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To some unwearied minstrel dancing;
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,

Love framed with Mirth a gay, fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

COLLINS

107. The Distressed Father.

Henry NEWBERRY, a lad of thirteen years, and Edward Chidley, aged seventeen, were fully committed for trial, charged with stealing a silver teapot from the house of a gentleman in Grosvenor Place. There was nothing extraordinary in the circumstances of the robbery. The younger lad was observed to go into the house, whilst his companion kept watch, and they were caught endeavoring to conceal the teapot under some rubbish in the Five Fields; but the case was made peculiarly interesting by the unsophisticated distress of Newberry's father.

The poor old man, who, it seems, had been a soldier, and was at this time a journeyman pavier, refused at first to believe that his son had committed the crime inputed to him, and was very clamorous against the witnesses; but, as their evidence proceeded, he himself appeared to become gradually convinced. He listened with intense anxiety to the various details; and when they were finished, he fixed his eyes in silence, for a second or two, upon his son; and, turning to the magistrate, with his eyes swimming in tears, he exclaimed, “I have carried him many a score miles on my knapsack,

your honor!

There was something so deeply pathetic in the tone with which this fond reminiscence was uttered by the old soldier,

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that every person present, even the very jailer himself, was affected by it. “I have carried him many score miles on my knapsack, your honor,” repeated the poor fellow, whilst he brushed away the tears from his cheek with his rough, unwashed hand; " but it's all over now ! - He has done and so have I!"

The magistrate asked him something of his story. He said he had formerly driven a stage-coach, in the north of Ireland, and had a small share in the proprietorship of the coach. In this time of his prosperity, he married a young woman with a little property, but failed in business, and, after enduring many troubles, enlisted as a private soldier, in the Royal Irish Regiment of Foot, and went on foreign service, taking with him his wife and four children. At the end of nine years, he was discharged, in this country, without a pension, or a friend in the world; and coming to London, he, with some trouble, got employed as a pavier, by "the gentlemen who manage the streets.” Henry, the prisoner, was his second son, and his “ darling pride."

“Two years ago, your honor," he continued,"my poor wife was wearied out with the world, and she deceased from me, and I was left alone with the children; and every night, after I had done work, I washed their faces and put them to bed, and washed their little bits o' things, and hanged them O'the line to dry, myself; for I'd no money, your honor, and so I could not have a housekeeper to do for them, you know. But, your honor, I was as happy as I well could be, considering my wife was deceased from me, till some bad people came to live at the back of us; and they were always striving to get Henry amongst them; and I was terribly afraid something bad would come of it, as it was but poorly I could do for him; and so I'd made up my mind to take all my

children to Ireland. If he had only held up another week, your honor, we should have gone, and he would have been saved. But now

Here the poor man looked at his boy again, and wept ; and when the magistrate endeavored to console him by observing

that his son would sail for Botany Bay, and probably do well there, he replied, somewhat impatiently, “Ay, it's fine talking, your worship. I pray to the great God he may never sail any where, unless he sails with me to Ireland ! And then, after a moment's thought, he asked, in the humblest tone imaginable, “Doesn't your honor think a little bit of a petition might help him?"

The magistrate replied, it possibly might, and added, “ If you attend his trial at the Old Bailey, and plead for him as eloquently in word and action as you have done here, I think it would help him still more."

Ay, but then you won't be there, I suppose, will you ?” asked the poor fellow, with that familiarity which is in some degree sanctioned by extreme distress; and when his worship replied that he certainly should not be present, he immediately rejoined, " Then what's the use of it? There will be nobody there who knows me; and what stranger will listen to a poor old broken-hearted fellow, who can't speak for crying?"

The prisoners were now removed from the bar, to be conducted to prison ; and his son, who had wept incessantly all the time, called wildly to him, “Father, father!” as if he expected that his father could snatch him out of the iron grasp of the law; but the old man remained rivetted, as it were, to the spot on which he stood, with his

eyes

fixed the lad; and, when the door had closed upon him, he put on his hat, unconscious where he was; and, crushing it down over his brows, he began wandering round the room in a state of stupor. The officers in waiting reminded him that he should not wear his hat in the presence of the magistrate, and he instantly removed it ; but he still seemed lost to every thing around him; and, though one or two. gentlemen present put money into his hands, he heeded it not, but slowly sauntered out of the office, apparently reckless of every thing.

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108. Summer Hymn.

God of my sires ! yon arch of blue,
The balmy breeze, that verdant hue,
And this warm glow of summer's prime,
Transport me o'er the bounds of time;
To Fancy's gaze new worlds arise,
And people yonder orient skies;
The boundless realms of aerial space
Have many a bright and beauteous place
That earth-born eye may never see,
That earth-born thought, however free,
Can image not, nor shadow out,
Even with the misty trace of doubt;
Yet there, O God, like ocean's sand
Strewed on the shelving, surf-beat strand,
Innumerous hosts a countless throng –
Spontaneous swell the choral song
Of endless praise ; for there, as here,
All that ask worship, love, or fear, -
All, above, around, below,-
To thee, First Cause, their being owe.

gave

them instant birth;
Thou didst from chaos call them forth.
Vast, awful, measureless, immense
Thy power and thine omnipotence!

But, O, thy gentle love,
Softly streaming from above,
Warm as the solar beam of day,

Yet calm and sweet as Hesper's ray,
Thy love, to space's utmost ends,
Through one glad reign of bliss, extends ;
Before thy strength, before thy power,
This love is felt in childhood's hour,
Or e'er the mind hath garnered thought,
To worship this hath instinct taught.

Thy fiat

'T'is this which gave yon gushing stream;
'Tis this which gave the gladdening bearn ;
The flowery mead; yon spreading lawn:
The healthful breeze of early dawn;
The yellow broom ; yon heather-bell;
The primrose blushing in yon dell;
The pearly dew, that crowns each stem,
Each flower, each leaf, with many a gem,
Fairer than decks a diadem.

"Tis love of thee which tunes our praise,
And swells the heart in artless lays,
Whene'er we bend before thy throne
Here, in this temple of thine own
Its roof, yon arch of azure hue,
A clear, calm, holy, cloudless blue;
Its altar, yon steep hills that rise
In misty grandeur to the skies;
Its incense, that one fleecy cloud,
Stainless as infant beauty's shroud;
Its matin hymn, that swelling note
That warbles through the lark's clear throat,
An humble love, yet strong, sincere;
This pensive joy, this happy tear,
Its worship all; its priest, the thought
With prostrate adoration fraught,
That Thou art all! that man is nought !

109. Harley's Death.

“ THERE are some remembrances,” said Harley, “which rise involuntarily on my heart, and make me almost wish to live. I have been blessed with a few friends, who redeem my opinion of mankind,

I recollect, with the tenderest

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