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On her asking the cause of the Author's Melancholy at a Public Garden.

"WHY, when all is gay around

Should the clouds of care be worn?
Why, where mirthful songs resound
Show the heart with anguish torn?
Arouse, arouse, shake off this gloom,
None wear the garb of sorrow here;
Though the soul sicken with its doom
Still, let the face in smiles appear."
Why does the lightning flash so brightly?
Why drives the howling storm along?
Why charms thy song, sweet bird, that nightly
Warbles the quivering boughs among?
Restrain, restrain the lightning's speed,
The fury of the storm control,
Music, no more sooth hearts that bleed,
Then-shake this weight from off the soul:
Yet had I braved the ills of life


Which meaner spirits might have fled; I could have gloried in the strife

Which promised union with the dead; Yes, to my heart have pressed the blade

Which lent its brightness to my name, Laughed at the havoc it had made,

Cried, onwards, onwards, to my fame. Oh! to this heart ye once were dear,

Even as its idols ye were cherished, Honor and fame;-an angel pair,

I prized ye, but ye both have perished. Yet had I bid adieu to those,

Though loved; though twined around my heart, I'd torn them thence, and could have rose Smiling-though writhing with the smart.

But 'tis not this which sinks the eye;

No, 'tis not this which swells the breast With such a soul-embittered sigh,

Child of the heart that ne'er can rest.

Bereft of high ambition's meed,

And thou my dearer honour stained,
From foul contempt I'd soon been freed,

But that one sweetening drop remained:
One life-prized drop whose healing sweetness
Had soothed of woe its sharpest sting,
And borne away with magic fleetness
Every care on eagle wing.

With thee I'd braved, aye, even the world,---
Have echoed back its laugh of scorn;
Even to its teeth defiance hurled,

And pressing thee, felt not its thorn.
And dost thou ask me whence this gloom,
Why grief usurps the place of mirth?
Wouldst thou have laughter from the tomb
Of every joy and hope on earth?
'Tis o'er, to welcome death I flee;

I love!---come death and quench this fire,
Thou com'st---I rush to welcome thee,
Together love, hope, life, expire.*

C. B--E.

TWO tradesmen visited for many years,
Each had his pleasures, each his hopes and fears,
For Fortune favoured them alike with store,
'Till by the will of a departed friend,
Valmont to all his trading put an end,

And gamed, lived high, and drove his coach and four.
Though Philo sought dame Fortune, still she sent
Her daughter there, and she to Valmont went;

Miss-fortune now contrived his hopes to dash, Caused all his trade and friends to die away, Emptied his shelves of stock, from day to day,

And left him smarting underneath the lash. Valmont passed by his shop a short time since, Not like a tradesman now, but like a prince; Philo was labouring to regain his pelf"How do ye, friend," he cries; "Not know me? how!" "I really have forgot you, Sir, I vow.”

"No wonder, Valmont, you've forgot yourself!"

U. U. L.

*The Author is no more. His death was accelerated by his ill-fated passion.


A Birth-day Melody, addressed to a young Lady, at the moment of whose birth a Redbreast flew into the chamber and remained there several hours.

TO hail the birth of beauty's flower,
An angel left the skies;

To bless fair Stella's natal hour,
And greet her opening eyes.
No radiant garb his name revealed,
With borrowed plumes he shone,
And in a Redbreast's form concealed
The glories of his own.

Round cradled beauty's couch were sung
His melodies of love;

And lays unknown to mortal tongue,
Were echoed from above.

The mission past,---his opening wing 3
Waved with the closing strain;
And, as a bird to freedom springs,---
He soared to Heaven again.

Yet shall this ever-welcome day
Repeat the warbler's song;
And long shall Stella's parent May,
Her Redbreast's notes prolong.
Then, whilst his strains in memory live
Till life itself is past,

May every future Birth-day give
A bliss beyond the last!



On receiving an Eye-shade from "The Lily of the Valley;" HER eyes of soft, ethereal blue

On mine their magic lustre threw,

And quick each throbbing pulse confessed
The subtle charm within my breast.
My fitful, sad, bewildered air
She pitying saw, and formed, to spare
The wounds her witless eyes had made,
With her own fairy hand, a shade.

J. M.


The following verses in the hand-writing of Burns, are copied from a bank note, in the possession of Mr. James F. Gracie, of Dumfries: the note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated so far back as the first of March, 1780.

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed leaf!
Fell source o' a' my woe and grief!
For lack o' thee I've lost my lass!
For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass.
I see the children of affliction
Unaided, through thy cursed restriction,
I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile,
Amid his hapless victims spoil,
For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved shore,
Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more.
R-- B---, Kyle.


IN letters large---"This House to Let,"
Conspicuous in a window set,

Attracted once a passer-by,
Who chanced, just then, the maid to spy :---
"Are you," cried he with roguish leer,
"To let with this same house, my dear?"
"I'd have you know," with angry frown,
Cried she, "I'm to be let alone.'

GUTTLE'S god is beef and mutton,
Proverbially he's dubb'd a glutton;
Whilst he with indignation sweats
And swears one meal a day he eats.
One meal a day ---true, Guttle's right,
But that meal lasts from morn till night.


THE lovely tints that dye the west,
When the bright sun retires to rest,
But for a moment charm the sight,
Then vanish in the shades of night;
So earthly joys soon disappear,
Lost in the gloomy clouds of care.



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METHOUGHT I was straying on the summit of a high romantic mountain, and never before did the works of creation beam on my eyes with such majestic grandeur! Rapt in silent extacy, I could not refrain from crying aloud, Oh, ye lovely scenes! how long shall these eyes gaze on your beauties, or this heart throb in silent adoration! Ye shall still be as fair as you now are, when I, perhaps, shall be pining in the dungeon, or lengthening out a wearisome existence, the sport of adverse fortune, or lingering disease. Could I but see the fate that awaits me, no anticipation of future woes, of uncertain sorrows, would steal from me the bliss of the present hour. Were I but aware of the impending blow, I could, like the traveller who watches the gathering clouds, and marks the rising winds, gather round me my cloak, and brave the impetuous storm. My son!" a voice exclaimed, (I started, and beheld at my side a venerable old man, whose looks inspired me with awe and veneration,) 66 my son, I have overheard thy soliloquy; the headlong ardour of youth mocks the maturity of wisdom; that which to thy creative and deluded mind seems pregnant with bliss, would bring with it woe and misery; the wise, the merciful Creator hath, in the ex




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