Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn, and dead;
Tremendous, still, in death.

Ah; what was then Llewellyn's pain?
For, now, the truth was clear:
The gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewellyn's woe-
"Best of thy kind, adieu;
The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue."

And, now, a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture deck'd;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

Here never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmov'd:
Here, oft, the tear-besprinkled grass,
Llewellyn's sorrow prov'd.

And, here, he hung his horn, and spear;
And, oft, as ev'ning fell,

In Fancy's piercing sounds, would hear,
Poor Gelert's dying yell.

And, till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave;

The consecrated spot shall hold,

The name of-" Gelert's Grave."

CLARISSA'S PRAYER.

A youthful fair, who scarce the honey
Had sipp'd, of blissful Matrimony,
With lamentation's fill'd the house:
Alas! her much-beloved spouse
A fever had, and which she sure was
A dreadful ill, for which no cure was.

Ah, me; that all my promis'd bliss,
In one short week should come this;
Take ME, O Death; thou monster fell,
Spare but the Man I love so well;
So sad she seem'd that many an elf,
Would swear she wish'd for death herself.

Death who Clarissa's prayers had heard,
Resolv'd to take her at her word;
Straight from his drear domains he went;
To soothe the mourner's discontent.

Soon as the TENDER WIFE he spies;
"Speak-what wouldst thou with me," he
cries;
Astonish'd at this novel sight,
And nearly dead, if not so quite ;
With trembling voice, and downcast eye,
She stammer'd out a faint reply:
"Surely-dread sir-that is-I-I-
Have not the slightest wish to die;
MY SPOUSE, the cause of all my grief,
For HIM I claim thy kind relief.
SIGMA.

THE LOVER'S RELIEF. Love's in truth a mighty blessing, When the fair one we're possessing: But tormenting is the pain, When the proud one scorns the swain.

What at first was meant to bless us, By fond fools does but distress us! To sigh and sob, and to be sad, Is not to love; but to be mad!

Tho' sly Cupid fires my breast, He shall never break my rest; For dear, shou'd you grieve me, Honest Bacchus shall relieve me. K. B.

ON SENDING A BLANK LETTER

TO A FRIEND.

I send thee again, this, thy cargo of Wit; ""Twas all thou could'st spare-so the "Biter is Bit."

No wonder, indeed, thou should'st play this odd prank,

Since all men agree that thy Brain is a Blank.

A THOUGHT.

How, like the fleeting wind, away,
Whole years of joy depart;
But, oh! how slowly does the day,
Move to the mournful heart.

WALTZING.

Get all the Ladies that you can,
And let each Lady have a man;
Let them, in a circle plac'd,
Take their partners 'round the waist;
Then by slow degrees advance,
Till the walk becomes a dance;
Then the twirling, face to face,
Without variety or grace,

Round and round, and never stopping,
Now and then a little hopping;

When you're wrong, to make things worse,
If one couple, so perverse,
Should in the figure be perplex'd,
Let them be knock'd down by the next.
"Quicker now," the Ladies cry;
They rise, they twirl, they swing, they fly,
Puffing, blowing, jostling, squeezing,
Very odd, but very pleasing-
Till ev'ry Lady plainly shews,
(Whatever else she may disclose,)
Reserve is not among her faults:
Reader, this it is to Waltz!

SEPTENNIAL DIVISION OF TIME. The Seven first Years of Life, man's break of day,

Gleams of short sense, a dawn of thought display:

When Fourteen Springs have bloom'd his downy cheek,

His soft and bashful meanings, learn to speak;

From Twenty-one, proud manhood takes its date;

Yet is not strength complete till Twentyeight.

Thence to his Five-and-thirtieth, life's gay fire

Sparkles, burns bright, and flames in fierce desire;

At Forty-two, his eyes grave wisdom wear, And the dark future dims him o'er with

care;

With Forty-nine, behold his toils increase, And busy hopes and fears disturbs his

peace;

At Fifty-six, cool reason reigns entire

A DECLARATION OF LOVE. In vain my heart may strive to rove,— Betsey, 'tis you alone I love; More than Loyalist their King, More than Passage-birds the Spring; More than Courtiers do a Place, More than Anabaptist's Grace; More than Miser's hoarded Treasure, More than 'Prentice-boys their Pleasure; More than Topers t'other Bottle, More than Epicures to Guttle; More than Mountebanks a Throng, More than Sportsmen love a Song; More than wanton Minx her Cull, More than Food when Belly's full; More than Turtle-dove its Mate, More than Lords to rule a State; More than Cattle do the Rill, Sun-burnt driv'n from the Hill; More than Ladies' Tittle-tattle, More than Cowards shun a Battle; More than Sailors wish for Land, When a Storm is nigh at hand; And tho' thou wilt not smile on me, More than all Things, I love thee. "DUMPS IN A CORNER."

TO ELIZA.
Ah! lovely Rose, be not too bold,
Nor wantonly thy charms unfold,

To meet the scorching sun; 'Ere night thy with'ring head may stoop, And all thy shining glories droop,

Lost, faded, and undone!

Better within the secret shade,
Of yonder cool sequester'd glade,
Thy rip'ning bloom disclose;
Safe from the amorous gazers eye,
Contented thou may'st live and die,
A sweet and happy Rose.

ON A BEE STIFLED IN HONEY.
From flower to flower, with eager pains,
See the bless'd busy lab'rer fly;
When all that from her toil she gains,

Is is in the sweets she hoards to die.

'Tis thus, would man the truth believe,
With life's soft sweets, each fav'rite joy;
If we taste wisely, they relieve;
But if we plunge too deep, destroy.

Merses.

A WELSH WEDDING.

To the Editor of the Tickler Magazine. [The weddings of the Welsh are usually attended by all the neighbours, sometimes to the number of thirty or upwards. After the ceremony, the day is dedicated to festivity, and is chiefly spent in singing and drinking. At a wedding in the little church of Llauberis, I observed in the church as many as twenty or five-and-twenty attendants. A collection is made on their return to the house, to defray the expences of the occasion, to which, of course, every one contributes. A good idea of the rest of the business may be collected from a pleasant account of a wedding-feast in Cwm-y-Clo, near Llanberis.]

A FIRE of peats, which, sufficiently dried, Was spread on the hearth, and at least four feet wide;

O'er this fire took their station, six kettles,

"Twas perfectly needful the guests should be seated:

Loose boards were erected on stones, with great art,

But proving too hard for a certain broad

part,

A number of cushions were instantly made, But not with a needle-no, formed with a spade,

The finest of ling, root and branch, from the common,

Par'd off, prov'd a cushion for man and for woman.

Now folks, male and female, came in by whole dozens,

Of neighbours, acquaintance, of friends, and of cousins

It excited surprise from a region of rocks, That orderly people should issue by flocks.

Black stockings, blue cloaks, and men's hats all admire,

Which appear'd to be every female's attire.*

"The dress of the Welsh women is exactly similar throughout the principality, and consists of these particulars :-a petticoat of flannel, the manufacture of the country, either blue or striped; a kind of bed-gown with loose sleeves, of the same stuff, but generally of a brown colour; a broad handkerchief over the neck and shoulders; a neat mob cap, and a man's beaver hat. In dirty, or cold weather, the person is wrapped in a long blue cloak, which descends below the knee."-Warner's Walk through Wales, in 1797.

The sea which was so calm before,
Up the smooth beach was splashing,
And breakers with their sullen roar,
Were o'er the tall rocks dashing

Thus the world's kind to him, on whom
Fortune her gifts is show'ring,
No sorrow comes with dark'ning gloom
This happy lot then sou'ring;
But as the sea when night came down,
Was o'er the low beach rushing;
The world on him will coldly frown,
Whom Fate's rude hand is crushing.

G. GLUM.

From Mr. HAINES's New Tragedy Elmisa. Methought you spoke of death. Lorenzo. Yes, I was thinking

That all must die. Kings, Princes,must obey The freezing call-Statesmen must one day stoop

To pay their court to the despotic tomb, Lawyers must there refund the fee of life, Heroes unarm'd, forgetting sieges, battles, Must, far from glory, and the sound of praise,

Take their last station-Inspir'd Orators Must shun the Multitude, whose Mind they made,

And cleave to silence and oblivion-
The Player must desert his mimic scene,
To die indeed-And Poets, fond of hope,
With their fine sense of life, must humble
too,

And at the summons quit Castalia's spring
To plunge amid the gloom of Erebus.

The following beautiful verses are f om an unpublished Opera, by the celebrated Mr. Campbell, Author of the " Pleasures of Hope." It will be seen from these specimens, that the Poet still retains much of that intense pathos which dictated in his younger days, the "Exile of Erin," "Lochiel's Warning," &c.

ABSENCE.

"Tis not the loss of love's assurance, It is not doubting what thou art; But 'tis the too, too long, endurance Of absence, that afflicts my heart.

The fondest thoughts twohearts can cherish,
When each is lonely doom'd to weep,
Are fruits on desert isles that perish,
Or riches buried in the deep.

What tho' untouch'd by jealous madness, Our bosom's peace may fall to wreck; Th' undoubting heart, that breaks with sadnesss,

Is but more slowly doom'd to break. Absence!-is not the soul torn by it,

From more than light or life or breath? 'Tis Lethe's gloom, but not its quiet, The pain without the peace of death.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fail so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay yet here awhile
To blush, and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to shew your worth,

And lose you quite.

But you are, lovely leaves, where we
May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave
And after they have shewn their pride,
Like you a while-they glide
Into the grave.

THE

MAID'S

REMONSTRANCE

Never wedding, ever wooing,
Still a love-lorn heart pursuing,
Read you not the wrongs you're doing
In my cheeks pale hue?
All my life with sorrow strewing,
Wed, or cease to woo.

Rivals banish'd, bosom's plighted,
Still our days are disunited;
Now the lamp of Hope is lighted,

Now half-quench'd appears,
Damp'd, and wavering, and benighted,
Midst my sighs and tears.

Charms you call your dearest blessing,
Lips that thrill at your caressing,
Eyes a mutual soul confessing,

Soon you'll make them grow
Dim, and worthless your possessing,
Not with age, but woe!

London: Printed and Published for the Proprietors by G. MORGAN, 42, Holywell Street, Strand.-May be had also of SHERWOOD, NEELY, and JONES, Paternoster-row ; SIMPKIN and MARSHALL, Stationer's-court; and of all other Book

sellers.