The whilst the wretch upon the platform knelt,

And offer'd up warm orisons to heaven, That all his load of wrath-deserving guilt

Might, by a gracious Saviour, be forgiven ;--Still as the treacherous calm that ushers in

The dreadful concert of the warring spheres, Stood the spectators of th' appalling scene--

Nor few, I hope, were pity's heav'nly tears ! But when suspended from the tree he hung,

And one convulsive throe told life was o'er; A shriek from all the awe-struck crowd up-sprung,

That thrill'd the very threads of my heart's core! Homewards I turn'd as died the last long knoll--

And when the dead man's crimes to thought recurr'd, I trembled for the disembodied soul,

'Till blue-ey'd Hope's celestial strains I heard ;--- What mortal's bold, unholy tongue presumes

To pass eternal sentence on the dead?
That power, who such prerogative assumes ---

Who erst on Calvary's awful summit bled ---
May look in mercy where his ashes rest,
And give him peace perennial with the blest.'


ON “TO BE, OR NOT TO BE." TO write, or not to write? that is the question! Whether 'tis better with a pen to scribble The flights and fancies of outrageous nonsense, Or to lay down the quill and cease to trouble The patience of the world? To write, to scrawl; And by that scrawl to say we utter all The bórrid stuff! The thousand foolish whimsies That labour in the brain''tis a deliverance Devoutly to be wish'd. To write, to scrawl.To scrawl---perchance to blot! ah! There's the rub! For, on a stricter view, what blots may come When we have scribbled all the paper o'er,

Must give us pause! There's the respect
That stops the weak presumptuous hand of fools,
For who would bear the sneers and scorns of wit,
The critic's laugh, the learned pedant's railing,
The spurns and insolence of common sense,
The jokes of humour, and the repartee,
When he himself might his quietus make,
With mere blank paper? Who would hisses hear,
Or groan and sweat at sound of Catcall's squeak,
But that the itch of writing for the stages
Puzzles thé will, the judginent leads astray,
And makes us rather risk all ridicule, i

Than shun the muses and forbear to rhyme.
? Ambition thus makes asses of us all!
And thus each empty fellow, void of genius,
Is tempted to imagine he's a poet;
And Petits Maitres, of great skill in dressing,
Even from the favorite mirror turn away,
To gain the name of author..
Soho, October, 1818


'Twas sweet to sit beneath thine eye,
And in its lustre softly sigh,

Ashamed, afraid, yet blest,---
To feel its wild beams seek my heart,
And read what words could ne'er impart,

Then sun it intoʻrest :
It was a calm, so soft, so deep,
It felt like infants' summer sleep,

Within their mothers' arms;
A slumber which a kiss might break,
Love's lightest breath miglit bid awake,
· To sweet, yet dread alarms!


J. Arliss, Printer, Londow.

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