E'en should my story prove ideal,
Too well those wasted limbs declare
My wants, at least, are not unreal;
Then, stranger, grant the orphan's pray'r!

He's gone!-no mercy man will shew me;

In prayers no more I'll waste my breath; Here, on the frozen earth, I'll throw me,

And wait, in mute despair, for death! Farewell, thou cruel world, to-morrow;

No more thy scorn my heart will tear;
The grave will shield the child of Sorrow,
And Heav'n will hear the orphan's pray'r!

But thou, proud man, the beggar scorning,―
Unmov'd, who saw'st me kneel for bread,-
Thy heart shall ache to hear, at morning,
That morning found the beggar dead!
And when the room resounds with laughter,
My famish'd cry thy mirth shall scare;
And often shalt thou wish, hereafter,

Thou hadst not scorn'd the orphan's pray'r!

ANON.

WHEN TIME SHALL STEAL, ETC.

NOT YET PUBLISHED.

MURRAY.

A favourite Pollacca.

WHEN Time, who steals our years away,

Shall steal our pleasures too,
The memory of the past will stay,

And half our joys renew.

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flow'r
Shall feel the wintry air,
Remembrance will recal the hour
When thou alone wert fair.

Then talk no more of future gloom;
Our joys shall always last;

For Hope shall brighten days to come,
And Memory gild the past.

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl;
I drink to love and thee;
Thou never canst decay in soul-
Thou'lt still be young to me.
And as thy lips the tear-drop chase,
Which on my cheek they find;
So Hope shall steal away the trace
Which Sorrow leaves behind.

Then fill the bowl-away with gloom;
Our joys, &c.

But, mark-at thought of future years,
When love shall lose its soul,
My Chloe drops her timid tears;

They mingle with my bowl.

How like the bowl of wine, my fair,

Our loving life shall fleet!

Those tears may sometimes mingle there;

The draught will still be sweet.

Then fill the bowl, &c.

AH! TELL ME WHY?

ANONYMOUS.GOULDING, LONDON.

A favourite Song.

THOMPSON.

AH! tell me why, when you are near,
My heart with sweetest transport swells?
And why your absence draws a tear,

When mem'ry on your beauty dwells?
What means the blush that dyes my cheek?
And what the deep, unbidden sigh?
And why I tremble when you speak,
Or chance to gaze?—ah! tell me why?

Has the soft passion o'er my breast,`
E'en to myself unconscious, stole ?
Do ceaseless care and banish'd rest
Proclaim its empire o'er my soul?
Ah! if 'tis so, must I conceal,

And from its influence seek to fly?
Why may I not my love reveal,

And plead return?—ah! tell me why?

ROBINSON.

TO THE BLUE-BELL.

GOULDING, LONDON.

-MURRAY.

A favourite Song.

BLUE-BELL, how gaily art thou drest!
How neat and trim art thou, sweet flow'r!
How silky is thy azure vest!

How fresh to flaunt at morning's hour!

Couldst thou but think, I well might say, "Thou art as proud, in rich array, "As Lady Blithesome, young and vain, "Prank'd up with folly and disdain,

"Vaunting her pow'r,

"Sweet flow'r!"

Blue-bell, O couldst thou but behold,
Beside thee, where a rival reigns,
All deck'd in robe of glossy gold,

With speckled crown of ruby stains; Couldst thou but see this cowslip gay, Thou wouldst with envy faint, and say, "Hence from my sight, plebeian vain, "Nor hope, on this my green domain, "For equal pow'r,

"Bcld flow'r!"

Poor rivals, could ye but look round,
On yonder hillock ye would see
The nettle, with its farg to wound,-
The hemlock, fraught with destiny.
On them the sun its morning beam
Pours, in as rich, as bright a stream,
As on the fairest rose that rears
Its blushing brow 'midst Nature's tears,
Chilling its pow'r,

Faint flow'r!

Then why dispute this wide domain?
Since Nature knows no partial care,

The nipping frost, the pelting rain,
Both will, with equal ruin, share.

Nn

Then what is vain distinction, say,
But the short blaze of summer's day?
And what is pomp and beauty's boast?

An empty shadow, seen and lost.

Such is thy pow'r,

Vain flow'r!

ROBINSON.

THE HAUNTED BEACH.

GOULDING, LONDON.

A favourite Ballad.

UPON a lonely, desert beach,

Where the white foam was scatter'd,
A little shed uprear'd its head,
Though lofty barks were shatter'd.
The sea-weeds, gath'ring near the door,
A sombre path display'd;
And all around the deaning roar
Re-echo'd on the chalky shore,

By the green billows made!

Above a jutting cliff was seen,

Where sea-birds hover'd, craving;
And all around the crags were bound
With weeds, for ever waving;
And here and there a cavern wide
Its shadowy jaws display'd;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver'd mast was seen to ride,

Where the green billows stray'd!

-MURRAY.