On quaking moor, and mountain moss, With eyes upstaring at the sky, And arms extended like a cross, The long-expectant sufferers lie. Bend o'er them, white-robed Acolyte! Put forth thine hand from cloud and mist, And minister the last sad rite, Where altar there is none, nor priest. Touch thou the gates of soul and sense: Touch darkening eyes and dying ears; Touch stiffening hand and feet, and thence Remove the trace of sin and tears. And ere thou seal those filmed eyes, Into God's urn thy fingers dip, And lay, 'mid eucharistic sighs, The sacred wafer on the lip. This night the Absolver issues forth: This night the Eternal Victim bleeds-- O winds and woods--O heaven and earth! Be still this night. The Rite proceeds. LONDON AND EDINBURGH CHESS MATCH. If we pique ourselves on anything, it is on our invincible good-nature. We are as slow to be roused as a brown bear in the midst of its winter sleep; and, if we were let alone, we very much doubt whether, by any conceivable exertion, we could work ourselves into a downright passion. But, somehow or other, it constantly happens that people of a less tranquil mood step in to deprive us of the enjoyment of our untroubled repose. At one time some worthy fellow entreats us to take up the public cudgel and belabour a blatant Economist. At another, we are pathetically besought to administer due castigation to some literary sinner who has transgressed the first principles of decency, morality, and taste. One friend implores us, with tears in his eyes, to take up the case of the oppressed and injured washerwomen: a second puts a tomahawk into our hand, and benevolently suggests the severment of the skull of a charlatan: a third writes to us regarding a rowing match, in which he opines gross injustice has been done by the umpire to the Buffs, and he fervently prays for our powerful assistance in vindicating the honour of the Blues.