And sweetly whisper in his raptured ear,
THAT GOD CORRECTS THOSE

MOST DEAR.

SONS HE HOLDS

So, should disease thy beauteous form invade,
Ne'er shalt thou want, sweet girl, congenial aid!
No lovelier scene, on earth, the sun surveys,
Than when through yonder chamber dart his rays ;
A Sister of such worth, so foud, so kind,

A Brother, midst such dreadful pangs resign'd;
Admiring angels look with transport down,
And seraphs weave, for both, the immortal crown.

LINES

On seeing an aged Debtor enter a Place of Confinement.

MAN of Years! and man of Sorrow!

Com'st thou to a place like this?
Ah! for thee, I fear, no morrow,
Rises with new hope of bliss.

Earthward, lo! thy head is bended,
Faint and feeble seems thy frame,
Nearly are thy sad days ended;
Strong for mercy was thy claim!

Mercy

to thy throne of glory, God of Mercy! be his prayer. Vainly hears the world his story; O! there is no mercy there!

AMICUS.

STANZAS,

Written on seeing the Corpse of a beautiful Young Woman the Night before her Interment.

GLEAM the pale tapers round the couch of death, Their dim light quivering in the rushing storm; How my blood freezes as the night-wind's breath Heaves the white folds that shroud the lifeless form.

With trembling hand I raise the sacred veil

To trace the cold wan features of the dead; Ah me! the lingering rose, with hues so pale,

Still tints the cheek where Death's chill dews are shed.

Her stiffened lip still wears its mournful smile,
The azure eye thro' half-closed lashes gleams:
Why did my heart from this calm scene recoil,
By Fancy darkened in her troubled dreams?

Oh, while I linger round the midnight bier,
Where the lov'd idol of a friendless breast
Unconscious slumbers-ah, methinks, I hear
Her spirit call me to unbroken rest.

To-morrow's sun shall rise upon the grave,
That opes its bosom to the orient ray,
And ere it trembles on the western wave,
Shall close for ever on that beauteous clay.

Back to thy burning source, unbidden tear,
The dream, the dazzling dream of hope is o'er;
I'll teach my soul this awful stroke to bear,
With deepest reverence, and repine no more.

ADELINE.

ZDINBURGH, APRIL 16, 1803.

A SONG,

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

To Laura's breast, sweet Rose, repair,
Let no rude hand approach her there;
But guard the treasure you adorn,
And for my rivals keep thy thorn.

Thy graces there, fond Rose, reveal,
Her bosom deck, but not conceal;
There all thy world of sweets employ,
Within that sweeter world of joy.

For in that Paradise we trace
Lost Eden's long disputed place;
Which doubting Wits in vain had sought,
'Till Laura's bosom fix'd the spot.

ODE,

BY THE LATE MISS RYVES.

WHAT constitutes a man ?
Not high-rais'd titles nor possessions wide,
Rich fields, with corn o'er-ran,
Not servile adoration paid to Pride;
Not stars, by flattery gain'd,

Not gilded coronets, and blazon'd arms;
Not souls by meanness stain'd,

Whose low-brow'd baseness, Honour never warms.
No-Freedom, ever bold,

With power of happiness alone endued;

Not lifeless, dull, and cold

As the vile sycophant's disgustful brood.

Bold Freedom-gift divine

By Heaven bestowed on th' independent soul,

Which tyrants can't confine

Within the fetters of unjust controul.

This constitutes a man!

And virtuous deeds, by Virtue's dictates taught, Which fearless dares to scan

With nicest scrutiny, each latent thought.

Struck by her sacred nod,
The fiend Servility, unheeded shrinks,
And hard Constraint's keen rod
In her great presence, unregarded sinks.
Thus by wise Heaven's decree

"Tis noble Freedom, join'd with Virtue's charms, That form, what man should be,

Brave man! who shrinks alone at Guilt's alarms.

EPIGRAM.

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

The rooted aversion entertained by the late Judge ROBINSON, of the King's Bench, in Ireland, to the Volunteers of that country in the Year 1780, is well known. The following Epigram was occasioned by a circumstance that actually took place about that period, in the court where he was then sitting.

"THAT Soldier so rude-he that swaggers in scarlet"Put him out of the court-I'll imprison the varlet," As in Judgment he sat, frowning Robinson said. "A Soldier I'm not," quoth the hero in red; "No Soldier, my Lord, but an Officer I, "A Captain who carries his sword on his thigh." Stern Robinson then, with sarcastical sneer, Roll'd his sharp eagle eye on the vain Volunteer, And "Tipstaff," he cried, as the Captain grew bolder, "Out, out with that Officer who is no Soldier."