At length, in due season, the planets that reign,

By chance or some similar art, Commanded the damsel to honour her swain

With her hand as the key to her heart.

The grisly old mother then blessed the fond pair;

-“While you live, O my darlings !” she cried, “My favours unasked-for you always shall share,

And cleave like two ribs to my side.


"Poor Paul is a blockhead in marrow and bone,

Whom nought but my rod can make wise ; The fellow will only, when all's said and donc,

Be just fit to live when he dies."

The witch was a prophetess, all must allow,

And Paul a strange moonstricken youth, Who somewhere had picked up, I 'll not tell you how,

A sad knack of telling the truth.

His sorrows and sufferings his consort may paint

In colours of water and fire;
She saw him in prison, desponding and faint,

She saw him in act to expire:

Then, melting her voice to the tenderest tone,

The lovely enthusiast began
To sing in sweet numbers the comforts unknown

That solace the soul of the man,

Who, hated, forsaken, tormented, opprest,

And wrestling with anguish severe,
Can turn his eye inward, and view in his breast

A conscience unclouded and clear.

The captive looked up with a languishing eye,

Half quenched in a tremulous tear ;
He saw the meek Angel of Hope standing by,

He heard her solicit his ear.

Her strain then exalting and swelling her lyre,

The triumphs of patience she sung,
While passions of music and language of fire
Flowed full and sublime from her tongue.

At length the gay morning of liberty shone,

At length the dread portals flew wide;
Then, hailing each other with transports unknown,

The captive escaped with his bride.

Behold in a fable the Poet's own life,

From which this lean moral we draw,-
The Muse is Paul Positive's nightingale-wife,

MISFORTUNE his mother-in-law.


The following Address was the concluding part of a poem, entitled “Thoughts on

Wheels," annexed to a work, written by a friend of the uthor, to expose the evils of the State Lottery.

I LOVE thee, O my native Isle !
Dear as my mother's earliest smile,
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear, and all I see,
When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy public virtues stand,
The guardian angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic host,
The heart's affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of home.

I love thee,--when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.

I love thee,—when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth,
Exulting in the joys of health.

I love thee,—when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim
In all their sufferings, all their fame;

Nor less delighted, when I stray
Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine, over land and main.

I love thee,—when I read the lays
Of British bards in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;
For I, among thy living choir,
I, too, can touch the sacred lyre.

I love thee,–when I contemplate
The full-orbed grandeur of thy state;
Thy laws and liberties, that rise,
Man's noblest works beneath the skies,
To which the Pyramids were tame,
And Grecian temples bow their fame!
These thine immortal sages wrought
Out of the deepest mines of thought;
These, on the scaffold, in the field,
Thy warriors won, thy patriots sealed;
These, at the parricidal pyre,
Thy martyrs sanctified in fire,
And, with the generous blood they spilt,
Washed from thy soil their murderers' guilt,
Cancelled the curse which Vengeance sped,
And left a blessing in its stead.
Can words, can numbers, count the price
Paid for this little Paradise ?
Never, oh! never be it lost;
The land is worth the price it cost.

I love thee,--when thy Sabbath dawns
O'er woods and mountains, dales and lawns,
And streams that sparkle while they run,
As if their fountain were the sun;
When, hand in hand, thy tribes repair
Each to their chosen house of prayer,
And all in peace and freedom call
On Him who is the LORD of all.

I love thee,—when my soul can feel
The Seraph ardours of thy zeal:
Thy charities, to none confined,
Bless, like the sun, the rain, the wind;
Thy schools the human brute shall raise,
Guide erring youth in wisdom's ways,

And leave, when we are turned to dus
A generation of the just.

I love thee,– when I see thee stand
The hope of every other land;
A sea-mark in the tide of time,
Rearing to heaven thy brow sublime;
Whence beams of Gospel splendour shed
A sacred halo round thine head;
And Gentiles from afar behold
(Not as on Sinai's rocks of old)
GOD,—from eternity concealed,
In His own light, on thee revealed.

I love thee,—when I hear thy voice
Bid a despairing world rejoice,
And loud from shore to shore proclaim,
In every tongue, Messiah's name;
That name, at which, from sea to sea,
All nations yet shall bow the knee.

I love thee:-next to heaven above,
Land of my fathers ! thee I love;
And, rail thy slanderers as they will,
“With all thy faults I love thee” still ;
For faults thou hast of heinous size;
Repent, renounce them, ere they rise
In judgment; lest thine ocean-wall
With boundless ruin round thee fall,
And that which was thy mightiest stay,
Sweep all thy rocks like sand away.

Yes, thou hast faults of heinous size,
From which I turn with weeping eyes;
On these let them that hate thee dwell;
Yet one I spare not--one I tell,
Tell with a whisper in thine ear;
Oh, might it wring thine heart with fear!
Oh that my weakest word might roll,
Like heaven's own thunder through thy soul !

There is a lie in thy right hand; A bribe, corrupting all the land; There is within thy gates a pest,Gold and a Babylonish vest; Not hid in shame-concealing shade, But broad against the sun displayed. These—tell it not-it must be told, These from thy Lottery Wheels are sold ; Sold,--and thy children, trained to sin, Hazard both worlds these plagues to wir. ;

Nay, thy deluded statesmen stake
Thyself, -and lose thee for their sake!
Lose thee?— They shall not; He, whose will
Is Nature's law, preserves thee still ;
And while the uplifted bolt impends,
One warning more His mercy sends.

O Britain ! O my country! bring
Forth from thy camp the accursed thing ;
Consign it to remorseless fire,
Watch till the latest spark expire,
Then cast the ashes on the wind,
Nor leave one atom-wreck behind.

So may thy wealth and power increase,
So may thy people dwell in peace;
On thee the ALMIGHTY's glory rest,
And all the world in thee be blest!



THESE little relics, hapless bird !

That strew the lonely vale,
With silent eloquence record

Thy melancholy tale.

Like autumn's leaves, that rustle round

From every withering tree,
These plumes, dishevelled o'er the ground,

Alone remain of thee.

Some hovering kite's rapacious maw

Hath been thy timeless grave:
No pitying eye thy murder saw,

Nor friend appeared to save.

Heaven's thunder smite the guilty foe!

No:-spare the tyrant's breath,
Till wintry winds, and famine slow,
Avenge thy cruel death!

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