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I want them long enough d'ye see,
To cover all the calf. Why, Sır, said Last, with stifled laugh,
To alter them I'll try ; But if they cover all the calf
They must be ive feet high.
EPITAPH ON A WISER. His hoards were unnumber'd;
He still wish'd for more; And ne'er gave a farthing
To succour the poor. He cheated in life,
And he cheated in death, Nor gave up his vice,
When he gave up his breath : He cheated the worms,
Of their long-look'd for prey ; His bones had no flesh
For their labour to pay Learn mortals ! true wisdom
From this wretched end, And never on perishing
Riches depend. Though rolling in wealth
Yet this miser was poor For when avarice enter'd,
Peace fled from the door.
EPIGRAM FOR THE LADIES “ Wit is a feather"-Pope has said, 1
And females never doubt it : So those who've least within the head,
Display the most without it. LINES WRITTEN ON A PANE OF
GLASS AT AN INX. Dust is lighter than a feather, The wind much lighter is than either; But alas! frail womankind Is far much lighter than the wind.
One tear of sorrow when he died ;
KWAVE OF HEARTS. 1 gave, 'twas but the other day My Chlo' a ticket for the play,
"Tis love such tricks impart; When holding up the card to me, She laughing said, “ your emblem see;"**
And show'd the knave of hearts. Amaz'd I cried, " What means my fair? A knave will lie, will steal, will swear;
Your words I pray define."
And you have stolen mitte."
BENEATH THESE ANOTHER
HAND. Friend you mistake the matter quite, How can you say that woman's light? Poor Comus swears, throughout his life, His heaviest plague has been a wife. LINES WRITTEN OVER A BARBER'S
SHOP Wigs good I make, and takes my price, I dress and frizzle very nice; Likewise I share all very clean, Loves well to please both rich and mean; I keep my razors in fine edges, And ought to five well by iny wages ; My hand is steady, draws no blood, Come in-you shall have usage good Ere I of one a penny lose Right firm I'll hold him by the nose.
EPIGRAM A vicar long in, had treasur'd up wealth, Told his Curate each Sunday to pray for
his health; Which oft having done, a parishioner said That the Curate ought rather to wish he
was dead ! • By my troth,' says the Curatelet credit
be given, I ne'er pray'd for his death but have for his living !
They are too short by half;
EPITAPH ON A SMITH Here is confind in chains of clay
The corpse of David Bryce; Who though at study every day,
Would ne'er forsake his vice! As he bý forgery gain'd his bread,
From every one around, Death's hanimer now hath struck him
dead, And nail'd him to the ground. EPITAPH ON A FAITHFUL WIFE: Beneath this stone her ashes rest Whose memory fills my aching breast; She sleeps unconscious of the tear That tells the tale of sorrow here: But still the hope allays my pain That we may live and love again Love with a pure seraphic fire That never, never shall expire.
What viewless forms the Æolian organ sweep ?-Campbell.
Scarcely ran there be a stronger proof of the kindness of Providence than the wonderful provision which is made for the enjoyment of the human race. This provision is in some in. stances complete without the intervention of human ingenuity, and in others some degree of art is necessary. Of the former description may be mentioned sublime and romantic scenery, and the changes of seasons with their respective accompaniments, as the beauty of foliage, and the music of birds. All these are calculated to awaken pleasurable emotions, and may be ranked among
the sources of human enjoyment. not called into existence to gaze in listless indifference on the wonders with which he is surrounded. He was formed to explore and admire the works of God; and in these employments he finds ample means of promoting his happiness. He who can feel the vivifying influence of Spring without experiencing a sensible delightwho can listen to the music of the
groves without feeling his mind soothed, and disposed to devotionwho can cast a vacant and uninterested gaze over the endless variety of hill and dale, of mountain and valley, with which this earth is diversified—and who can behold the yellow tints of Autumn without blessing Him who crowns the year with plenty, may justly be charged with sullenness against nature, as
On the Æolian Harp.
Milton expresses it, and certainly cannot be said to appreciate the advantages of his present situation. In these cases he has only, to open his eyes or his ears to receive the gratification which unassisted Nature has provided for him.
In other instances some degree of art is requisite to render the elements subservient to the promotion of our enjoyment. As those instances in which the least art is required, are the most pleasing, I will confine my remarks at present to one, not less distinguished for its simplicity, than for the circumstance of its converting the mast boisterous of the elements into the means of filling the mind with the most pleasing emotions—I allude to the Æolian Harp ; an instrument which I believe is but little known in this part of the country: Subjoined is a description of its mechanism, which an artist will readily comprehend. When the Æolian Harp is properly tuned, the strains are so simple and so sweet, and above all
, the transitions are so exquisite that one is apt to be deceived into the belief that some invisible being presides over it, and guides its melodies.
“ The Æolian Harp is composed of a rectangular box, made
very thin dale, of the same length as the width of the window in which it is to be placed, and about five inches deep and six inches broad. Over the upper surface of this box, which is pierced with sounding holes, like the sounding board of a fiddle, are stretched several catgut, wire, or silk strings with a slight degree of tension. When these strings are in unison, and the instrument exposed in the window to the action of a gentle breeze, they will emit the most agreable combination of wild and melting sounds, changing from one harmonic of the string to another, according to the varying impulse ofthe wind, and its unequal action on the different parts of the vibrating string."
The effects of this wild and irregular music are beautifully described by Thomson in the following verses :
“ Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid !
With wbat soft wo they thrill the lover's heart!
Who died of love, these sweet complainings part.
On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;
In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.
On the Æolian Harp.
Such was the song which Zion's children sung,
When by Euphrates” stream they made their plaint;
Angelic harps, to sooth a dying saint."
Before concluding I beg leave to mention, one advantage whiclı this natural music possesses over artificial, namely, its endless variety. When we have been a short time in the company of any performer, we become acquainted with all his airs, and the first bar suggests the whole piece; and however we may admire his execution, to use a cant term, we cease to be charined with novelty. Here on the contrary, all is artless, all is irregular, and every new breeze produces a new strain, which excites it corresponding sensation in the mind: and if we submit ourselves entirely to the guidance of this ever-varying melody, we sha!! in all probability, in a very short time, be hurried through all the range of human feeling, from the deepest melancholy to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.
In addition to the quotation already given from Thomson, 1 make no apology for introducing the following stanzas from the Castle of Indolence, both because they happily illustrate the subject of this paper, and because the perusal of them
may induce some
your readers to turn to the chaste and classic pages
of a poem too little read by the admirers of the Seasons The poet is enumerating the properties of the Castle, and prom ceeds thus :
" Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin'd,
Lull'd, the weak bosom, and induced ease :
At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Letter from Matthew Kenspeckle.
It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs
As did, alas! with soft perdition please :
The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares,
Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind;
But sidelong to the gently waving wind,
To lay the well-tund instrument reclin'd;
Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd,
Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight,
Who up the lofty diapason roll
Then let them down again into the soul ?
Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,
I am, Sir, yours sincerely,
From M. Kenspeckle to his Brother in Kilmarnock.
Glasgow, 6th April, 1819, My Dear BROTHER, I have hitherto endeavoured to amuse you by such descrip. tions of remarkable things and personages about Glasgow that excite the notice of a stranger, and would find no difficulty in collecting materials for a series of critical remarks, were not the time approaching when a period must be put to my academio labours, and a conclusion to my office as censor. I hasten then to close my communications by attempting a description of the Ladies of Glasgow. On such a subject a young man might be excused if he indulged in a strain of panegyric, and instead of