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Parody* on the preceding.-BLACKWOOD's MAGAZINE.
Near where yon brook flows babbling through the dell, From whose green bank those upland meadows swell, See where the rector's splendid mansion stands, Embosomed deep in new-enclosed lands,Lands wrested from the indigent and poor, Because, forsooth, he holds the village cure.t A man is he whom all his neighbours fear, Litigious, haughty, greedy, and severe
e; And starving, with a thousand pounds a year.
Midst crowds and sports he passed his youthful prime; Retirement had, with him, been deemed a crime: When the young blood danced joc'und through his veins, 'Tis said his sacred stolet received some stains. By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour, By friends, or fawning, he lays claim to power : For, three fat livings own his goodly sway; Two wretched curates starve upon
Thus to depress the wretched is his pride;
* Parody ;--A kind of writing, in which the words of an author, or his thoughts, are taken, and, by a slight change, adapted to some other subject. + Cure -The office or employment of a curate or clergyman.
Stole ; --A long robe worn by the clergy in England. || Bridewell ;-Å house of correction.
And, like the wolf that stole into the fold,
Called to the bed where parting life is laid,
When in the church, that venerable place,
The service o'er, no friendly rustics run
Such is the man blind chance, not God, hath given To be the guide of humble souls to heaven. To preach of heaven he'll sometimes condescend, But all his views and wishes earthward tend. Like a tall guide-post, towering o'er the way, Whose lettered arms the traveller's route display, Fixed to one spot, it stands upon the down, Its hand still pointing to the distant town.
Elegy on Mrs. Mary Blaize.---GOLDSMITH.
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize ; Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind; She freely lent to all the poor
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manner wonderous winning; And never followed wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size, She never slumbered in her pew
But when she shut her eyes
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux, and more;
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all, Her doctors found, when she was dead
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore;
For Kent-Street well may say, That, had she lived a twelvemonth more--
She had not died to-day.
The sick Man and the Angel.-GAY.
“ Is there no hope ?” the sick man said : The silent doctor shook his head; And took his leave with signs of sorrow, Despairing of his fee to-morrow. When thus the man, with gasping breath : “I feel the chilling hand of death. Since I must bid the world adieu, Let me my former life review. I
grant my bargains were well made; But all men over-reach in trade. 'Tis self-defence in each profession: Sure self-defence is no transgression.
“ The little portion in my hands, By good security on lands, Is well increased. If, unawares, My justice to myself and heirs Hath let my debtor rot in jail, For want of good sufficient bail ; If I, by writ, or bond, or deed, Reduced a family to need; My will hath made the world amends : My hope on charity depends. When I am numbered with the dead, And all my pious gifts are read, By heaven and earth! 'twill then be known, My charities were amply shown." An Angel came.
"Ah! friend," he cried, "No more in flattering hopes confide : Can thy good deeds, in former times, Outweigh the balance of thy crimes ? What widow or what orphan prays To crown thy life with length of days ?A pious action's in thy power: Embrace with joy the happy hour. Now, while you draw the vital air, Prove your intention is sincere: This instant give a hundred pound : Your neighbours want, and you abound."
“But why such haste ?" the sick man whines,
“Fool!” says the Vision, " now 'tis plain,
The Voice of the Seasons.-— Alison. THERE is, in the revolution of time, a kind of warning voice, which summons us to thought and reflection; and every season, as it arises, speaks to us of the analogous character which we ought to maintain. From the first openings of the spring, to the last desolation of winter, the days of the year are emblematic of the state and of the duties of man; and, whatever may be the period of our journey, we can scarcely look up into the heavens, and mark the path of the sun, without feeling either something to animate us upon our course, or to reprove us for our delay.
When the spring appears, when the earth is covered with its tender green, and the song of happiness is heard in every shade, it is a call to us to religious hope and joy. Over the infant year
the breath of heaven seems to blow with paternal softness, and the heart of man willingly partakes in the joyfulness of awakened nature.
When summer reigns, and every element is filled with life, and the sun, like a giant, pursues his course through the firmament above, it is the season of adoration. We see there, as it were, the majesty of the present God; and, wherever we direct our eye, the glory of the Lord seems to cover the earth as the waters cover the sea.
When autumn comes, and the annual miracle of nature is completed, it is the appropriate season of thankfulness and praise. The heart bends with instinctive gratitude before