Various - Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 429 стр 13.

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JUVENILE ENERGY

was fifteen years old; his parents lived seven miles distant; he wanted an education, and had come from home on foot that morning, to see if Mr Maynard could help him to contrive how to obtain it. Mr Maynard asked him if he was acquainted with any one in the place. 'No.' 'Do your parents know any one here?' 'No.' 'Can your parents help you towards obtaining an education?' 'No.' 'Have you any friends that can give you assistance!' 'No.' 'Well, how do you expect to obtain an education?' 'I don't know, but I thought I would come and see you.' Mr Maynard told him to stay that day, and he would see what could be done. He discovered that the boy was possessed of good sense, but no uncommon brilliancy; and he was particularly struck with the cool and resolute manner in which he undertook to conquer difficulties which would have intimidated common minds. In the course of the day, Mr Maynard made provision for having him boarded through the winter in the family with himself, the lad paying for his board by his services out of school. He gave himself diligently to study, in which he made good but not rapid proficiency, improving every opportunity of reading and conversation for acquiring knowledge: and thus spent the winter. When Mr Maynard left the place in the spring, he engaged a minister, who had resided about four miles from the boy's father, to hear his recitations; and the boy accordingly boarded at home and pursued his studies. It is unnecessary to pursue the narrative further. Mr Maynard never saw the lad afterwards. But this was the early history of the Rev. Jonas King, D.D., whose exertions in the cause of Oriental learning, and in alleviating the miseries of Greece, have endeared him alike to the scholar and the philanthropist, and shed a bright ray of glory on his native country.

LITERARY CIRCLES OF LONDON

The Critic

THE SKY-LARK'S SONG

It comes down from the clouds to me,
On this sweet day of spring;
Methinks it is a melody
That angel-lips might sing.
Thou soaring minstrel! wingèd bard!
Whose path is the free air,
Whose song makes sunshine seem more bright,
And this fair world more fair!
I ask not what the strain may be,
Thus chanted at 'Heaven's gate'
A hymn of praise, a lay of joy,
Or love-song to thy mate.
Vain were such idle questioning!
And 'tis enough for me
To feel thou singest still the notes
Which God gave unto thee.
Thence comes the glory of thy song,
And therefore doth it fall,
As falls the radiance of a star,
Gladdening and blessing all!
Oh! wondrous are the living lays
That human lips have breathed,
And deep the music men have won
From lyres with laurel wreathed:
But there's a spell on lip and lyre,
Sweet though their tones may be
Some jarring note, some tuneless string,
Aye mars the melody.
The strings sleep 'neath too weak a touch,
Or break, 'neath one too strong;
Or we forget the master-chord
That should rule all our song.
When shall our spirit learn again
The lay once to it given?
When shall we rise, like thee, sweet bird!
And, singing, soar to heaven?
Fanny Farmer.

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