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Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale,

Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from some rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell,

Then shrieked the timid--and stood still the brave;
Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their

grave:
And the sea yawned around her like a hell,

And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy,

And strives to strangle him before he die.
And first, one universal shriek there rushed,

Louder than the loud ocean ; like a crash
Of echoing thunder : And then all was hushed,

Save the wild wind, and the remorseless dash
Of billows; but, at intervals, there gushed,

Accompanied with a convulsive splash, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry

Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

*

THE CREEK-INDIAN CHIEF'S RELATION OF HIS FORTUNES AND MARRIAGE.

TOBIN.T In the excellent Drama of the Indians, the governor of a Spanish settle

ment sends his daughter, for purposes of policy, into the prison of the leader of the Creeks, an Englishman by birth, who thus relates his

story: SOME years are past (no matter now the cause) Like jarring friends, I, and my country parted ;

*“ As a piece of terrible painting, this is as much superior as can be to every description of the kind—not even excepting that in the Æneidthat ever was created."-Vide“ Blackwood" for Aug. 1819.

† The worthy and talented Author of the “Honey Moon,” Mr. Tobin, (who was a respectable Solicitor in London,) died at sea on his passage to the West Indies, whither he was going for the benefit of his health. “The Honey Moon,” as is well known, besides being a most successful actingComedy, contains some as delectable portions of poetry as our language affords.

I sought my fortune 'midst the Indian Creeks.
'Twas at the close of a long sultry day,
Upon a wild savanna, faint with hunger,
Shook with a fever, I looked round in vain
For trace of living object, man or beast :
But all was horrid stillness :-on the ground
I lay me down in absolute despair ;
So

very sick at heart, that when at last
My jaded senses dropt into oblivion,
I cared not, if mine eye-lids, as they closed,
Should ever open on another dawn.
But long I slept not; sudden in mine ear
These accents softly whispered—“Wake, poor man!
White man, awake ! the rattle-snake is near!
The tiger is not couched yet !”-I awoke :
It was a woman—she drew back awhile
To

gaze full on me, and put forth her hand With such a look of kindness (pardon me, I ne'er can think on't with impunity !)She led me to her hut-brought me fresh food, And water from the spring-watched o'er my sleep; And, when I awoke, she brought me food again : Thus, three long weeks she nursed me, and, meanwhile, Taught me her language, with a breath so sweet, And was so apt a scholar learning mine, (For of such little offices as these, The mighty sum of love is all made up !) That, with reviving health, I drew in that Which wanted still a cure : and not long after, When of the Creeks I was appointed chief, Then I remembered Zoa, and her care Of me at life's extremity. Yes, then, In the full face of our assembled warriors, I took her for my wife ; and shall I leave her ? No: not for all the white complexioned dames That dazzle Europe : Never !-Never !

THE MAGDALEN.— A FRAGMENT.

BARRY CORNWALL.
I do remember it. 'Twas such a face
As Guido would have loved to dwell upon;

But oh! the touches of his pencil never
Could paint her perfect beauty. In her home
(Which once she did desert) I saw her last;
Propped up by pillows, swelling round her like
Soft heaps of snow, yielding, and fit to bear
Her faded figure.— I observed her well:
Her brow was fair, but very pale, and looked
Like stainless marble ; a touch methought would soil
Its whiteness. O'er her temple one blue vein
Ran like a tendril ; one through her shadowy hand
Branched like the fibre of a leaf-away.
Her mouth was tremulous, and her cheek wore then
A flush of beautiful vermilion,
But more like art than nature ; and her eye
Spoke as became the youthful Magdalen,
Dying and broken-hearted.

«BE KIND!"

ANONYMOUS. Be kind to thy father-for when thou wert young,

Who loved thee so fondly as he ?
He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue,

And joined in thine innocent glee.
Be kind to thy father, for now he is old,

His locks intermingled with grey,
His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold;

Thy father is passing away.
Be kind to thy mother—for lo ! on her brow,

May traces of sorrow be seen ;
O well may'st thou cherish and comfort her now,

For loving and kind hath she been.
Remember thy mother—for thee will she pray,

As long as God giveth her breath, With accents of kindness, then cheer her lone way,

E’en to the dark valley of death.
Be kind to thy brother-his heart will have dearth,

If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ;
The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth,

If the dew of affection be gone.

Be kind to thy brother-wherever you are,

The love of a brother shall be
An ornament purer and richer by far,

Than pearls from the depths of the sea.
Be kind to thy sister—not many may know

The depths of true sisterly love;
The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below

The surface that sparkles above.
Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours

And blessings thy pathway to crown ;
Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers,

More precious than wealth or renown.

LOVE COMPARED TO THE GOUT.

CRABBE.—“ Tales of the Hall.[The following little dialogue seems to require a few prefatory observa

tions. The subject is the meeting of two brothers who had been long apart, and, during the separation, the younger (Richard) had got married, and was struggling with the world, and a large family; while the elder (George, who had remained Benedict) had been successful, and had accumulated considerable wealth. After the long separation, they have just met, and Richard has been detailing the happy circumstances of his married life to his brother, who, with some incredulity,

replies,] GEORGE.“ Thanks, my

dear Richard ; and I

pray thee, deign To speak the truth-does all this love remain, And all this joy ? for views and flights sublime, Ardent and tender, are subdued by time. Speak’st thou of her to whom thou mad’st thy vows, Of my fair sister, of thy lawful spouse ? Or art thou talking some frail love about The rambling fit before the abiding gout ?”

Richard. Nay, spare me, brother, an adorer spare:
Love and the gout! thou wouldst not these compare ?

George. “Yea, and correctly; teasing ere they come,
They then confine their victim to his home :
In both are previous feints and false attacks,
Both place the grieving patient on their racks !
They both are ours, with all they bring, for life;
"Tis not in us to expel or gout or wife !

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On man a kind of dignity they shed,
A sort of gloomy pomp about his bed:
Then, if he leaves them, go, where'er he will,
They have a claim upon his body still ;
Nay, when they quit him, as they sometimes do,
What is there left to enjoy, or to pursue ?
But dost thou love this woman ?
Richard.

“O! beyond
What I can tell thee of the true and fond !
Hath she not soothed me, sick, enriched me, poor,
And banished death and misery from my

door ?
Hath she not cherished every moment's bliss,
And made an Eden of a world like this?
When Care would strive with us his watch to keep,
Hath she not sung the snarling fiend to sleep ?
And when distress has looked us in the face,
Has she not told him, “Thou art not disgrace?'"

APOSTROPHE TO LOVE,- THE COTTER'S
EVENING WORSHIP, &c.

BURNS.
O HAPPY love ! where love like this is found;

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare !
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,

And sage experience bids me this declare“ If heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,

“One cordial in this melancholy vale, “ 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,

“ In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, “ Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale.” Is there, in human form, that bears a heart

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth ? Woe to his perjured arts ! dissembling smooth !

Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child,
Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild ?

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