Yet, pow'rful fancy, bid the phantom stay, Still let me hear him!-'Tis already past; • Along the waves his fhadow glides away;

I lose his voice amidst the deaf'ning blaft.

Ah! wild illufion, born of frantic pain,

• He hears not, comes not from his wat❜ry bed; My tears, my anguifh, my defpair are vain,

Th' infatiate ocean gives not up its dead.

‹ 'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll; Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my foul,

Defpair, and Death, and Defolation, hail!'

The ocean hears-th' embodied waters come,
Rife o'er the land, and with refiftless sweep
Tear from its bafe the proud aggreffor's tomb,
And bear the injur'd to eternal fleep!

SONNET. TO A POOR BOY.

BY MR. ANDERSON.

EEK Child I diftrefs,

MfFor I have learn'd to feel another's woe;

Yes, my heart pants to make thy forrow lefs,
And dry the tear which mis'ry bids to flow.

Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger prefs,
Nor frowning POVERTY's fad anguifh know:
What boots it, though you fhine like infects gay,
The vain unthinking parasites of pow'r?
How oft doth Syren Vice lead you aftray?
How oft embitter pleasure's gayeft hour?

Tho' never thou enjoy'ft the plenteous meal!

Tho' tatter'd thy coarfe weeds-yet, poor forlorn! Sooner thy keenest forrows would I feel,

Than be the Son of WEALTH that mocks thy woes with fcorn.

TO A YOUNG ASS,

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE.

an race!

PI love the languid patience of thy face;

And oft, with gentle hand, I give thee bread,
And clap thy rugged coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled fpirits hath difmay'd,
That never thou doft fport along the glade?
And, most unlike the nature of things young,
That earth-ward ftill thy moveless head is hung?

Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,

Meek child of mifery! thy future fate?
The ftarving meal, and all the thousand aches,
"Which patient merit of th' unworthy takes?"
Or is thy fad heart thrill'd with filial pain,
To fee thy wretched mother's fhorten'd chain?
And truly very piteous is her lot-
Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot;
Where the clofe-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around thee waves the tempting green!

Poor afs! thy master should have learn❜d to fhew
Pity-beft taught by fellowship of woe!
For much I fear me, that he lives, like thee,
Half famish'd in a land of luxury!

How afkingly its footsteps hither bend!

It seems to fay-" And have I then one friend?"
Innocent foal! thou poor, defpis'd, forlorn,
I hail thee brother, fpite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me in the dell
Of peace, and mild equality to dwell;
Where toil fhall hail the charmer health his bride,
And laughter tickle plenty's ribless side!

How thou would'ft tofs thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
Yea, and more musically sweet to me
Thy diffonant harsh bray of joy would be,
Than warbled melodies, that foothe to reft

The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast!

SONNET. TO A REDBREAST.

BY MR. ANDERSON.

I bid thee welcome, and thy wild notes greet; Although they tell th' approach of winter drear, No artful concert's to my ear fo fweet.

Emblem of poverty !-how hard thy fate,

When wintry tempefts howl along the fky;
Methinks thou wail'ft the abfence of thy mate,
Singing thy love-lorn fong !-juft fo do I.-

Peace to the Bard*, who taught by nature's law,
From tyrant man at once could fet thee free;
Oft have I read the plaintive tale of woe,

Oft fhed a tear for innocence and thee!

Come then, fweet bird, nor wander to and fro,
Welcome to dwell beneath this humble roof with me.

* Alluding to the Author of "The Children in the Wood."

Printed and Sold by S. SIKES & CO. Huddersfield.

PRICE ONE PENNY.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

FRANK HAYMAN.

A TALE.

BY J. TAYLOR, ESQ.

RANK HAYMAN, once a Brother of the Brush,

in his day;

But for his art he hardly car'd a rush,

If fome odd mischief ftumbled in his way.

This Wag was deem'd by all the Social Tribe
A jovial, easy, careless, pleasant fellow,
Fond of a frolic, ready at a gibe,

And sometimes in his cups a little mellow.

He, being tempted by a pleafant day,

After a long contention with the gout,
A foe that oft befieg'd him, fally'd out,
To breathe fresh air, and while an hour away.
It chanc'd as he was ftrolling, void of care,
A drunken Porter pass'd him with a Hare.
The Hare was o'er his fhoulder flung,
Dangling behind, in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zig-zag ftile,
Making the most of every mile,
From fide to fide poor Puffy fwung,
As if each moment taking flight.

A Dog, who faw the man's condition,
A lean and hungry Politician,

On the look-out was lurking close behind.

A fly and fubtle chap,
Of moft fagacious fmell,
Like Politicians of a higher kind,
Ready to fnap

At any thing that fell.

The Porter flagger'd on, the Dog kept near,
Watching the lucky minute for a bite,

Now made a spring, and then drew back with fear,
While HAYMAN follow'd, titt'ring at the fight:

Great was the contraft 'twixt the Man and Dog,
The one a negligent and ftupid lout,

That feem'd to know not what he was about,
The other keen, obfervant, all agog.

Nor need it wonderment excite I ween,

That HAYMAN clos'd the train to mark the scene.

Through many a ftreet our tipfy Porter reels,
Then flops-as if to folemn thought inclin'd
The watchful Dog was ready at his heels,
And HAYMAN hobbled on not far behind.

Then rolling on again, the man furvey'd
One of thofe happy manfions, where
A cordial drop imparts its cheering aid
To all the thirsty Sons of Care.

The fight of this refreshing place,
The fcent that hails him from the door,
Arreft at once his rambling pace—

As they had often done before.

Mine Hoft, with accents that were wond'rous kind,
Invites him in, a jolly crew to join;

The man the gen'rous courtesy declin'd,
Merely, perhaps for want of thirft-or coin.

Strait on a bench without he stretch'd along,
Regardless of the paffing throng,
And foon his weary eye-lids clofe,
While SOMNUS fooths him to repose,
The Hare now proftrate at his back,

This was the time to get a fnack.