The lady dances like a bold Thalestris,
And Alexander hops like Monsieur Vestris.
Again, so furiously they dance a jig,.
The lady lost her cap, the hero lost his wig.

The motley mob, behind, before,
Exclaim'd-encore! encore! encore!
Proud of th' applause, and justly vain,
Thaïs made a curtsey low,

Such as court ladies make before the queen.
Alexander made a bow,

Such as the royal levee oft has seen,
And then they danc'd the reel again.

Of vast applause the couple vain,
Delighted, danc'd the reel again:
Now in, and now out,

They skipp'd it about,

As tho' they felt the madness of the moon;
Such was the power of Timothy and tune.

When the dub a dub, dub a dub drum,
In triumph behind e'm beat-Go to bed, Tom.

THE OTAHEITAN MOURNER..

[Peggy Stewart was the daughter of an Otaheitan Chief, and married to one of the Mutineers of the Bounty. On Stewart's being seized and carried away in the Pandora Frigate, Peggy fell into a rapid decay, and in two months died of a broken heart, leaving an infant daughter, who is still living.]

O then 'twas lovely watching
The sparkling of his eyes;
And learn the white man's greeting,
And answer all his sighs.

I taught my constant white love
To play upon the wave,
To turn the storm to pleasure, r
And the curling surge to brave.
How pleasant was our sporting,
Like dolphins on the tide;
To dive beneath the billow,"
Or the rolling surf to ride.

To summer groves I led him,
Where fruit hangs in the sun
We linger'd by the fountains,

That murmur as they run.
By the verdant islands sailing,

Where the crested sea-birds go;

ཏཱ ཎེ

We heard the dash of the distant spray,

And saw through the deeps the sunbeams play,

In the coral bow'rs below.

My kindred much would wonder,
The white man's love to see;
And Otaheitan maidens

Would often enty me.

Yet when my white love's forehead.
Would sadden with despair,
I knew not why the cold drops
Should start and quiver there.
I knew not why in slumber

His heart should tremble so;
Or lock'd in love's embraces,
How doubt and fear could grow,

'Till o'er the bounding billow
The angry chieftains came;
They seiz'd my wretched lover,
They mock'd my anguish'd claim.
Ip iron bands then bound him,
I flew his fate to share;
They tore him from my clasping,
And threw me to despair.

Are white men unrelenting,
So far to cross the sea;

Their chieftain's wrongs revenging,
To tear my love from me?

Are Otaheitan bosoms

No refuge for the brave;
Can exile nor repentance
A wretched lover save?

No more the Heiva's dancing,
My mournful steps will suit ;
As when to the torch-light glancing,
And beating to the flute.

No more my braided tresses

With smiling flow'rs shall bloom`;

Nor blossom rich in beauty

Shall lend its sweet perfume,

I wish the fearful warning

Would bind my woes in sleep!
And I were a little bird to chase
My lover o'er the deep!

Or if my wounded spirit

In the death-canoe would rove,

I'd bribe the wind and pitying wave,

To speed me to my love!

Birmingham.

P. M. J.

THE IMMORTAL MEMORY AND THE GLORIOUS CAUSE,

Humani nihil alienum.-TER.

F gen'rous Fox was living now,
To see the fearless sons of Spain

With all his native ardour glow,
To vindicate their rights again—

What anxious hopes! what fervent sighs!
Would warm his sympathizing soul!
What dubious pain! what trembling joys!
Would yield by turns-by turns controul!

What pain-for every Spaniard brave,
Who nobly fought and greatly fell:
What joy!-that they had dy'd to save
The liberty he lov'd so well.

But how would Nature's child rejoice
When Victory, in laurels gay,
Sang in her trumpet tones, the voice
Of Saragossa's splendid day!

Then, Spaniards! join in England's tears,
And consecrate, to dust consign'd,
The Head-that rul'd our hopes and fears;
The Heart-that felt for human-kind.

Gone is that gentle, gen'rous soul,
That long'd to see all Europe free;

And would have spread from pole to pole
His country's bliss and liberty."

That Peace, his milder spirit lov'd,

He woo'd to come and bless us here;

But when he unavailing prov'd,

He fled to Heav'n, and found her there.

Then

Then, Spaniards! join, with England weep,
The Patriot pure, the Freeman brave,
Where genius, worth, and wisdom sleep,

Within their Fox's hallow'd grave.-ANONYM.

EXTRACTED FROM POEMS BY THE REVEREND GEORGE CRABBE.

[Mr. Crabbe, it seems, has, among his flock, a set of Smugglers, who inhabit what is called the Street in his village. Of this profligate and disorderly circle the following is a description.]

HERE, in cabal, a disputatious crew,

Each evening meet; the sot, the cheat, the shrew;
Riots are nightly heard,---the curse, the cries
Of beaten wife, perverse in her replies;

While shrieking children hold each threat'ning hand,
And sometimes life and sometimes food demand:
Boys in their first stol'n rags, to swear begin,
And girls, who know not sex, are skill'd in gin:
Snarers and smugglers here their gains divide,
Ensnaring females here their victims hide;
And here is one, the sybil of the row,
Who knows all secrets, or affects to know.
Between the road-way and the walls, offence
Invades all eyes and strikes on every sense;
There lie, obscene, at every open door,
Heaps from the hearth and sweepings from the floor.
There hungry dogs from hungry children steal;
There pigs and chickens quarrel for a meal;
There dropsy'd infants wail without redress,
And all is want and woe and wretchedness.

See! on the floor, what frowzy patches rest!
What nauseous fragments on yon fractur'd chest!
What downy-dust beneath yon window-seat!
And round these posts that serve this bed for feet;
This bed where all those tatter'd garments lie,
Worn by each sex, and now perforce thrown by.
See! as we gaze, an infant lifts its head,

Left by neglect, and burrow'd in the bed;
The mother-gossip has the love supprest,

An infant's cry once waken'd in her breast, &c. &c.
Here are no wheels for either wool or flax,

But packs of cards---made up of sundry packs;
There are no books, but ballads on the wall,
Are some abusive, and indecent all;

Pistols are here, unpair'd; with nets and hooks,
Of every kind, for rivers, ponds, and brooks;