Nay, thy companion, too, shall comfort know,

Who shiv’ring shakes away the icy fleece. And lo! he lays him by the fire, elate;

Now on his master turns his gladden'd eyes; Leaps up to greet him on their change of fate,

Licks his lov'd hand, and then beneath him lies. A hut is mine, amidst a shelt'ring grove :

A Hermit there, exalt to Heav'n thy praise; There shall the village children show their love,

And hear from thee the tales of other days. There shall our feather'd friend, the bird of morn,

Charm thee with orisons to op’ning day ; And there the red-breast, on the leafless thorn,

At eve shall sooth thee with a simple lay. When Fate shall call thee from a world of woe,

Thy friends around shall watch thy closing eyes ; With tears, behold thy gentle fpirit go,

And wilh to join its passage to the skies.

The YOUNG FLY and OLD SPIDER.

BY THE SAME.

RESH was the breath of morn-the busy breeze,

As Poets tell us, whisper'd through the trees,
And swept the dew-clad blooms with wing so light:
Phæbus got up, and made a blazing fire,
That gilded every country house and spire,

And, smiling, put on his best looks so bright.
On this fair morn, a SPIDER who had set,
To catch a breakfast, his old waving net,

With curious art, upon a spangled thorn;
At length, with gravely-squinting, longing eye,
Near him espy'd a pretty, plump, young fly,

Humming her little orisons to morn. “Good morrow, dear Miss Fly," quoth gallant Grim

Good morrow, Sir," reply'd Miss Fly to him—
“ Walk in, Miss, pray, and see what I'm about."

* To

[7] " I'm much obliged t'ye, Sir, Miss Fly rejoind,

My eyes are both so very good, I find,

“ That I can plainly see the whole, without." 6 Fine weather, Miss”- “Yes, very, very fine,”

Quoth Miss—“ prodigious fine indeed:"
“ But why so coy pa quoth Grim, “ that you decline

put
within

my
bow's
your pretty

head ?"
“ 'Tis simply this,”

Quoth cautious Miss,
“ I fear you'd like my pretty head so well,
“ You'd keep it for yourself, Sir,—who can tell ?”
“ Then let me squeeze your lovely hand, my dear,

prove
that all

your

dread is foolish, vain." “ I've a sore finger, Sir, nay more, I fear,

“ You really would not let it go again." “ Poh, poh, child, pray

dismiss

your

idle dread; “ I would not hurt a hair of that sweet head “ Well, then, with one kind kiss of friendship meet

me;" “ La, Sir,” quoth Miss, with seeming artless tongue, “ I fear our salutation would be long ; “ So loving, too, I fear that you

would eat me,” So saying, with a smile she left the rogue, To weave more lines of death, and plan for prog.

" And

a

a

NOME, Resignation! wipe the human tear,

Domestic anguish drops o'er virtue's bier; Bid selfish sorrow hush the fond complaint, Nor from the God she lov'd detain the saint. Truth, meekness, patience, honour'd shade! were thine, And holy, hope, and charity divine: Though these thy forfeit being could not save, Thy faith fubdu'd the terrors of the grave.

Oh! if thy living excellence could teach,
Death has a loftier emphasis of speech:
In death thy lait, best leflun ftill impart,
And write, prepare to die! on ev'ry heart.

A PRAYER on the PROSPECT of DEATH.

BY BURNS.

Cause

Of all my hope and fear !
In whose dread presence, ere an hour

Perhaps, I must appear !
If I have wander'd in those paths

Of life I ought to shun,
As something loudly in my breast

Remonstrates I have done ;
Thou know'st that Thou haft formed me

With passions wild and strong;
And lift'ning to their witching voice

Has often led me wrong.
Where human weakness has come short,

Or frailty stepp'd aside,
Do Thou, all good! for such Thou art,

In shades of darkness hide.
Where with intention I have err'd,

No other plea I have,
But Thou art good; and goodness still

Delighteth to forgive.

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

PEACE AND HOME.

ANONYMOUS.

H! tarry, gentle traveller ;

;

Nor haste to leave this lowly vale

For lofty mountains far away.
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee

Through woods and dreary wilds to roam ;
Oh! tell me what has tempted thee

To quit thy lot and peaceful home. Say, hast thou not a partner dear,

Who's constant to thy love, and kind ? And wilt thou leave her faithful fide,

Nor cast one forr'wing look behind.? Yon fun that gilds the village spire,

And gayly sheds his parting ray, Say smiles he not as sweetly o’er

Thy native village far away ? Does mad ambition lure thy steps

To wander in the paths of strife? Ah! think how fwift thy minutes fly!

Ah! think how short thy span of life ! For life is like yon crimson beam

That trembles in the western skies;

Full soon, alas! its glories cease;

It sparkles, glimmers, fades, and dies. O waste not then thy fleeting hours

In foreign climes and paths unknown; Return thee to thy happy plains

That bounteous nature made thy own. For me, nor gold nor princely pow's,

Nor purple veft, nor stately dome, Nor all that trophy'd grandeur boasts,

Shall lure me from my tranquil home. This rustic cot and silent shade

Shall evermore my dwelling be; E’en when my destin'd days are spent

I'll rest beneath yon aged tree. Beside the brook, a simple stone

Shall serve to guard my cold remains, And tell the pilgrims, as they pass,

I dy'd amidit my native plains. Return then, gentle traveller ;

Return thee with the morning ray; Nor leave again thy lowly vale

For lofty mountains far away.

SUCH THINGS WERE.

BY J. RANNIE.

CENES of my youth! ye once were dear,

Though fadly 1 your charms survey; I once was wont to linger here,

From early dawn to closing day. Scenes of my youth! pale sorrow flings

A shade o'er all your beauties now; And robs the moments of their wings,

That scatter pleasure as they flow; While still to heighten ev'ry care,

Reflection tells me-such things were.