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ODE TO A SINGING BIRD.
O THOU that glad'st my lonely hours,

With many a wildly warbled song,
When melancholy round me low'rs,

And drives her sullen storm along ;
When fell adversity prepares

To lead her delegated train,
Pale 'sickness, want, remorse, and pain,

With all her host of lurking cares,
The friends ordain'd to tame the human soul,
And give the humbled heart to syni patby's controul.
Sweet soother of my misery, say,

Why dust clap thy joyous wing?
Why dost thou pour thy artless lay?
How canst thou little prisoner, sing?

Hast thou not cause to grieve,
That man, unpitying man, has rent
From thee the boon wbich nature meant,

Thou should'st as well as he receive?
The power to woo thy partner in the grove, (to rove?
To build, where instinct points, where choice directs
Ere while, when brooding oe'r my soul,

Frown'd the black demons of despair,
Did not thy voice their power controul,
And oft suppress the rising tear?

If Fortune should be kind,
If e'er with affluence I am blest,
I'll often seek some friend distress'd,

And when the weeping wretch I find,
Then tuneful moralist, I'll copy thee,
And solace all his woes with sucial sympathy!

CHRISTIAN, COUNTESS OF DEVONSHIRE WAS a woman of great celebrity, and of singular character. She was extolled for her devotion; and yet she retained Hobbes, as tutor to her son. She kept up the dignity of her rank, and ber hospitality : yet so judicious was her economy, that her jointure of 50001. a year she nearly doubled; and she extricated her son's estate from a vast debt and thirty lawsuits; so that King Charles once said to her, · Madam, you have all my Judges at your disposal.' She was the patroness of the wits of that age, why met at her house, and there Waller read his

verses. She was active in the restoration of Charles II., who frequently visited her at Roehampton, with the Queen Dowager and the royal family, with whom she enjoyed an intimacy till her death in 1675.

SCENE NEAR NETHER STOWEY, SOMERSET.

A GREEN and silent spot amid the hills!
A small and silent dell!-O’er stiller place
No singing skylark ever poised himself!
The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope
Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
All golden with the never bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely; but the dell,
Bathed by the mist is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn field, or the unripe flax,
When through its half transparent stalks, at eve,
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Oh, 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook,
Which all methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who in his youthful years
Knew just so much of folly as had made
His early manhood more securely wise:
Here he might lie on fern or wither'd heath,
While from the singing lark (that sings seen
The minstrelsy which solitude loves best)
And from the sun, and from the breezy air,
Sweet infuences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of nature!
And so his 'senses gradually wrapp'd
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming, bears thee still, O singing lark!
That singest like an angel in the clouds.

THE CROMWELLS HAVE long resided at Cheshunt, and in this retired vil. lage, the protector, Richard Cromwell, spent many years uf a venerable old age; a striking lesson, how much obscurity and peace are to be preferred to the splendid infelicities of guilty ambition. He assumed the name of Clark, and first resided in 1680, in a house near the church: and here he died, in 1712, in his 80th year; enjoying a good state of health to the last, and so hale and hearty,

that at foursore be would gallop his horse for many miles together.

When Richard left Whitehall, he was very careful to preserve the addresses sent to him from every part of the kingdom, expressing, “ that the salvation of the nation depended upon his safety, and his acceptance of the sovereignty;" and many of them proffering him even the lives aud fortunes of the addressers; these were packed in a small round trunk, deposited in a dirty garret, and never shown, except to new-made acquaintauces in the moment of conviviality. Ou these occasions, the quondam Protector, followed by his company with the bottle and glasses, seated the new man on the trunk, and filling him a bumper, made him drink ' Prosperity to Old England ;' with a caution, at the same time, to sit lighty, for he had no less than the lives and fortunes of all the good people of England under him : the trunk was then opened, and the original addresses shown him, which created nu small mirth and laughter.

WHAT IS LOVE?
TELL me, what can mean this riot

In my pulse wheu Damon's nigh ;
. That my breast is never quiet,

Ever heaving with a sigh?
If such tokens don't discover
What it is to be a lover,

Then, V tell me, what am I?
But, alas! poor thoughtless creature!

By each pulse betray'd and sigh,
There's a tongue in every feature,

And a thousand in the eye
Which to Damon will discover
What it is to be a lover,

And to tell him, what am I. FENTON.

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NORHAM CASTLE. OME poetry may be said to possess the power of alchemy; for whatever it describes, it consecrates.

Sir Walter Scott has thus consecrated Nor. ham Castle in the opening stanzas of his Marmion, a Tale of Flodden Field: and we therefore hand it to our readers under the conviction, that, did we attempt any altera

ation, we should injure the subject.
DAY set on Norham's castled steep,
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

And Cheviot's mountains lone:
The battled towers, the Donjon Keep,
The loop-hole grates where captives weep,
The flanking walls that round it sweep,

In yellow lustre shone,
The warriors on the turrets high,
Moving athwart the evening sky,

Seem'd forms of giant height:
Their armour, as it caught the rays,
Flash'd back again the western blaze,

In lines of dazzling light.
St. George's banner, broad and gay,
Now faded, as the fading ray

Less bright and less, was Hung;
The evening gale had scarce the power
To wave it the Donjon tower,

So heavily it hung.
NO, IX.

The scouts had parted on their search,

The castle gates were barr'd;
Above the gloomy portal arch,
Timing his footsteps to a march,

The warder kept his guard;
Low humming, as he paced along,
Some ancient Border gathering-song.
A distant trampling sound he hears;
He looks abroad, aud soon appears,
O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears,

Beneath a pendon gay;
A horseman, darting from the crowd,
Like lightning from a summer cloud,
Spurs on his mettled courser proud,

* Before the dark array.
Beneath the sable palaisade,
That closed the castle barricade,

His bugle-horn he blew;
The warder hasted from the wall,
And warn’d the captain in the hall,

For well the blast he knew;
And joyfully that Knight did call,
To sewer, squire, and seneschal.
“ Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,

Bring pasties of the doe,
And quickly make the entrance free,
And bid my heralds ready be,
And every minstrel sound his glee,

And all our trumpets blow;
And, from the platform, spare ye nut
To fíre a noble salvo-shot;

Lord Marmion waits below."-
Then to the Castle's lower ward

Sped forty yeomen tall,
The iron-studded gates unbarr’d,
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard,
The lofty palaisade unsparr'd,

And let the draw-bridge fall. THE ruinous castle of Norham, (anciently called Ub. baudford,) is situated on the southern bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Berwick, and where that river is still the boundary between England and Scotland. The extent of its ruios, as well as its historical importance, shews it to have been a place of magnificence, as well as strength. Edward I. resided there when he was created

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