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To feel that thou hadst not incurr'd
The deep compunction, bitter shame,
Of prostituting gifts conferr'd

To strengthen Virtue's hallow'd claim. How much more glorious is the name, The humble name which thou hast won, Than-" damn'd with everlasting fame," To be for fame itself undone.

Better, and nobler was thy choice

To be the Bard of simple swains,— In all their pleasures to rejoice,

And soothe with sympathy their pains ; To paint with feeling in thy strains The themes their thoughts and tongues discuss, And be, though free from classic chains, Our own more chaste THEOCRITUS.

For this should SUFFOLK proudly own
Her grateful, and her lasting debt ;-
How much more proudly-had she known
That pining care, and keen regret,—
Thoughts which the fever'd spirits fret,
And slow disease,-'twas thine to bear ;-

And, ere thy sun of life was set, Had won her Poet's grateful prayer.

"TIS NOW TOO LATE! the scene is clos'd, Thy conflicts borne,-thy trials o'er ;— And in the peaceful grave repos'd

That frame which pain shall rack no more ;Peace to the Bard whose artless store Was spread for Nature's lowliest child;

Whose song, well meet for peasant lore, Was lowly, simple, undefil'd.

Yet long may guileless hearts preserve
The memory of thy verse and thee;-
While nature's healthful feelings nerve
The arm of labour toiling free,
Such as thy sweetest tales make known,-

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By cottage-hearth, by greenwood tree,
Be BLOOMFIELD call'd with pride their own!

London Magazine.


Written by an Officer long resident in India, on his return to England.

THE following Stanzas are worthy of being committed to memory by young and old. They paint life and the fallacy of human expectations in their true colours, remove the veil which fancy had thrown over them, and shew how different are the mellowed and subdued feelings of declining age from the ardour of youth, and its vivid imaginings of undying bliss.-Ed.


I came, but they had pass'd away,

The fair in form, the pure in mind,-
And, like a stricken deer, I stray,

Where all are strange, and none are kind;

Kind to the worn, the wearied soul,

That pants, that struggles for repose:

O that my steps had reached the goal
Where earthly sighs and sorrows close.


Years have past o'er me like a dream,
That leaves no trace on memory's page::
I look around me, and I seem

Some relic of a former age.
Alone, as in a stranger-clime,

Where stranger-voices mock my ear; I mark the lagging course of time, Without a wish,-a hope, a fear!


Yet I had hopes, and they have fled;
And I had fears were all too true:
My wishes too!-but they are dead,
And what have I with life to do!
"Tis but to bear a weary load,

I may not, dare not, cast away; To sigh for one small, still, abode, Where I may sleep as sweet as they:


As they, the loveliest of their race,

Whose grassy tombs my sorrows steep; Whose worth my soul delights to trace,Whose very loss 'tis sweet to weep; To weep beneath the silent moon,

With none to chide, to hear, to sce:
Life can bestow no dearer boon

On one whom death disdains to free.

I leave a world that knows me not,
To hold communion with the dead;
And fancy consecrates the spot

Where fancy's softest dreams are shed.

I see each shade, all silvery white,
I hear each spirit's melting sigh;
I turn to clasp those forms of light,
And the pale morning chills my eye.
But soon the last dim morn shall rise,
The lamp of life burns feebly now,~
When stranger-hands shall close my eyes,
And smooth my cold and dewy brow.
Unknown I lived,-so let me die;

Nor stone, nor monumental cross,
Tell where his nameless ashes lie,
Who sigh'd for gold, and found it dross.
London Magazine.



OUR observations on the Last Man will be found in our preliminary view of Modern Literature.

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,

Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,

That shall Creation's death behold
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expir'd in fight-the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm pass'd by.

Saying we are twins in death, proud Sun,
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

"Tis mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand, thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim, discrowned king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang
Entail'd on human hearts.


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