TO A YOUNG ASS,

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

BY S. T. COLERIDGE.

OOR little foal of an oppressed race !

; And oft, with gentle hand, I give thee bread, And clap thy rugged coat, and pat thy head. But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd, That never thou dost sport along the glade ? And, most unlike the nature of things young, That earth-ward still thy moveless head is hung ? Do thy prophetic fears anticipate, Meek child of misery! thy future fate? The starving meal, and all the thousand aches, “Which patient merit of th’unworthy takes?" Or is thy fad heart thrilld with filial pain, To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain? And truly very piteous is her lot Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot ; Where the clole-eaten grass is scarcely seen, While sweet around thee waves the tempting green! Poor ass ! thy master should have learn'd to shew Pity-belt taught by fellowship of woe! For much I fear me, that he lives, like thee, Half familh'd in a land of luxury ! How askingly its footsteps hither bend! It seems to say—“And have I then one friend ?* Innocent foal! thou poor, despis’d, forlorn, I hail thee brother, spite of the fool's scorn! And fain would take thee with me in the dell Of peace, and mild equality to dwell; Where toil shall hail the charmer health his bride, And laughter tickle plenty's riblefs fide! How thou would'st toss thy heels in gamesome play, And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! Yea, and more musically sweet to me Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, Than warbled melodies, that soothe to reft The aching of pale fashion's vacant breast !

SONNET. TO A REDBREAST.

BY MR. ANDERSON,

of

I bid thee welcome, and thy wild notes greet; Although they tell th' approach of winter drear,

No artful concert's to my ear so sweet. Emblem of poverty !-how hard thy fate,

When wintry tempests howl along the sky; Methinks thou wailift the absence of thy mate,

Singing thy love-lorn song !—just so do I.Peace to the Bard *, who taught by nature's law,

From tyrant man at once could set thee free; Oft have I read the plaintive tale of woe,

Oft shed a tear for innocence and thee! Come then, sweet bird, nor wander to and fro,

Welcome to dwell beneath this humble roof with me. THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

FRANK HAYMAN.

A TALE.

BY J. TAYLOR, ESQ.

Brush,

Had talents much distinguish'd in his day; But for his art he hardly car'd a rush,

If some odd mischief stumbled 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 pleasant day,

After a long contention with the gout,

A foe that oft besieg'd him, fally'd out,
To breathe fresh air, and while an hour away.

It chanc'd as he was strolling, void of care,

A drunken Porter pass’d him with a Hare.
The Hare was o'er his shoulder flung,

Dangling behind, in piteous plight,
And as he crept in zig-zag stile,
Making the most of every mile,
From lide to side poor Puffy swung,

As if each moment taking flight.
A Dog, who saw the man's condition,
A lean and hungry Politician,
On the look-out was lurking close behind,

A siy and subtle chap,
Of most fagacious smell,
Like Politicians of a higher kind,

Ready to snap

At any thing that fell.
The Porter stagger'd on, the Dog kept pear,

Watching the lucky minute for a bite,
Now made a spring, and then drew back with fear,

While HAYMAN follow'd, tittring at the fight:
Great was the contrast 'twixt the Man and Dog,

The one a negligent and stupid lout,

That seem'd to know not what he was aboat, 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 street our tipfy Porter reels,

Then stops—as if to solemn thought inclin'd. The watchful Dog was ready at his heels,

And HAYMAN hobbled on not far behind. Then rolling on again, the man survey'd

One of those happy manfions, where A cordial drop imparts its cheering aid

To all the thirsty Sons of Care. The fight of this refreshing place,

The scent that hails him from the door, Arrest at once his rambling pacem

As they had often done before. Mine Host, 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 thirst-or coin,
Strait on a bench without he stretch'd along,
Regardless of the passing throng,
And soon his weary eye-lids close,
While Somnus sooths him to repose,
The Hare now proftrate at his back,
This was the time to get a snack.

The Dog unable longer to refrain,

Gaz'd at the Hare,

Who caus'd his care,
Jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, jumpt and bit, and bit again.

At length, when he had clear'd away the rest,
The fated spoiler finish'd on the breast.

Then having made a hearty meal,
He careless turn'd

upon

his heel,
Nor thought of asking “ What's to pay?"
But scamper'd at his ease away ;
Perhaps to find some four-foot fair,

And tell the story of the Hare.
And here some Sage, with moral spleen, may say,
6. This HAYMĄN should have driv'n the Dog away,
“ Th' effects of Vice the blameless should not bear,
6 And folks who are not drunkards lose their Hare.”

All this, we grant, is very true
But in this giddy world how few
To Virtue’s heights sublimely move,
Relinquishing the things they love.
Not so unfashionably good,
Our waggish Painter laughing stood,

In hopes more sport to find;
Dispos'd to keep in view his game,
And with th' ambitious Thane exclaim,

" The greatest is behind.”
Besides, he knew, whate'er the plan
That tempts the fond pursuits of Man,
Though pleasure may the course attend,
The Wile are heedful of the end.
Hence, though of mirth a lucky store,

So aptly tumbled in his way,
Yet ftill he linger'd after more,

And thus he said, or seem'd to say: • How will the people fret and scold,

" When they the bony wreck behold! * And how the drunken rogue will stare,

" When first he sees what was the Hare!