LINES TO A BRAMBLE,

That had spread itself over a little Grotto of the Waters.

BY THOMAS WILKINSON.

How grateful the Muses!-a shrub or a flower,
Or a tree that has risen in some dark, shady bower,
O'er the head of the poet, still grows in his lays,
Waves its branches around, and partakes of his praise :
The oak and the laurel have long been a theme,

And the willow that weeps with its head o'er the stream;
Through the walks of creation each bard has his tree,
But the Bramble, I trust, is reserved for me.

Thou low, creeping plant, I'm unable to tell
With what pleasure I see thee crawl over my cell!
And thou put'st forth the tendrils so slender and long,
And thou openest thy roses the green leaves among,
And the grass underneath is so tender and green,
That a covering more lovely could hardly be seen.

Then continue each year thus to give thy sweet shade,
Thy favours will still be with kindness repaid;

I will watch thy first shoots, and will tend thee with

care,

As something, kind Bramble! that's lovely and rare; And thou fruit-bearing shrub, I will call thee my vine And my grapes-they shall be these dark clusters of

thine.

Yanwath.

THE FRIEND.

BY J. ROBY.

THERE is a Friend, whose love
Is closer than brother's:

Tender, endearing, 'tis above

E'en fondness like a mother's:

She may forget her suckling's cry,—
His ear attends the feeblest sigh.

On Him thy panting breast,

By care and anguish riven, Bleeding and torn, hath found its rest, From other refuge driven;

And earth, with all its joys and fears,

Hath ceased to bring or smiles or tears.

Morn's dew-enamelled flowers,

The cloud through azure sweeping, Their brightness owe to sadder hours,

Their calm to storms and weeping ;That Friend shall thus each tear illumeTo forms of glory shape that gloom.

Eve's sapphire cloud hath been

Dark as the brow of sorrow;

Those dew-pearls wreathed in emerald green,

Once wept a coming morrow; But glory sprang o'er earth and sky,

And all was light and ecstacy.

Yon star upon the brow

Of night's grey coronet,

Morn's radiant blush, eve's ruddy glow,

Had yon bright sun ne'er set,Were hidden still from mortal sight, Lost in impenetrable light.

Then should afflictions come,
Dark as the shroud of even,

A thousand glories glitter from
The burning arch of heaven!
Though earth be wrapt in doubt and gloom,
New splendours dawn o'er daylight's tomb.

And who that azure hung

With lamps of living fire?

Who, when the hosts of morning sung,
First listened to their quire ?-
The Man of Sorrows, mercy sent-
In heaven the God!-th' Omnipotent!

He is that Friend, whose love
Nor life nor death shall sever;
Eternal as yon throne above,

Unchanged, endures for ever.

What wouldst thou more, frail fabric of the dustOmnipotence thy SHIELD-thy REFUGE TRUST!