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Their reasoning, like the tread- mill's round,
And all their steps repeated o'er
Life's end is seated on the nose,*
To look beyond the nose's tip;
Some recommend a spiritual purging
Of sin, by means of corporal scourging;
In vagabonding pilgrimage.
Of strange opinions there's no dearth
Some think our business here on earth
Is to consume the night's still noon
And pick up news from Saturn's ring.
A feast, a mere debauch, a revel,
• The Indian Fakeers sit for days with their eyes fixed on the point of their nose.
The wiser deem the task of man
Firmly to guard his country's laws,
With them I'd laugh at all those blockheads,
To hold, just what their own contain:
But, since the Fates degree to twine,
The sceptic sinks into the lover;
New Monthly Magazine.
WRITTEN ON SEEING A GREEK AT VAUXHALL.
THE author of the following beautiful lines has, if we mistake not, erred, in placing the scene at Vauxhall, as the Greek could not have happened to enter the gardens by chance, and; if he went purposely, his purpose must be to enjoy, like others, the festivities of the place. How, then, could he be said to
"Gaze around" him "with unquiet eye, As if the music and light revelry But stamp'd a deeper sadness in" his "mind?"
Still he beheld nor mingled with the throng,
Thy soul is o'er the waters-there is not
But stamp a deeper sadness in thy mind.
And every tranquil vale and giant height,
To the lovers of romantic poetry, the following lines will be acceptable. We shall only observe, that the measure seems neither suited to the dignity of the queen, nor to the magnitude of her misfortunes.-ED.
Is a dungeon fit home for a queen,
Where the day-spring ne'er pours its light!
In the plendour and pomp of a diadem bright-
An object of pity and scorn!
Beauty, royalty, innocence, now
To the rage of a husband and tyrant, before
Youth's time is gone by or the minutes are o'er,
Ye Zegris, perfidious and base,
Ye slaughter'd my friends unaware;
Not enough was the blood of their race,
But with them ye dared pierce with the shaft of despair,
With calumny's arrow a heart that must bear
To be victim, in fullness of woes,
To the virtue and worth of your foes.
* See the history of Boabdil, the last Moorish king of Grenada.
Ye say I'm not true to the bed
Of a monster of jealousy;
That love's flame for another I've fed;
It shall ever be kept unreveal'd.
O Grenada! O my sad home!
Do there none of thy warriors remain ? Not one that to save me will come
And enter the list for his queen, and regain
Her freedom once more? Are they all with the slain?
O Muça, haste thou to my aid,
My country, my parents, my throne,
Is the morn, the sweet morn of my days,
Not its hopes and its wishes alone,
But its mantle of grandeur, its incense of praise,
The wolf keeps his haunt and his lair,
The birds soar in sunshine and liberty-
O Mahomet! weak is thy power