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TO AN EXOTIC. TENDER nursling of my care, Hast thou brav'd the wint'ry blast, Batt'ring sleet, congealing air,

Thus at Spring to droop at last? Many a night-storm howling drear, Vainly raging around thy shed; Many a keen morn's breath austere Fail'd to bow thy shelter'd head.

Ab! counterfeit of Spring,

Soothing with deceitful breath, Hid beneath a Zephyr's wing, Shafts of winter-shafts of death.

Phœbus lent a treach'rous ray,

Luring confidence and joy;

Luring only to betray,

Warming only to destroy.

Then thy soft dilating heart

Gave its shoots, and shed its fears; Swift the phantom hurls her dart,

As in the clouds she disappears.

Gentle alien to a sky,

Ever varying its state;

Tho' its native, still must I

Share thy feelings and thy fate.

As contending winds prevail
In the elemental strife,
Straining, slack'ning, they assail
All the trembling strings of life.
Sinking, then my languid eyes

Fail my spirit to amuse;
Wearied, fainting ere they rise,
Exercise my limbs refuse.
And as ev'ry season's course

In the change of one we see; Ere 'tis seen, I feel its force, Shrinking, withering, like thee.

A BALLAD.

REBECCA was the fairest maid
That on the Danube's borders play'd;
And many a handsome noblemau
For her in tilt and tournay ran;
While fair Rebecca wish'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.

Rebecca heard the gossips say,
"Alone from dusk till midnight stay,
"Within the church-porch drear and dark,
"Upon the vigil of St. Mark ;

No. XXIX. Vol. V.-N.S.

"And lovely maiden you shall see
"What youth your husband is to be."
Rebecca when the night grew dark,
Upon the vigil of St. Mark,
Observ'd by Paul (a roguish scout)
Who guess'd the task she went about;
Stepp'd to St. Stephen's church to see
What youth her husband was to be.
Rebecca heard the screech-owl cry,
And saw the black bat round her fly ;
She sat, till wild with fear at last
Her blood ran cold, her pulse beat fast;
And yet rash maid! she stopp'd to see
What youth her husband was to be.
Rebecca heard the midnight chime
Ring out the yawning peal of time;
When shrouded Paul, unlucky knave,
Rose like a spectre from the grave;

And cry'd. "Fair maiden, come with me, "For I your bridegroom am to be."

Rebecca turn'd her head aside,

Sent forth a hideous shriek, and died: :1
While Paul confess'd himself in vain,
Rebecca never spoke again!

Ah! little, hapless maid, did she
Think death her husband was to be.

Rebecca! may thy story long
Instruct the giddy aud the young;
Fright not, fond youth, the timid fair:
And you too, gentle maids! beware;
Nor seek, by lawless arts to see
What youths your husbauds are to be.

EPITAPH,

Supposed to have been intended by Dr Beattie for himself.

ESCAP'D the gloom of mortal life, a soul

Here leaves its mouldering tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll,

No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.

Like thee, I once have stem'd the sea of life;

Like the, have languish'd after empty joys, L.ke thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife; Been griev'd for trifles, and amus'd with toys, Yet for a while, 'gainst passion's threatful blast,

Let steady reason urge the struggling oar; Shot ta' the reary gloom, the morn at last Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.

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Forget my frailties-thou art also frailForgive my lapses, for thyself may'st fall; Nor read, unmov'd, my artless tender taleI was a friend, O man, to thee-to all.

TO MY OLD HORSE SORREL.

BY DR. WOLCOT.

DEAR Sorrel, thine eyes are grown dim, and thy feet

No longer can travel the road;

Should I die before thee (for we know not our fate),

Let thy fears and suspicion be still, Till the close of thy life, shall benevolence wait;

For thy name shall be first in my will.

meat,

Or forbid thee thy happy abode.

Thou knowest full well, that, in fair and foul weather,

Now 'mid zephyrs, now tempests abhor'd, How often like friends, we have journey'd together,

And never exchang'd a cross word.

In a canter, or trot, or a gal'op, or leap (Ah me! what a satire on mau),

I scarcely remember thou mad'st a false step; Let mortals say this if they can!

To comfort thine age, take as usual thy rounds;

Enjoy all my pastures can yield: Thy limbs shall not hang on a tree for the hounds;

Thy bones shall not blanch on the field.

Alas! shall the tale to my neighbours be told, A tale that sweet mercy must doubt;

For thy food, shall I kill thee, because thou art old,

And unable to bear me about.

Remembrance shall gratefully keep in her eye,

The excursions that oft have been mine; Then I dwell on thy virtues, and wish with a sigh,

That my life had been harmless as thine.

When winter appears, with his storms and

his snows;

That might freeze the slow course of thy blood;

Thou shalt have a dry bed for thy limbs to repose;

A warm stable and plenty of food.

Ingratitude never was thine, the disgrace,

To thy praise which shall ever be sung: But by man (let me say, with a blush for the race),

That my bosom has often been stung:

Should grace a dying Soldier's grave.

The helm, which used my brows to shade,
Is rusted with the evening dew;
My shatter'd limbs, at distance laid,
The bitter pangs of death renew.

Yet pleas'd I view the closing light,
Mine eyes thy distant glimm❜rings hail,
Since in the fierce destructive fight,

My Country's bauners still prevail.
With thee at early morn I rose,

Resolv'd, the daring foe I met; Together let our glories close,

Fair Sun, together let us set!

But thou shalt set to rise again,

And move in splendour as before; Whilst I amidst these heaps of slain, Must set, alas! to rise no more!

MIDNIGHT.

THE wearied bind is now at rest,
And the ember'd fire decays,
While the cricket, latest guest,
Chirups o'er the dying blaze.

Slowly rising o'er the hill,

Cynthia, bright, the prospect cheers ; And her figure on the rill

Lovely as herself appears. Morpheus now has banish'd care,

And each breast enjoys repose, Save yon wretched love-lorn fair, Breathing to the night her woes. Swift the silver scene is chang'd, Tempests dark obscure the sight; Clouds of Heav'n's artill’ry rang'd Muster on the brow of night. Dreadful howls the raging blast,

Furious o'er creation driven, While the Atheist stares aghast,

Trembling at offended Heaven!

Sweet soother of my misery, say,

Why dost thou clap thy joyous wing? Why dost thou pour thy artless lay?

How caust thou, little prisoner, sing?

Hast thou not cause to grieve, That man, unpitying man, has rent From thee the boon which nature meant, Thou should'st, as well as he receive? The power to woo thy partner in the grove, To build, where instinct points, where choice directs to rove?

Ere while, when brooding o'er 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 social sympathy!

BONAPARTE.

BY MR. SCOTT.

From the "Vision of Don Roderick." FROM a rude isle his ruder lineage came. The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth

Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

Hatbot a meaner or more serdid birth.

scure,

And for the soul, that bade him waste the earth, The sable land-flood from some swamp ob[dearth, That poisous the glad husband-field with And by destruction bids its fame endure, Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.

Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,

Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor

shew'd, [storm, With which she beckon'd him thro' fight and And all he crush'd that cross'd his desperate road; [he trode ; Nor thought, nor feared, nor looked on what -Realms could not glut his pride, blood not

moan,

As when the fates of aged Rome to change

Nor joyed she to bestow the spoils she won,

By Cæsar's side she cross'd the Rubicon;

As when the banded powers of Greece were tasked

To war beneath the youth of Macedon :

No seemly veil her modern minion asked, He saw her hideous form, and loved the fiend unmasked.

That Prelate marked his march-On banners blazed

With battles won in many a distant land, On eagle standards and on arms he gazed; "And hopest thou then," he said, "thy

power shall stand?

O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
And thou has tempered it with slaughter's
flood;
[hand,
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's
Gore-moistened trees shall perish in the bud,
And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of
Blood."

The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his train
A wan paternal shade, and bade him kneel,
And paled his temples with the Crown of Spain,
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried
"Castile!"

Not that he lov'd him-No!-in no man's weal, [heart;

Scarce in his own e'er joyed that sullen Yet round that throne he bade his warriors

wheel,

That the poor puppet might perform his part, And be a sceptred slave, to his stern look to start.

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