He was, undoubtedly, although in a false position, a true man, and a true poet. To hope all things and believe all things, in reference to a Jesuit, is a difficult task for Protestant charity. Yet what system so vile but it has sometimes been gloriously misrepresented by its votaries? Who that ever read Edward Irving's 'Preface to Ben Ezra'--that modern Areopagitica--combining the essence of a hundred theological treatises with the spirit and grandeur of a Pindaric or Homeric ode--has forgot the pictures of Ben Ezra, or Lacunza the Jesuit? His work, 'The Coming of the Messiah in Glory and Majesty,' Irving translated from Spanish into his own noble English prose, and he describes the author as a man of primitive manners, ardent piety, and enormous erudition, and expresses a hope, long since we trust fulfilled, of meeting with the 'good old Jesuit' in a better world. To this probably small class of exceptions to a general rule (it surely is no uncharity to say this, since the annals of Jesuitism have confessedly been so stained with falsehood, treachery, every insidious art, and every detestable crime) seems to have belonged our poet. No proof was produced that he had any connexion with the treacherous and bloody designs of his party, although he had plied his priestly labours with unwearied assiduity. He was too sincere-minded a man to have ever been admitted to the darker secrets of the Jesuits. His verses are ingenious, simpler in style than was common in his time --distinguished here by homely picturesqueness, and there by solemn moralising. A shade of deep but serene and unrepining sadness, connected partly with his position and partly with his foreseen destiny, (his larger works were written in prison,) rests on the most of his poems. LOOK HOME. Retired thoughts enjoy their own delights, As beauty doth in self-beholding eye: Man's mind a mirror is of heavenly sights, A brief wherein all miracles summ'd lie; Of fairest forms, and sweetest shapes the store, Most graceful all, yet thought may grace them more. The mind a creature is, yet can create, To nature's patterns adding higher skill Of finest works; wit better could the state, If force of wit had equal power of will. Device of man in working hath no end; What thought can think, another thought can mend. Man's soul of endless beauties image is, Drawn by the work of endless skill and might: This skilful might gave many sparks of bliss, And, to discern this bliss, a native light, To frame God's image as his worth required; His might, his skill, his word and will conspired. All that he had, his image should present; All that it should present, he could afford; To that he could afford his will was bent; His will was follow'd with performing word. Let this suffice, by this conceive the rest, He should, he could, he would, he did the best. THE IMAGE OF DEATH.