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"Tis the wild lurid lightning's gleam,
Swift bursting from a stormy cloud;
That spreads a bright destructive beam,
Then sinks into its sable shroud!
What is that Smile-calm, fixed at last,
On the hoar brow of reverend age,
When the world's changing scenes are past,
And nearly closed life's varied page?
"Tis the rich glowing western beam,
Bright spreading o'er the darkening skies;
That shews, by its mild parting gleam,
A cloudless, heavenly morn shall rise!

THE INQUIETUDE OF MAN.
THE sun is sinking in the west,
The groves the evening zephyrs fan,
The weary beasts prepare for rest,
And all is calm but Man.

Poor restless creature of an hour,
His longest life is but a span,
And yet that span fell cares devour,
For never calm is Man.

Though bounteous Nature all has given,
To make him blest on reason's plan,
A rebel 'gainst the will of Heaven,
Still never calm is Man.

TO THE MOON.

OH, lovely Goddess of the night,
As oft in pensive mood I stray
Thro' groves illumined by thy light,
I hate the glare of day.

I love to wander 'mong the hills,

When thou shed'st wide thy softening ray
O'er trees, and towers, and gliding rills,
More pleasing far than day.

And while I breathe the air of Even,
Let me my grateful homage pay

To Him, who for our joy has given
The night as well as day.

J. R.

J. R.

TO LAURA.

SWEET Babe! as yet the sombre clouds of night
Enwrap thy infant mind in deepest gloom;
Anon shall break the morn of reason's light,
And, slow advancing, every sense illume,
Till all its sunlike empire it assume;
Chasing old custom's cloud before its ray,
Gilding the inner darkness of the tomb,
Throwing o'er earthly things so bright a day,
The soul shall feel their worth-and sigh to be away.
As the lone prisoner within his cell
Sighs for the coming of the morning hour,
Within its cell of clay the soul doth dwell,
And pants to escape from its benumbing power.
As sunbeams glancing thwart the captive's tower,
Cheer with their light the wo-fraught heart within,
So when on earth the clouds of sorrow lower,
Reason's pure light unfolds a lovelier scene,

Where sighs are never heard, where tears are never seen.

STANZAS,

W. T. B.

On beholding a beautiful but abandoned Female. IN a form of such beauty can evil reside!

Can a face of such loveliness countenance sin!--Yes---foul is the demon yon structure doth hide, And dire are the passions that rankle within! "Tis the curse of creation :---for now as I strayed To the vase where my favourite ranunculus stood, Lo! entwined round its root a young serpent was laid, And the pride of my garden was seized for its food. When the parent-tree withers in summer's warm light, How the green generation partake the decay! Though their fruit and their foliage be blushing and bright,

On a sudden they languish and fade fast away. Thus if virtue decline in the glebe of the heart, Every blossom of purity perisheth too:

For 'tis virtue alone can those rich blooms impart, Which delight with their sweetness, and charm with their hue!

C. FEIST.

LINES

Written at the request of a Lady who had been overmuch complimented and flattered by a Beau.

Of all the modes by which vain men beguile
Our simple sex, and laugh at us the while,
What most subdues the unsuspecting breast,
But what some few of us the most detest,
Is flattery. He who flatters must suppose
A barren soil, where sense nor judgment grows.
Were half mankind just what the flatterer paints,
Fools would be wise, and sinners would be saints,
Deformity perfection---mend your strain,
Young man! when you presume to write again:
True merit sickens at preposterous praise,
And beauty needs no fool to fan its blaze!
Plymouth.

HARVEST HYMN.

J. N.

AMIDST these cool sequestered shades,
Whene'er my footsteps stray,
Where lofty pines uprear their heads,
And hide the solar ray;

I find their friendly gloom to me
Sweet consolation prove,
And lift my soul, O God! to thee,
With gratitude and love.
Around I see rich harvests spread,
By thy Divine command,

The world receives its daily bread
From thine all-bounteous hand;
For every blessing thou hast given,
Most liberal from above,
All I can offer up to Heaven,
Is gratitude and love.

Let not mine eyes in vain, O Lord!
Upon thy bounties gaze!

But let my heart and voice accord

In songs of highest praise!

The warbling birds, whose music floats
Responsive thro' the grove,

To thee attune their varied notes
Of gratitude and love.

Lord! every morn when I arise,
Submissive let me fall,

And yield a willing sacrifice
To thee, who givest all:

Thus may my life by grace divine
In piety improve;

And evermore my soul incline

To gratitude and love.

M. A. S.

EPIGRAM BY BURNS UPON MISS L--- B.

THOU, bonnie L---, art a queen,
Thy subjects we before thee;
Thou bonnie L--- art divine,

The hearts o' men adore thee.
The very de'il he could na scathe
Whatever wad belang thee,
He'd look into thy bonnie face,
And say, I canna wrong thee.

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF MY HUSBAND'S DEATH, May 26, 1809.

"THE dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, And heavily in clouds brings on the day;" My soul in silent agony implores

From thee, my God of Hope! one cheering ray. Tenacious memory brings back the day,

The dreadful day, which fixed my widowed doom, Which left me sorrowing in my desert way,

And called my William's sainted spirit home! God! who in mercy bade that spirit rise,

Above the persecuting pangs of earth,

Who broke his bonds, and paid his freedom's price,
And crowned with peaceful death his cherished worth,

Look down and see this bosom's weight of wo.
Thou wilt not turn thy gracious ear away,
Let not my precious offspring misery know,
Nor suffer one of them from thee to stray!
Shield them, Eternal Power, from every ill;
In virtue, truth, and honour, guide their ways,
So will I cease to murmur, and fulfil

My arduous task, with gratitude and praise!

ISABEL.

THE KALEIDOSCOPE.
MYSTIC trifle, whose perfection
Lies in multiplied reflection,
Let us from thy sparkling store
Draw a few reflections more:
In thy magic circle rise

All things men so dearly prize;
Stars, and crowns, and glittering things,
Such as grace the courts of kings;
Beauteous figures ever twining,-
Gems with brilliant lustre shining;
Turn the tube;-how quick they pass-
Crowns and stars prove broken glass!
Trifle! let us from thy store
Draw a few reflections more;
Who could, from thy outward case,
Half thy hidden beauties trace?
Who, from such exterior show,
Guess the gems within that glow?
Emblem of the mind divine,
Cased within its mortal shrine!
Once again, the miser views

Thy sparkling gems, thy golden hues,
And, ignorant of thy beauty's cause,
His own conclusions sordid draws:
Imagines thee a casket fair

Of gorgeous jewels, rich and rare ;
Impatient his insatiate soul

To be the owner of the whole,
He breaks thee ope, and views within
Some bits of glass, a tube of tin!
Such are riches, valued true-
Such the illusions men pursue!
August 26, 1818,

EPIGRAM.

W. H. M.

"How fallen is poor Scott!" exclaimed Dick to his friend, "With this Waterloo poem his praises must end." Answers Tom, "Yet his merit deserves our applause, Since he could not have fallen in a nobler cause."

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

R. T.

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