—­ah! she trembles there,
  Nature quivers in despair. 
  When the master of the scene,
  From the cloud-work of serene
  Asks her long deputed power—­
  Takes her sceptre—­bids her cower—­
  Strips her of her ancient robe,
  She, who once bestrode the globe—­
  Flings around his flaming path
  Crescents of destructive wrath;
  Tramples earth, and rolls in fire
  Forth the thunders of his ire. 
  Nature sinks, no more to rise
  While JEHOVAH fills the skies
  With his glory high, sublime—­
  Death is dead, and perished time! 
  What a scene! when naught shall be
  But Chaos and Eternity!

We are happy to find in Mr. Gough’s List of Subscribers to his work, a host of royal and noble patrons, the ministers of the country, the Earl of Eldon, the Lord and Lady Mayoress, and a few of the Court of Aldermen—­patronage, court and city—­combining to encourage Mr. Gough’s praiseworthy efforts.