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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,
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,
Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger prefs,
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.
PI love the languid patience of thy face;
And oft, with gentle hand, I give thee bread,
Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
Meek child of mifery! thy future fate?
Poor afs! thy master should have learn❜d to fhew
How afkingly its footsteps hither bend!
It seems to fay-" And have I then one friend?"
How thou would'ft tofs thy heels in gamesome play,
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;
Peace to the Bard*, who taught by nature's law,
Oft fhed a tear for innocence and thee!
Come then, fweet bird, nor wander to and fro,
* Alluding to the Author of "The Children in the Wood."
Printed and Sold by S. SIKES & CO. Huddersfield.
PRICE ONE PENNY.
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
And sometimes in his cups a little mellow.
He, being tempted by a pleafant day,
After a long contention with the gout,
A Dog, who faw the man's condition,
On the look-out was lurking close behind.
A fly and fubtle chap,
At any thing that fell.
The Porter flagger'd on, the Dog kept near,
Now made a spring, and then drew back with fear,
Great was the contraft 'twixt the Man and Dog,
That feem'd to know not what he was about,
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 rolling on again, the man furvey'd
The fight of this refreshing place,
As they had often done before.
Mine Hoft, with accents that were wond'rous kind,
The man the gen'rous courtesy declin'd,
Strait on a bench without he stretch'd along,
This was the time to get a fnack.