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MOTIVES FOR PREACHING.
From genuine pious wishes !
The philosophic man might find
To solace his reflective mind.
From eyes inquisitively rolled,
Would shelter from inclement cold.
Nor Folly's groans---nor Fashion's achie---
Upon his placid stillness break.
Invade his consecrated bower;
The sun-shine of his peaceful hour!
As softly, innocently too,
The breath's warın evanescent dew !
Have music to regale his ear,
A thousand varied charms appear,
Through vistas opening on the hill;
The ruined tower, the clacking mill!
The foliage, figure, form, and flower
Of every native plant and tree;
There grouped in wild variety:
The ruddy mansion of the squire: The golden ball, the glittering vane,
Which crown yon pyramidal spire. The timoronis rabbits peeping out
From blossomed furze, and tangled copse, And, not least beautiful, the mixed
And vivid green of rising crops ! Here many a lesson might be glean,
To bend the lofty port of pride: Here tacit monitors might teach
The waves of passion to subside!
The incense of his praise is given,
C. FEIST. November the 14th, 1818.
MY FAVOURITE FLOWER
Some eulogize the lily,
With affectation silly :
Boasts use with beauty's power;
The charining Cauliflower!
With zone of green too belted :
Served up with butter melted!
Gem of the festal hour!
Soft, luscious Cauliflower!
And shine in future story!
Of culinary glory,
the boiled and roast,
Oh, in seasons dry and hot,
Ne'er mayest thou want a shower ;
IMITATION OF AN OLD BALLAD. This world is like a troubled sea,
The people little vessels are, Which by the winds oft tossed be,
The furious winds of grief and care. This sea abounds with rocks and shoals,
On which these vessels oft are cast; For foolish men, more blind than moles,
Will take no heed from dangers past. Sometimes this sea doth smoothly glide,
Then men are filled with hope of joys ; Alas! the swift returning tide
Their idle visions soon destroys.
With more of skill, of rashness less,
Oh God, amidst this stormy scene;
Where storms no more shall intervene.
THE MUTABILITY OF BLISS,
They in a moment fleet away;
An instant can prolong their stay.
The merchant rich, the labourer poor, The king, and eke the beggar, find
They cannot happiness secure. A tortured body, troubled mind,
Are oft enwrapped in purple robes; The gorgeous crown full oft doth bind
A head that, filled with apguish, throbs.
And oft, beneath the lowly roof,
Age mourns its children torn away;
To die amid the battle fray. .
Who should have blessed the peasant's arms,
And wastes in solitude her charms.
The dearest ties it quickly breaks,
And of a cot a ruin makes.---
Whose luxury his toil has fed. •
From all-invading Care's rude sway;
TO E. M...
My gentle Ellen,
My lovely Ellen?
· My fair, my gentle Ellen. ). The tear of pity, like the dew,
“My gentle Ellen, Raises the drooping flower anew,
My lovely Ellen. Then let the world censorious be, I heed it not, possessed of thee; For thou art all the world to me,
My fair, my gentle Ellen. : Arliss, Printer, London.
OF Classical and Polite Literature. : CAMIRA:-AN AMERICAN TALE,
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE CHEVALIER DE FLORIAN. CONVERSING one day with a Spaniard, who had recently arrived from Buenos Ayres, I reproached him with the cruelties which were committed by his countrymen, at the period of their first conquests in America; 1, shuddering, reminded him of the crimes which sullied the glory of Cortez, of Pizarro, and of several other heroes who, in many respects, surpassed, perhaps, every thing which we admire among the ancients; and 1 lamented that so fine, so glorious an epoch of the history of Spain, should be written in its annals on pages stained with blood.
The Spaniard listened to me with patient politeness. Some tears came into his eyes when I pronounced the name of Las Casas. “He was,” said he, " our Fenelon. He was not the author of a Telemachus, but he journeyed over the two Americas to save some Indians, and he traversed the ocean to defend their cause before the council of Charles V. as your Archbishop of Cambray defended that of the Protestants, whom you also massacred in your mountains of the Cevennes. At the close of the reign of Lewis XIV. you were still persecutors. And what were we? what was Europe, in that sixteenth century, which is rendered for ever VOL. III, No. 15.