And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He try'd each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul.
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorn'd the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway,
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,

With ready zeal each honest rustic ran;

Even children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good man's smile;

His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were giv'n,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heav'n:

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head."

"Ill fares the land, to hast'ning hills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade; A breath can make them, as a breath has made : But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supply'd."

"Stern o'er each bosom Reason holds her state, With daring aims irregularly great:

Pride in their port, defiance in their eye,

I see the lords of human kind pass by,

Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band,

By forms unfashion'd, fresh from Nature's hand; Fierce in their native hardiness of soul,

True to imagin'd right, above control;

While e'en the peasant boasts these rights to scan, And learns to venerate himself as man,"

"Dear is that shed to which his soul conforms, And dear that hill which lifts him to the storms; And as a babe, when scaring sounds molest, Clings close and closer to the mother's breast, So the loud torrent, and the whirlwind's roar, But bind him to his native mountains more."

"Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee."

Page 20.

See his poor Blind Boy."

This little piece from Bloomfield has been very much, and very justly admired,

"Where's the Blind Child so admirably fair,
With guileless dimples, and with flaxen hair
That waves in every breeze? He's often seen
Beyond yon cottage-wall, or on the green,
With others match'd in spirit and in size,
Health on their cheeks, and rapture in their eyes,
That full expanse of voice to children dear,
Soul of their sports, is duly cherish'd here:
And hark! that laugh is his-that jovial cry,
He hears the ball and trundling hoop brush by,
And runs the giddy course with all his might,
A very child in every thing but sight;
With circumscrib'd, but not abated pow'rs,
Play-the great object of his infant hours:
In many a game he takes a noisy part,
And shows the native gladness of his heart.
But soon he hears, on pleasure all intent,
The new suggestion and the quick assent;
The grove invites delight, thrills every breast,
To leap the ditch, and seek the downy nest.
Away they start, leave balls and hoops behind,
And one companion leave-the boy is blind!

U

His fancy paints their distant paths so gay,
That childish fortitude awhile gives way;

He feels his dreadful loss-yet short the pain,
Soon he resumes his cheerfulness again.

Pondering how best his moments to employ,
He sings his little songs of nameless joy;

Creeps on the warm green turf for many an hour,
And plucks by chance the white and yellow flower;
Smoothing their stems while resting on his knees,
He binds a nosegay which he never sees.

Along the homeward path then feels his way,
Lifting his brow against the shining day;
And with a playful rapture round his eyes,
Presents a sighing parent with the prize!"

Page 23.

"Oh! why was such a Harp so soon unstrung?”

It must have been a matter of undissembled regret that a Poet so pure and so perfect as Dr. Beattie should have blessed the world with so few performances. But surely it is better to leave but little, and that of the first quality, than like many since his time, who might think that mankind had nothing to do, but to read their Poems. The reader would be displeased not to find, in this place, a few stanzas from the "Minstrel." The "Minstrel" is a performance so complete in its connexion, and in which beauties and elegancies are so uniformly distributed, that our selection of the following stanzas is rather to exhibit the style of the Poet, than to display the extent of his powers. The whole must

be read. If the Spencerian stanza were ever employed with the perfection of poetic accuracy, it will be found in Beattie's Minstrel," and Thomson's "Castle of Indolence;" both of which are executed with such inexpressible beauty, that the penetration of criticism is at a loss to determine to whether should be awarded the palm of superiority. There can be only one regret on the subject of the Minstrel. It is one of those rare performances of which the shortness is the greatest disappointment.

"Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar!
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Hath felt the influence of malignant star,

And wag'd with Fortune an eternal war;
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote hath pin'd alone,

Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown!

"O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
Of charms which Nature to her votary yields;
The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,

And all that echoes to the song of even,
All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven,

O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven?