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Nay, thy companion, too, shall comfort know,
Who shiv’ring shakes away the icy fleece. And lo! he lays him by the fire, elate;
Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes; Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate,
Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies. A hut is mine, amidst a shelt'ring grove :
A Hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise; There shall the village children show their love,
And hear from thee the tales of other days. There shall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn,
Charm thee with orisons to op’ning day ; And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn,
At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay. When Fate shall call thee from a world of woe,
Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes ; With tears, behold thy gentle fpirit go,
And wilh to join its passage to the skies.
The YOUNG FLY and OLD SPIDER.
BY THE SAME.
RESH was the breath of morn-the busy breeze,
As Poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,
And, smiling, put on his best looks so bright.
With curious art, upon a spangled thorn;
Humming her little orisons to morn. “Good morrow, dear Miss Fly," quoth gallant Grim
Good morrow, Sir," reply'd Miss Fly to him—
" I'm much obliged t'ye, Sir," Miss Fly rejoin'd, “My eyes are both so very good, I find,
“ That I can plainly see the whole, without.” “ Fine weather, Miss"-"Yes, very, very fine,"
Quoth Miss" prodigious fine indeed :") “ But why so quoth Grim, “ that
my bow'r your pretty head ?”
Quoth cautious Miss, “ I fear you'd like my pretty head so well, “You'd keep it for yourself, Sir,-who can tell ?” “ Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear, " And prove that all
dread is foolish, vain." “ I've a fore finger, Sir, nay more, I fear,
“ You really would not let it go again.” “ Poh, poh, child, pray
idle dread; “I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head
Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet
me;" “ La, Sir," quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, “ I fear our salutation would be long ;
“ So loving, too, I fear that you would eat me,” So saying, with a smile she left the rogue, To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.
TO THE MEMORY OF
DR. STONEHOUSE'S LADY.
BY MISS MORE.
TOME, Resignation! wipe the human tear, Bid selfish forrow hush the fond complaint, Nor from the God The lov'd detain the saint. Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade! were thine, And holy, hope, and charity divine : Though these thy forfeit being could not save, Thy faith fubdu'd the terrors of the grave.
Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
A PRAYER on the PROSPECT of DEATH.
Of all my hope and fear !
Perhaps, I must appear !
Of life I ought to shun,
Remonstrates I have done ;
With passions wild and strong;
Has often led me wrong.
Or frailty stepp'd aside,
In shades of darkness hide.
No other plea I have,
Delighteth to forgive.
PEACE AND HOME.
H! tarry, gentle traveller ;
Oh! tarry now at setting day ;
For lofty mountains far away.
Through woods and dreary wilds to roam ;
To quit thy lot and peaceful home. Say, halt thou not a partner dear,
Who's constant to thy love, and kind ? And wilt thou leave her faithful fide,
Nor cast one forr’wing look behind.? Yon sun that gilds the village spire,
And gayly sheds his parting ray, Say smiles he not as sweetly o’er
Thy native village far away ? Does mad ambition lure thy steps
To wander in the paths of trife? Ah! think how fwifi thy minutes fly!
Ah! think how short thy span of life ! For life is like yon crimson beam
That trembles in the western skies;
Full soon, alas! its glories cease;
It sparkles, glimmers, fades, and dies. O waste not then thy fleeting hours
In foreign climes and paths unknown; Return thee to thy happy plains
That bounteous nature made thy own. For me, nor gold nor princely pow's,
Nor purple veft, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophy'd grandeur boasts,
Shall lure me from my tranquil home. This rustic cot and silent shade
Shall evermore my dwelling be; E’en when my destin'd days are spent
I'll rest beneath yon aged tree. Beside the brook, a simple stone
Shall serve to guard my cold remains, And tell the pilgrims, as they pass,
I dy'd amidit my native plains. Return then, gentle traveller ;
Return thee with the morning ray; Nor leave again thy lowly vale
For lofty mountains far away.
SUCH THINGS WERE.
BY J. RANNIE.
CENES of my youth! ye once were dear,
Though fadly 1 your charms survey; I once was wont to linger here,
From early dawn to closing day. Scenes of my youth! pale sorrow flings
A shade o'er all your beauties now; And robs the moments of their wings,
That scatter pleasure as they flow; While still to heighten ev'ry care,
Reflection tells me-such things were.