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LO! gently rising from the eastern hills,
The mists of morn encircle all around ;
The cattle graze beside the bubbling rills,

And labouring swains upturn the yielding ground. Now here and there, a cottage dimly seen,

Thro' clustering trees doth catch the wandering eye;
And yellow fields, and meads of liveliest green,
Do bear the shadows of the cloudy sky.

And all seems calm and silent in the vale,
Save where the carter drives his weary team;
And sings sans tune, some melancholy tale,
Of spirits seen beside the silver stream.
Whilst to the south the mighty hills extend

Their bulky fronts, in majesty and pride;
And rustic shepherds, with their flocks ascend
The winding paths, along the mountain's side.
Now, o'er the heather, bounds the timid hare,
Beneath the furze, the sportive rabbit creeps;
Whilst native songsters charm the listening air,
And sun-beams rest upon the chalky steeps.
The purpled heather, scattered o'er the scene,
Is intermixed with many a yellow flower;
And streaks of sand, seen breaking thro' the green,
Lie close beneath the solitary tower.

Can man behold this prospect, and be still
The foe to nature, and a friend to art?-

No!-like the grey mist, mantling o'er the hill,
Will nature's verdure gather round the heart.

Behold yon peasant, as he leaves his cot,
Turn yet once more to view his faithful wife:
Ah! how I envy him, his peaceful lot,

And calm, unwearied, humbleness of life.
How light his bosom when the eve doth come,
And twilight warblers, in the trees above
Chaunt forth their love-notes, as he wanders home,
To find his welcome in his bhildren's love.

But Hope will flatter, and the fond heart cling
To fancied joys, illusory as vain;

And hope will fade, and memory plant its sting,
And hearts once broken ne'er know peace again!
Some wandering thoughts of splendour or of pride
Will still disturb the poor enthusiast's breast;
'Till Desolation opes her curtain wide,

And shews him what a phantom he has pressed.
Go, dreams of greatness! go, deceitful toys,
Which lure unyielding folly to his fate!
Before mine eyes are placed the harmless joys,
The true contentment of an humble state.



By the Hon. G. Tucker, of Virginia. DAYS of my youth! ye have glided away; Hairs of my youth! ye are frosted and grey; Eyes of my youth! your keen sight is no more; Cheeks of my youth! ye are furrowed all o'er; Strength of my youth! all your vigour is gone; Thoughts of my youth! your gay visions are flown! Days of my youth! I wish not your recal; Hairs of my youth! I'm content you should fall; Eyes of my youth! ye much evil have seen; Cheeks of my youth! bathed in tears have you been; Thoughts of my youth! ye have led me astray; Strength of my youth! why lament your decay? Days of my age! ye will shortly be past; Pain of my age! but a while can ye last; Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight; Eyes of my age! be religion your light; Thoughts of my age! dread not the cold sod; Hopes of my age! be ye fixt on your God!


WARM be my gear,

And let folks jeer!

To ruling states let others turn,

For conquests and for kingdoms burn;

But let my humble mouth be burning
With rolls, hot buttered every morning;
And, in the winter cold and drear,

A dram, or jug of good strong beer!
And let folks jeer!

From golden vase let princes eat,

'Midst thousand fears, the pampering treat; And taste of Care's all-bittering pill,

'Tis gilded, but 'tis bitter still.

The store my board is wont to bear
Is frugal, but 'tis wholesome cheer,
So let folks jeer!

And while the hills and mountains grow,
With silvery ice and driven snow,

Then be my smiling hearth well stored,
With crackling chesnuts, a good hoard;
Nor want there friends, the house to cheer,
With goblin tales of pleasant fear;
So let folks jeer!

Let merchants, and I wish them joy,
To seek more gold their hours employ,
Whilst I along the breezy strand,
Seek shells and cockles in the sand,
And Philomel's sweet accents hear,
From trees that guard yon fountain clear;
And let fools jeer!

Leander haply could delight

To stem the waves at dead of night,
Nor fear to cool the amorous flame
That led him to the expecting dame;
I better like, devoid of fear,

To ford yon stream so bright and clear;
So let folks jeer!

For love, the cruel little knave

To Pyramus and Thisbe gave,
A sword instead of bridal bed,

And joined them both, but joined them dead;
A pastry be my Thisbe here,

And used my tooth for a rapier;

And let folks jeer!


"AH! who is that, whose thrilling tones
Still put my tranquil sleep astray,
(More plaintive than the wood-dove's moans)
Aud send my airy dreams away?"

""Tis I, 'tis Edmund of the Hills,
Who puts thy tranquil sleep astray;
Whose plaintive song of sorrow thrills,
And sends thy airy dreams away.
"Here nightly, through the long, long year,
My heart with many a love-pang wrung,
Beneath thy casement, Eva dear,

My sorrows and thy charms I've sung.
"Thine eye is like the morn's soft gray,
Tinted with evening's azure blue;
Its first glance stole my soul away,
And gave its every wish to you.
"Like a soft gloomy cloud's thine hair,
Tinged with the setting sun's warm rays,
As lightly o'er thy forehead fair,

In many a spiry ringlet plays.

"Oh! come then, rich in all thy charms, For, Eva, I'm as rich in love;

And safe within my circling arms,

I'll bear thee to old Thuar's+ grove."

A. V.

The hero of this, and many other national ballads, was the chief or captain of one of those numerous banditti which infested Ireland during that period when religious animosities and civil discord involved its unfortunate natives in all the horrors of anarchy and warfare. The accounts which are given of Emuinch Ecnuic are various and improbable; but that most current, and most consonant to truth, sketches him as an outlawed gentleman, whose confiscated lands and forfeited life animated him to the desperate resolution of heading a band of robbers, and committing many acts of desperation; which were frequently counteracted by a generosity almost romantic, or supported by a spirit almost heroic. A warrior and a poet, his soul was "often brightened by the song;" and Eva, the daughter of a northern chieftain, was at once his inspiration and his theme.

+ A mountain in Ulster, county of Armagh.


A Burlesque Heroic.

NOW six times had the clapper of St. Paul
Struck on its bell, which seemed a general call,
For sounds responsive on the air arise,

A signal for the cits to ope their eyes.

The morn was beauteous" and more fair than that,"
Nature looked blithe, and mirthful gladness sat
On every face, and Phoebus seemed to say,
Smile nature! smile! for 'tis my bridal day!
Let it suffice to tell you it was May.

Now down majestic Thames the wherry glides,
And in the gale the floating canvass rides,—
I can no farther!-till I first assail

The inspiring Muse, for here begins my tale.
Without your aid (though I forget your name),
My tale I'm sure will be exceeding tame!
Assist me, then; here at thy feet I kneel-
Enough! thy genial influence now I feel!
"While some affect the sun, and some the shade,"
And others celebrate some blue-eyed maid,
"The task be mine," in bold heroic lay,
To paint the deeds of this unlucky day.

Now to my tale,-not far from famed Le Bow,
There dwelt six youths, apprentices were they,
And they to Richmond swore they'd have a row,
So from their masters got excused that day.
And now a bark they find, light built tho' strong,
Well filled their locker, now they leave the shore;
And gently with the tide they float along,

And each betakes him to his different oar.
Say, Muse! did aught of consequence befal
My heroes, ere they reached the eventful place?
But episodes my Muse forbids at all,-

"Tis she who prompts, whilst I the feather trace. Westminster Bridge has heard their splashing oar, Now by St. Stephen's Hall they gently wind, And famed Vauxhall will hear their voice no more, For on their stern they've left it far behind.

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