At once, as though he'd cause to fear her,
He'd fly the spot, nor e'er come near her,
But use all methods to evade her,

And boast of what a fool he'd made her.
At length these tricks of Mr. Pie,
Were known to all both far and nigh;
The maids, at all their routs and dances,
Distrusted even his first advances,
While widows told him with a laugh,
"You cannot catch old birds with chaff."
Sickness and age (those mortal foes
To magpie, and to human beaus,)
At length the chagrined bird invade,
And cause his brilliant tints to fade;
And now his eyes began to fail,
He'd scarce a feather in his tail;
And neighbours oft were heard to cry,
"Beau Magpie's end is surely nigh.'

One night. when long-continued rains,
Had drenched and deluged woods and plains,
And not a star was seen on high,
To gem with hope the murky sky
Benumbed at once with age and cold,
His feeble feet forgot their hold,
And in the morning he was found,
Extended gasping on the ground.
There soon, alas! Death's fatal dart
Pierced the poor fluttering magpie's heart;
And not one female near his side,
He turned upon his back, and died.

MORAL.

Let magpics, and let men, beware, How they deceive the enamoured fair, Or in return, they may expect, Contempt in youth, in age neglect. Newcastle upon Tyne.

EPIGRAM,

J. PLAYER,

On seeing a Portrait, the colours of which had faded. THE art of painting surely was designed The features of the dead to bring to mind; But this vile painter has reversed the plan--He makes the picture die before the man! February 7th, 1819.

M.

THE DEATH OF THE POET'S DOG,
AN ANECDOTE.

THE sun was sinking to the western deep, The trees at parting with him seemed to weep; Evening came slowly on, and shivering, Drew closer her grey mantle. Of the spring, The birds long musical no more did sing; The herds were housed in warm, protecting shed; The weary traveller stretched on sleep's rude bed; The last blue gleaming of still lingering Day Glanced down the vale, then faded fast away; The circling hills half sunny were, half shade! And all but my full heart was deep-serene :--What eye could coldly gaze on such a scene! Deaf to the still small voice of thought, and dead To every natural feeling he must be, Who could behold so wild a night unmovedly. The northern wind had hushed its fitful moan, No sound disturbed the air; I felt alone, Yet, conscious of no ill, well known the track, On home and anxious friends I kept my back; And such wild, waking dreams, as unbroke pondering On many serious things, and lone night-wandering, Were like to gather, played about my brain,do With much of pleasure in them, much of pain: Imagination hung so far o'er reason's brink, oil ba It was a horrible delight to think.

Yet I a thousand calmer nights would give,
If one dark, moody hour of that I might o'erlive.
It is not needful that man's outward sight
Be fed with dainty visions of delight,
If the unblinded soul can see aright:

I have been cold at heart with sickly sadness,
When summer was abroad in all her gladness;
And have been happy to the verge of madness
When winter frowned on all, and the deep gloom
Of nature was more horrid than a tomb,
Mouth-closed and silent, and I upmewed
Alive in it. Light-hearted on I trode,
Wrapt in the dimmest darkness of blind night;
My high exalted thoughts to me were light,

And warmth, and company, and an unfearing might.

And now the gathering web of night o'erspread
Sweet nature's face---and all was dark, and dead,
And dreary as sʊme ever quiet tomb.

Hushed was the clacking mill; Day's busy hum
Had sank to sleep; one only sound

Was heard, chill dew-drops falling to the ground,
And splashing as they fell from leaf to leaf---
They fell not noiseless, like the tears of grief!
Save that, 'twas silent as low-breathing fear,
And full as breathless. Sudden on mine ear
Came a faint sound---it rang like dying moan;
Startled was I; "It was some tree did groan.
Beneath the weight of crowding leaves and years!"
That thought gave quiet to my gathering fears.
Onward to where the sound arose, I past;
The grass was moved as by a sudden blast,
And then an animal's soft foot I felt
Pawing my feet; fearless, adown I knelt,
And groped with cautious hand to find it out;
Much wondered I, and therefore searched about,
Bnt nought could view or feel. Again I heard
Some creature crawling o'er the rustling sward;
Again it moaned---1 traced it out---'twas near;
"It is some shepherd's dog has laid him here,
Lost by his master, sure!" I searched again,
It was a dog; he breathed with dying pain;
And licked my hand as he would claim its care.
What could I do---there was no succour near!
1 bent me over him, and felt his heart,

That at each breathing seemed as it would part
With life, as dear to that poor brute as man.
"Ah, gentle dog," thought 1, "thy little span
Of life, its sports and joys, are measured now!
Sorrow will wrinkle up thy master's brow,
When he shall learn that thou, his faithful friend,
Hast given up life!" And now his being's end
Drew near; again he licked my trembling hand:-
Why should I say I did my tears command!
His pulse grew quiet, and his slow, short breath
Gave token of the quick approach of death:---
" "Tis past---poor brute, farewell! at morning's dawn
My feet shall crush the dews of wood and lawn,
To get thee buried!" Homeward then I sped,
And laid me down on an unquiet bed.

The bright blue eyes of morn looked round again; With eager steps I trode o'er hill and plain, And reached the spot * * * * * *

*

That dog, when I was boy, and sunk beneath the wave, Me suatched to life from a fast-closing grave.

1815.

W. CORNELIUS.

STANZAS BY A YOUNG LADY.
WHEN spring returns to bless the year,
And nature's youthful charms appear,
If chance the health-restoring breeze,
Salute me through the fragrant trees,
How have I wished that breeze to be,
For him who never thinks of me.
When burning summer's heats arise,
And languid nature drooping lies;
If chance a passing gale might bring,
The cooling sweetness of the spring;
How have I wished that gale to be,
For him who never thinks of me.
And when that heavenly orb of day,
Does autumn's beauteous tints display;
If chance the evening's radiant glow
A grateful, tranquil joy bestow;
How have I wished that glow to be,
For him who never thinks of me.
When winter chills the dreary plains,
And binds the flood in chrystal chains,
If chance a transient sun-beam fall,..
And chear my humble cottage wall;
How have I wished that beam to be,
For him who never thinks of me.

EPIGRAM.

A. W.

TOTHER day as old Thrase on war was declaiming, And telling its wonders with voluble tongue, One thing was so monstrous, I stopt him, exclaiming, "Dear Sir, recollect yourself, sure you are wrong," "With these eyes I beheld it," in heat replied Thraso, "And, know sir, to lying I never was prone." "Believe it I must then," said I," as you say so. Though I would not, by heaven, had I seen't with my

own.'

M.

DREAMS.

"Sweet is the dream, divinely sweet,
When souls that love in fancy meet."

I dreamt that at eve a white mist arose,
Where the hedge row brambles twist;
I thought that my love was a sweet wild rose,
And I the silvery mist!

How sweetly I beaded her pale red charms
With many a diamond speck!

How softly I bent up my watery arms,
And hung round her beautiful 'neck!
Oh me! what a heavenly birth:

I revelled all night,

Till the morn came bright,

Then sank at her feet down again in the earth.

I dreamt that my love was a sweet wild tree,
All covered with purple bloom';
And I, methought, was an amorous bee,
That loved the rich perfume:

Large draughts of nectar I sat to sip
On a rose-bud just below:

I breathed her breath, and I kist her lip,
And she was as chaste as snow.

Oh me! what a heavenly task!
For there I lay,

Till eve grew grey,

While she in the sun's bright gleam did bask.
Again-I was where the pale moon did line
The forest with silver light,

And I thought my love was a wild woodbine,
And I, a zephyr bright:

"Welcome," said 1, "where the bramble weaves

Around us a guard of thorns;"

And sweetly I tangled myself in her leaves,
And blew on her red streaked horns;

To the music of which we led,

A gay dance about,

Till old night came out,

To rock us to sleep in his duský bed.'

J. H. WR. ·

J. Arliss, Printer, London.