tal on
that account. Henry Bell, who, taking his ideas from Mr Miller's
experimental boat, first set a steam-vessel afloat in this country,
spent his latter years in poverty, from which he was rescued only a
short time before his death by a small pension from the Clyde
Trustees. Mr Thomas Gray, whose Observations on Railways, published
about thirty years ago, may be said to have given origin and impulse
to our present railway system, by which three hundred millions have
been expended, died in poverty, to which he had been reduced by his
exertions in the cause; his widow and children are at this day in that
state, without any public acknowledgment of his services to the
country; and his son has lately applied to nearly every railway
company in the kingdom for a situation, but in vain. Beyond a pension
of L.50 a year to the widow of Mr James Taylor, who prompted Mr Miller
to try his experiments, we are not aware of a single penny having been
expended by the country in requiting the services, or compensating the
losses, of individuals in respect of steam communications of any kind.

A DREAM OF RESURRECTION.

So heavenly beautiful it lay,
It was less like a human corse
Than that fair shape in which perforce
A dead hope clothes itself alway.

The dream shewed very plain: the bed
Where that known unknown face reposed--
A woman's face with eyelids closed,
A something precious that was dead:

A something, lost on this side life,
By which the mourner came and stood,
And laid down, ne'er to be renewed,
All glittering robes of earthly strife;--

Shred off, like votive locks of hair,
Youth's ornaments of joy and strength,
And cast them in their golden length
The silence of that bier to share.

No tears fell--but a gaze, fixed, long,
That memory might print the face
On the heart's ever-vacant space
With a sun-finger, sharp and strong.

Then kisses, dropping without sound;
And solemn arms wound round the dead;
And lifting from the natural bed
Into the coffin's strange _new_ bound;

Yet still no parting--no belief
In death; no more than we believe
In some dread falsehood that would weave
The world in one black shroud of grief.

And still, unanswered kisses; still,
Warm clingings to the image cold,
With an impossible faith's close fold,
Creative, thr