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Delightful vision! if thou art not more,

Continue but a dream! let my days steal Along unnumbered, if thou thus wilt pour

Thy couutless blisses on me! I can feel Not what the past or future may reveal. The past is gone-the future is not here

And ne'er to us may be--and that which keeps, The present joy within me is too dear

To waken memory, which with waking weeps, Or to look forward where futurity yet sleeps.

HILARY HETHERINGTON

TO A YOUNG BLACKBIRD.
WHAT mean these plaintive notes of woe

Soon as the dawn iny window greets?
A nestling Blackbird, bending low,

My fostering friendship thus entreats..
Poor bird! I hear thy sorrowing call,

Poor orphan bird! I feel it too!
Robbed of thy parents, robbed of all,

In vain for aid thou shalt not sue!
Gladly I rise to give thee food,

Thý tender mother's place supply,
One who perchance, in yonder wood,

Mourning thy loss will droop and'die.
What tho' I cannot smooth thy nest

Like her; thy jetty plumage trim,
Or warm thy vocal father's breast

To chaunt for thee the instructive hymn;
All that the power of friendship's art

Can dictate will I gladly give;
Blest if I cheer thy little heart

As long as we together live!
But, when I see thy plumage grown,

Thy strength matured, thy form complete,
Thy prison door shall ope be thrown,
And thou thy native sphere shalt greet!

ISABEL.

O TELL ME WHY.
O tell me why, thou peerless maid,
No prayers can thy pity move;
Why, when the ardent vow is paid,
The fondest pledge of slighted love,

No kind return, no cheering smile,
Repays the tribute of a sigh!
- No coy endearments, to beguile
Hope's dubious gleam-0 tell me why!
Why darts on me that kindling eye,
That withering look of cold disdain?
That bosom, formed for sympathy,
How can it hear a wretch complain?
Is it that Mary, faithless fair,
With sprightlier swain, and rival sly,
Love's paradise prefers to share ?
Ab, yes! I've guessed the reason why.
Curst be the coward heart that dared!
And curst that scoundrel tongue can tell!
It snatch'd the cup heaven had prepared
And fill’d it with the dregs of hell!
Yet thou wilt mourn thy Henry's fate,
And to his clay bed frantic fly;
Weep o'er his wrongs, when, ah! too late,

And rue, till death, the reason why.
Teviot dale, Oct. 1818.

HENRY. EPIGRAM. “ By Jove," cried Ned, " young Chloe glows

“ Resplendant as the Moon!
“ Her coral lip much beauty shews;
" Her cheek the boasted rose o’erthrows;

“ A kiss !-a precious boon!"
Good ld,'quoth Tom apart, what stuff!

6 Yet rightly he divines;
• Her lips and cheeks with paint are rough!
• Yeomas the Moon-'tis plain enough?
• In borrowed light she shines!!"

LELIS.

THE PRISONER.

Founded on Fact. Time Aies not in a prison, lonely hours

With sorrow burthened slowly move; no change Amuses gloomy thought, whose fettered powers

Can scarce beyond the grated window range.

I felt it, morning rose, day beamed, night came,

But brought no change of mind, of scene, or place; Time seemed to stand, all hours appeared the same;

Yet were not blank, for sorrow filled the space. I languished for employment, all my mind

Was centered in my dungeon; there my eyes No object to repose upon could find

Heaven seemed to pity me; to hear my sighs. One day, (I never shall forget that day)

A robin entered thro' my window's grate, And hopped beside me. Fancy heard it say,

“ Captive, I come to meliorate thy fate." It seemed as if an angel (one of those

Whose office is to waft our prayers to heaven) In pitying me had sought to heal my woes,

And this dear solace, this companion given. I viewed it joyfully: “ Thou’rt welcome here

Sweet bird! thou com’st a sunbeam to my mind : Thou com'st where man will not, the gloom to cheer,

Hail little bird! than human-kind more kind!” So messengers of comfort soothe despair,

So angels, breathing hope, the dying bed Ease of its anguish; and the balmy air

Wafts peace to minds of conscientious dread. My bird was unto me a comforter ;

I fed it, it amused me, and each day Less tardy moved, for now there was a stir

Of soft affections, such as grief allay. I had an object now to look upon,

To muse upon, to love, and to my ear My robin's note came ever and anon, Of power the mind to sooth, the saddest heart to

cheer. But what kind heaven had granted man denied,

My gaoler was a being who enjoyed The miseries of others; wben they cried He laughed, and when they laughed their pleasure

he destroyed.

As a cold flinty rock resists the wave,
So could his heart withstand the cry of woe;
In vain of him the oppressed relief might crave,

He added pangs, and magnified the blow.
This man one morning entering my cell,

Perceived my robin in my hand; too late
I strove to hide it there, and what befell

Tuo little could my mind anticipate.
He eyed me hatefully: his hate was shewn,

He seized my hand, he crushed, he killed my bird ; " Monster!" I cried, but I was left alone,

66 Monster of cruelty !” but nought he heard. Even as thou wert cruel may'st thou bleed!

In vain I vent my grief, none hear, none care, Save heaven, that heaven which saw the barbarous deed,

And hears the sufferer's cry, the sufferer's prayer. Poor bird, my own hand killed thee! yes, the hand

That sheltered crushed thee, tho' unwillingly An instrument in hand more cruel : brand !

O brand the recreant's name, humanity!
As from the storm a traveller shelter takes

Beneath a friendly roof, the tempest rushes
Thro'sky, o'er land, and thro' the building breaks,

The roof its guest involuntary crushes;
So, even in the tenement where shelter

Was offered thee, companion of my gloom! 'Twas thine, alas! in thy own blood to welter, And find my hand thy refuge and thy tomb.

E. C.

SONG.
FILL, and send round the cup! fill it up to the brim!

Sieze the moment ere Joy take his flight;
On that rich foaming tide all our senses shall swim

In eddying transports to night!
Frowning Care must retire; we've no room for him now,

But if he's resolved here to stay,
We must ply him with this, till we've smoothed his

old brow;
And he then will go laughing away.

w.

THE WITHERED LEAF.
SPARE the lone leaf, thou bitter blast,

That decks yon blighted bough,
Oh ! spare it! for it is the last

That lingers on it now.
It mocks thee not, its green is gone,

It bears no mark of spring ;
See it is torn, and old and wan,

Then, tempest, let it cling.
They call that withered, wasted tree,

The monarch of the wood,
And long, iu mockery of thee,

Its stately honors stood.
But time will scathe the hardiest form,

And blight the fairest face,
Its trunk is shattered by the storm,

And fled its leafy race.
Then spare that one, so sickly brown,

Oh! dash it not to earth,
The faithful leaf, that stays to crown

The bough that gave it birth.
Thus monarchs flourish, thus they fall,

Thus, some untimely hour,
Finds them hereft of wealth, and all

They e'er could boast of power.
Yet ah! how few that find the friend,

Who basked in fortune's smile,
Still faithful, linger to the end,

Though dark her frown the 'while.
Then spare the leaf, thou bitter blast,

That decks yon blighted bough,
Oh! spare it for it is the last,

That lingers on it now.
Edinburgh.

CONTEMPLATIONS ON A BIRD'S NEST.* Thou residence of innocence and truth, That baftiest imitation, and defiest The studied efforts of laborious art To form thy equal, what primeval cause Produced thy symmetry and beauteous order?

* " The poor unfortunate who wrote these lines, paid the great debt of nature about two years ago, as poor as a poet) in the poor-house of Birmingham. He was by trade a printer."

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