Oh! I could stare upon misfortune still
With a bold front, and bid any grief be dumb;
For I have been accustom'd long to face
The biting winds of winter-man's neglect-
lajustice, hate, bitter and freezing want,-
Without a hope, save one-beyond the grave."
He push'd the picture from him, and beseech'd
The man to keep it for a time-perhaps

39

He might redeem it. But let me end my tale :
I made a friend and sav'd him; and when I
Sate in darkest anguish by my dying bride,
And rav'd and curs'd the world, and did abjure
Heav'n and its mighty mercies, he did tend
(This stranger) like a minis'tring spirit round
My couch, and sav'd me from a bloody death.
He sooth'd my anguish, and did lead my thoughts
Upwards, and taught me-hope. At last he died:
And now there's not one left, but thee my friend,
My old acquaintance, unto whom my heart
Turns with a full confiding. Never till now
Didst thou or any other hear me tell
How first I knew De Lacy: aye, he was
The desolate stranger of that winter's day.

Thoughts.

BY MRS. ROBINSON.

0.

HAPPINESS.

BY DR. YOUNG.

THRICE happy those who sleep in humble life, Beneath the storm ambition blows. "Tis meet The great should have the fame of happiness, The consolation of a little envy;

"Tis all their pay for those superior cares, Those pangs of heart-their vassals never feel.

Trifles.

TO C*

"Tis true that I have had some friendship for you, Miss,

And perhaps too, indeed, I have had something

more;

"Twas a weakness, tho' now I expose it to view,

Miss,

Which has happened to hundreds and thousands before;

But Fancy, you know, will oft better the wit, Miss, And Fancy's a sprite both deceitful and sly, She will raise all our hopes to the highest summit, Miss,

Then take to her wings, and away she will fly. Thus Fancy and Friendship can never agree, Miss,

For Fancy will often expose to our view A face pretty fair, which seemeth to be, Miss, The mirror of friendship, perhaps something like you;

But the mirror is false, and the shadow will fly, Miss,

For Friendship is gentle-rating-boisterous

Scraps.

VENETIAN SPORTS. "WHERE are we to go now, Signora?" "To Venice, I believe, Felice." "O holy Virgin!" cried Felice, jumping up with joy," I hope it may be to Venice." "Why so, Felice ?"

"Because, Signora, there is such a power of grand sights to be seen there; there is, as I have heard say, the doge and the wild beasts, the senate house and the puppet-show, the senators and the macaroni, their wives and the bargemen, the carnival and the pope's chapel, the gibbet of the famous Turkish robber, and his holiness's statute in marble, above six feet high.—”

My heavens, Felice, how strangely you have jumbled them together! But I know not, after all, whether we shall go to Venice or not."

"Oh Signora, but I hope we may!-Such fine grand squares are to be seen there-such aqueducts, as they call them, such rareeshows; and then on the festivals, as they say, there is such noise and junketing, such gaming and rioting! They say that, on the merriest days, five or six, nay, sometimes five or six-andtwenty persons are murdered together in the

streets!"

"And pray, do you think, Felice, this is a desirable part of their amusement to see?"

"Why no, Signora; but it is a great sign of their spirit and gaiety, for they are all mur dered for love."

"Indeed!-I knew not that before."

"You may depend upon it, though, Signora; for no Venetian lady ever receives a lover in favour, till he can bring her two or three rivals' heads. Her first present to him always a dagger or a stabbing knife.—Every handsome lady there has a score or two of lovers; but, poor creatures! when she is fit to be married, jealousy has seldom left more than one to claim her. Their love once declared, off they go. Like a rose, Signora, they only bloom to die"""

garrison of death! But, then, when I thought of my poor mistress, and remembered how my poor dear master loved her, I scorned to be so cowardly as to desert my post, when, by fighting with life a little longer, I might save her from being stormed by want. I know all I can do is but a trifle-a nothing, as a body may say, to folks that are any way above the world; but it may be of use to her for all that: and so, as I hear you are going to look into my master's papers, and to see what can be made out for my poor mistress, I thought best to tell you, to take my peusion into the account."

"Your pension! Quinten; and what do you reserve for yourself?"

"Nothing, but what I can earn by my own labour. Thank God, I am not past working: you see how well I have dressed the captain's garden."

"Well, but honest Quinten, you do not consider that you are in the decline of life, and cannot long be able to labour as you have done."

of

"I know it, sir; I am growing old apace; but Sam Smith, the old gardener, at Benfield, is ten years older than I am, and he still keeps his place; and so, d'ye see, I am determined not to touch a farthing of this here Chelsea pension, while I am able to lift a spade.-Did I not get it by the good word my master; and who, then, has so good a right to it as bis widow? Here are twelve, guineas besides, which I humbly beg you will fall on some means to make her accept; for I know she would not touch it, if she thought that it came from me: so pray do not let her know who sent it, for folks in affliction ought to be mighty tenderly dealt with, so as not to hurt their pride feelings, I believe, my young mistress would have called it, but I am not learned enough to know the difference.

แ

THE QUACK DOCTOR.

To John Bull.

Since quackery has usurped the dominions of medical science; since the fabricators of nostrums, worse than robbers, (for they not only take the patient's money, but often occasion his death, by preventing him from calling in the physician till too late,) are now protected by patents, and permitted to seize the fruits of honest industry, making their prey of the credulons and the unthinking; let us try to stop, by the arms of ridicule, (often more powerful than those of reuson,) the progress of this system of medical swindling, which has, under the semblance of philanthrophy, beguiled myriads of their money, and numbers of their lives.

my

"MRS. F—, I am surprised you should send for me again, after I had told you this morning your lodger must die. She has not taken any of inedicines these two days: do you suppose a man of my consequence is to dance attendance for nothing, or that Luther Vanass, who is the wonder and envy of the physical world, has nothing to do but to close the of old women ?” eyes "Sir, it is not expected of you to waste that time, which you value so highly, in a gratuitous visit. I will undertake to see you paid your attendance."

"Right, ma'am, you speak very much to the purpose. I will see what is to be done -I was rather angry, as you and all the world must know (who read the newspapers) that between the hours of one and four I see my patients at home-they are innumerable-no man so burried-they always bring me heavy guineas-I never take light ones-I answer cases, in letters, if they contain the solid-can't do without the needful.

-How is my carriage to roll?-horses can't live upon physic-my coachman won't take any thing that belongs to medicine, but his master-I must be well paid: then I promise to cure all the incurable diseases of this great metropolis, past, present, and to come.—Great undertaking ma'am !”

"Great, indeed, sir! but this is not to the purpose. I wish you to exert your wonderful talents to renovate, if possible, the poor object before you.'

"All in good time, ma'am—think of her presently. I am quite immersed in the multiplicity of my concerns; for, besides all I have told you, I am very busy making alterations, emendations, and corrections, for the nineteenth edition of my book- -Must have heard of my hook, ma'am, the first work that has appeared in the medical world, since Boerhave, worth reading-calculated to immortalize its author."

"Bless me! nineteenth edition! why, Mr. Folio told my husband it was never enquired for; that he was ashamed to sell it, and his customers to purchase it."

"Oh, yes! I know that; a combination of the regular dunces-to prevent my studies and

At evening's lone and quiet hour,

The droning bat wheel'd slowly by, Alive to superstition's power,

Th' unbidden tear rush'd from my eye, And, as the western sun declin'd,

Fresh fears and horrors rose in this sad mind.

Ah! should this presage of my heart,

Which fills my soul with throbbing woe,
Be soon fulfill'd, and Death's sure dart
Have laid my darling Edgar low;
The same dread power, with hand so kind,
Shall peace and joy restore to this sad mind.

With him I'll fly to that blest shore,

Where joy, immortal, ever reignsWhere pain and sorrow are no more,

And love, divine, the soul sustainsWhere mortal films no longer blind, And griefs and cares expell'd from this sad mind.

HOME.

FROM MONTGOMERY'S WEST INDIES.
THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Belov'd of Heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutor'd age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realin so beautiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air;

In every clime the magnet of his soul,
Touch'd by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of heaven's peculiar grace,
The heritage of nature's noblest race;
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest;
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride;
While in his soften'd looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, father, friend:
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow way of lite;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fire-side pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land that spot of earth be found?
Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around;
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land, thy country, and that spot, thy home.

THE IRISH CHIEFTAIN.

HE stood within the sunset glare,
A giant, sinewy, tall, and spare;
The plaited hair his simple crown,
Not darker than his cloudy frown,
Nor on that royal wreath the gem

More dazzling than his eye's deep gleam.
His look was kingly, yet a tale
Of woe was in his forehead pale.
A golden star was on his breast,
Broad from his shoulder flowed his vest,
That by the breeze of evening kist,
Flung out his folds of Amethyst.

One hand was resting on his shield,
The mace of steel the other held,
The sun just threw his parting ray
Where Dermid's rival turrets lay,
Before him stretched long, dim, and rude,
The vale, the scene of many a feud;
As o'er the thought his spirit turn'd,
His cheek with deeper crimson burn'd,
Figur'd and high the speeches frame,
That to his boiling passion came.

"Sooner shall fail yon mountain's head
At eve the deepening shade to spread;
Sooner that sunless valley rise
To meet the morn's emerging dyes;
Sooner the falcon dread to fling
On the wild gale his lightning wing!
Or yonder soaring eagle's gaze,
Turn feebly from the solar blaze,
Or harder still, O Morven's men
Give up, with life, their Chieftain's glen,
Than that dark traitor, he and 1,
Meet hand to hand, but one shall die.
No, were the meeting in the ring
That circles Leinster's honor'd King
At Easter's holy festival:
Nay, were it in my father's hall,
In court or camp, in field or flood,

One of us dies-blood will have blood."

GIPSIES.

UNDERNEATH the greenwood tree,
There we dwell right merrily,
Lurking in the grassy lane,
Here this hour-then gone again.
You may see where we have been,
By the burned spot on the green;
By the oak's branch drooping low,
Wither'd in our faggot's glow;
By the grass and hedge-row cropped,
Where our asses have been grazing;
By some old torn rag we dropped,
When our crazy tents were raising :-
You may see where we have been,
Where we are-that is not seen.
Where we are-it is no place
For a lazy foot to trace:
Over heath and over field,

He must scramble who would find us;
In the copse-wood close concealed,
With a running brook behind us.
Here we list no village clocks;
Livelier sound the farm-yard cocks,
Crowing, crowing round about,
As if to point their roostings out;
And many a cock shall cease to crow,
Or ere we from the copse-wood go.

On the stream the trout are leaping ;
Midway there the pike is sleeping,
Motionless, self pois'd he lies-
Stir but the water-on he flies,
Ev'n as an arrow thro' the skies!
We could tie the noose to snare him,
But by the day we wisely spare him:
Nets shall scour the stream at night,
By the cold moon's trusty light:

Scores of fish will not surprise her, Writhing with her glittering scales; She'll look on, none else the wiser,

Give us light and tell no tales; And next day the sporting squire Of his own trout shall be the buyer. Till the farmer catch us out, Prowling his rich barns about ;"Till the squire suspect the fish; "Till the keeper find his hares, Struggling in our nightly snares; "Till the girls have ceased to wish, Heedless what young lad shall be Theirs in glad futurity;

"Till the boors no longer hold
Awkwardly their rough hands out,
All to have their fortunes told

By the cross lines thereabout;-
"Till these warnings, all or some,
Raise us (not by beat of drum)
On our careless march to roam,
The copse shall be our leafy home.

IGNOTO SECONDO.

VICTIM OF SEDUCTION.

MARK'D you that wild, that frantic air?
Heard you that groan of deep despair,
Which issued from her breast?
Ah! with what haste she hurried by,
To shun th' inquiring stranger's eye,
And seek some lonely rest!

And see, where yonder hallow'd fane
In gothic grandeur decks the plain,
And rears its ivied head;
Thither, with eager steps, she flies,
And vents her sorrows and her sighs,
Amid the unconscious dead.

For since that fatal joyless day,
When passion drew her soul astray
And taught her feet to roam,
Anguish, remorse, corroding care,
And want, and shame, and dark despair,
Pursue her to the tomb.

For thee, whose guilty hand hath torn, That lovely flower, then cast to scorn

The wretch thy crimes have made, Far heavier woes on thee shall light, And shroud thee in their deepest night, When life's vain dreams are fled.

O Thou, whose mercies beaming eye
Can ne'er behold the sufferer die
Unheeded or unknown!
Do Thou dispel her mental night,
Vouchsafe some pitying ray of light,
And cease thine awful frown.

Grant her one short, one fleeting day,
Her wandering soul on Thee to stay,
In penitence and love.
Afford her spirit kind release,
And waft it to those realms of peace,
Those happier climes above.