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THE SLAVE.

Ye wild winds of Heaven how dreadful you rave,
As o'er the huge billows you sweep,

While thunder stalks forth from his echoing cave,
And lightnings illumine the deep.

The mariner starts at the heart-rending sound,
As the tempest howls loud through the sky,
While the broad-blazing welkin spreads horror around,
He breathes his despair in a sigh!

Alas! to his bosom is nature still dear?

For man does his heart dare to feel?

Can the rapture of friendship, the bliss of a tear,
To his soul with strong energy steal?

Yes! the heart-thrilling hopes of a far distant wife,
His offspring in childhood's soft bloom,
Makes the sailor still value the treasure of life,
And affrighted recoil from the tomb!

But welcome ye storms to the fetter-bound slave,
Ye thunderbolts burst on his head;

Oppression ne'er frowns on the realms of the grave,
Nor Cruelty tramples the dead!

Ye band of oppressors, yon vast mountain wave,
Now towering aloft to the sky,

Is big with destruction, no efforts can save,
Ye fiends how I smile when you die !

Dear shades of my parents I hasten to you,
Now rob'd in the glories of Heaven;
But know, to this breast, e'er I murmur'd adieu,
Revenge and dread triumph were given!

GLASGOW.

J. W.

EPIGRAMS.

OLD HARPY jeers at castles in the air,

And thanks his stars, whenever EDMUND speaks, That such a dupe, as that, is not his heir

But know, old HARPY! that these fancy freaks, Tho' vain and light, as floating gossamer, Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart:

A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures, And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart

Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures.

HERE lies the Devil-ask no other name.
Well-but you mean Lord—? Hush! we mean the

same.

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

FROM THE GREEK OF TYRTÆUS.

Μυτε
UTE are my chords when beauty claims the
Or kingly grace, or limbs of giant mould;
No grace of mine extols the honey'd tongue,
The racer's swiftness, or the gleam of gold.

song,

My theme's the youth who views with steady eyes
The bloodiest carnage, and the grin of death;

Mid thickest battle claims the victor's prize,
And man to man disputes the laurel wreath.

Blest by his country's praise, his parent's smile,
He views the waste of life, nor feels appal,
Firm at the post, and foremost in the file,

With dauntless breast he sees his comrade fall.

With sinewy arm he stems the wave of war,
O'er adverse hosts he scatters wild dismay;
Reckless of life he guides his griding car,

Where danger frowns, amid the bloody fray.

And falls the youth ?-he falls, his country's joy,His father's pride,-who tells each honest wound, Points to the fissur'd buckler of his boy,

And smiles in tears, while all his praise resound.

His childrens' children, bending o'er his tomb,

Shall date their glories from his honour'd name; Thus, wrapt in earth, he scapes the vulgar doom, And lives for ever in the rolls of fame.

P. F.

ЕРІТАРН,

In Chiswick Church, on a Youth of Fifteen.

BY ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ.

IF in the morn of life each winning grace,
The converse sweet, the mind-illumin'd face,
The lively wit that charm'd with early art,
And mild affections streaming from the heart;
If these, lov'd youth, could check the hand of Fate,
Thy matchless worth had claim'd a longer date.
But thou art blest, while here we heave the figh;
Thy death is virtue wafted to the sky.

Yet still thy image fond affection keeps,
The sire remembers, and the mother weeps;
Still the friend grieves, who saw thy vernal bloom,
And here, sad task! inscribes it on thy tomb.

CANZONET.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

O BEST belov'd! could I but gain
The one dear boon that I implore;
I'd cease of Fortune to complain,

Nor would I ask kind Heaven for more.

I wish not realms my sway to own,
To bend and tremble at my frown;
For Care, too oft, lurks near the throne,
And lines with thorns the dazzling crown.

Let Empire break Ambition's rest;
Be far its troublous pomp from me;
I should, dear maid, be truly blest,
Were mine a tranquil cot and thee.

No splendid robes, no gems of pride,
No boundless wealth can I impart :
These toys to me has Fate denied ;
But I can give a faithful heart.

Sweet maid! indeed, I would not grieve
Though I the live-long day should toil,
Might I at setting sun, receive

From thee, one tender, cheering smile.

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