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Dei

MOTIVES FOR PREACHING.
Some preach from love to God and Man-

From genuine pious wishes !
Some, of their oratory vain, ..
Who self-sufficiency maintain
Without of honesty a grain,
Preach hard for--loaves and fishes !

JERRY MANSEL.

LINES
Written while passing through a beautiful, picturesque
valley near the foot of Roundaway Hill in Wiltshire.
HERE, in this sweet, sequestered vale,

The philosophic man might find
A calm-a scene-a solitude-

To solace his reflective mind.
Yon clump of trees would screen his cot.

From eyes inquisitively rolled,
While the green mount that towers above

Would shelter from inclement cold.
Nor crowded city's rude turmoil-

Nor Folly's groans---nor Fashion's achie---
Would e'er, in dissopance of pain,

Upon his placid stillness break.
Nor pageantry with deafeving din

Invade his consecrated bower;
Nor black corruption basely cloud

The sun-shine of his peaceful hour!
Here might his days of study pass

As softly, innocently too,
As from the polished mirror melts

The breath's warın evanescent dew !
The lucid rill---the hreeze---and woods

Have music to regale his ear,
While to enchant his curious eye,

A thousand varied charms appear,
The distant village dimly seen

Through vistas opening on the hill;
The browsing goat, the playsul foal;

The ruined tower, the clacking mill!

The foliage, figure, form, and flower

Of every native plant and tree;
Here standing lone, like Misery's child !

There grouped in wild variety:
With simple elegance adorned,

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!
And oh, while low at Nature's shrine

The incense of his praise is given,
Its grateful purity might make
His soul a denizen of Heaven!

C. FEIST. November the 14th, 1818.

MY FAVOURITE FLOWER
With all the pageantry of phrase

Some eulogize the lily,
While some the rose and tulip praise,

With affectation silly :
But oh! the flower of my choice

Boasts use with beauty's power;
I'll eulogize with heart and voice,

The charining Cauliflower!
Like some great doctor's powdered wig,

With zone of green too belted :
But sweeter still with fowl or pig,

Served up with butter melted!
Oh tender Aower, much approved,

Gem of the festal hour!
My gums to press thy charms are moved,

Soft, luscious Cauliflower!
The garden's pride, the garden's boast!
Long mayest ihou grace the boiled and roast,

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 ;
Nor 1, thy bard, to fill my pot,
A thumping Cauliflower!

JERRY MANSEL.

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.
Oh, may I steer my little bark

With more of skill, of rashness less,
Nor e'er lose sight of that landmark,
• Heaven---which can succour in distress.
Be thou my pilot, thou my guide, ,

Oh God, amidst this stormy scene;
Grant me in that blest port to ride,

Where storms no more shall intervene.

THE MUTABILITY OF BLISS,
Oh, how uncertain are our joys,

They in a moment fleet away;
No art of man, no wealth, no power,

An instant can prolong their stay.
The mighty lord, the lowly hind,

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;
Dragged, in the early bloom of youth,

To die amid the battle fray. .
Oft, too, the pensive village maid,

Who should have blessed the peasant's arms,
Sad, wanders through the lonely glade,

And wastes in solitude her charms.
But Puverty's worst ill is this ---

The dearest ties it quickly breaks,
Destrovs the humble rural bliss.

And of a cot a ruin makes.---
Drives from his home the hapless swain,
• In foreign lands to seek that bread,
Denied him in his own by men

Whose luxury his toil has fed. •
Thus neither court nor cot are free

From all-invading Care's rude sway;
The only happy man is he
Who keeps Keligion's holy way.

TO E. M...
The frowns of fortune overtake me

My gentle Ellen,
And wilt thou, like the world forsake me,

My lovely Ellen?
Sweet maid, upon thy blushing cheek,
I trace what language cannot speak, :..
The sympathy my sorrows seek;

· 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.

[graphic]

POCKET MAGAZINE

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.

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