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“ Is there no road but by those gibbets ?”

“ No road,” the woman replied. “ But tho' with the wind each murderer swings « They both of them. are harmless things,

“ And so are the ravens beside." « What are these ravens there?--those creatures

« That are so black and blue ! “ But are they ravens? I enquire, « For I have heard by winter's fire, ." That phantoms the dead pursue." The woman replied, “ They are night-ravens

“ That pick the dead-men's eyes; 66 And they cry qua, with their hollow jaw; “ Methinks I one this moment saw !

“To the banquet at hand he fies. 6. Now fare thee well !” The traveller, filent,

Whilf terror consumed his soul,
Went musing on. The night was still,
And every star had drunk his fill,

At the brim of oblivion's bowl.
And now he near to the gibbets approach'd!

The black men waved in the air ;
He rais’d his head, and cast a glance,
Yet heeded them'not, tho' they seemed to dance,

For he determin'd not to fear.'
Wherefore, he cried, should men incline

To fear where no danger is found !
He scarce had said, when, in the dark night,
Beside him appear'd a spirit in white ?

He trembled, and could not look round. · He gallop'd away! the spirit pursued !

And the murderers' irons they screak!
The gibbets are past, and now fast and more fast,
The horseman and spirit outstrip the loud blast,

Tho' neither have courage to speak.

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Now both on the verge of the common arrive,

Were a gate the free passage denied ;
The horseman his arm outstretch'd to expand
The gate to admit him, when, cold o'er his hand,

The mouth of the spirit did glide.
He started l and swift through the fill-darker lane ,

Gallop'd falt from the being he fear’d;
But yet, as the shadow the substance pursues,
The spirit, behind, by a fide-glance he views,

And more luminous now it appear’d!
The turnpike he reach'd ; « Oh tell me," he cried,

« I can neither look round or go on;
« What spirit is this which has follow'd me here
“ From the common? good master, I dreadfully fear,

“ Speak! speak! or my sense will be gone !
“Ah, Jenny,” he cried, “thou crafty old jade !

“ Is it thee? I'll beat thy bones bare.
« Good gentleman, fcar not, no spirit is nigh,
“ Which has follow'd you here from the common

hard-by,
“'Tis only old Gaffer's grey mare !"

CITELTO. The Tempest is a beautiful little piece, not wholly unlike Beactie's Hermit in point of sentiment :

THE TEMPEST. « The tempeft has darken'd the face of the skies,

The winds whistle wildly across the waste plain, The fiends of the whirlwind terrific arise,

And mingle the clouds with the white-foaming main. All dark is the night and all gloony the shore,

Save when the red lightnings the ether divide, Then follows the thunder with loud sounding roar,

And echoes in concert the billowy tide. i But tho' now all is murky and shaded with gloom,

Hope the soother soft whispers the tempeits shall cease; Then nature again in her beauty shall bloom,

And enamoured embrace the fair sweet-smiling peacc.

For

For the bright-blushing morning all rosy with light

Shall convey on her wings the Creator of day,
He shall drive all the tempefts and terrors of night,

And nature enlivened again shall be gay.
Then the warblers of spring shall attune the soft Jay,

And again the bright flowret shall blush in the dale;
On the breast of the ocean the zephyr shall play,

And the sun-beam shall ficep on the hill and the dale. . If the tempefts of nature so soon link to rest,

If her once faded beauties so foon glow again,
Shall man be for ever by tempefts oppress’d,

By the tempests of passion, of sorrow, and pain
Ah no! for his passions and sorrow shall cease

When the troublesome fever of life shall be o'er;
In the night of the grave he shall Number in peace,

And passion and sorrow shall vex him no more.
And shall not this night and its long dismal gloom,

Like the night of the tempest again pass away ;
Yes! the dust of the earth in bright beauty shall bloom,
And rise to the morning of heavenly day!

D. 1796.
The Old Man's Comforts are prettily imagined and
affectingly toid.
THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW he

GAINED THEM.
“ You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

The few locks that are left you are grey;
. You are ha., Father William, a hearty old man,

Now tell me the reason I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,

I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abused not my health and my vigour at first,

That I never might need them at last.
Your are old, Father William, the young man cried,

And pleasures with youth pass away;
And yet you lament not the days that are gone,

Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In

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In the days of my youth, Father William replied,

I remember'd that youth could not last;
I thought on the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,

And life must be hastening away;
You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!

Now tell me the reason I pray ?
I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied,

Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!

And He hath not forgotten my age.”

Many other pleasing pieces might have been selected, but sufficient has been extracted to convince the judg. ment, and taste of the editor, and to thew the reader that the perusal of the whole collection will administer to his instruction and entertainment. The second volume, we understand, is in the press.

Poems and Plays by Mrs. Weft, Author of a Tale of

the Times, a Golip's Story, &C. 2 vols. Longman and Rees. THIS ingenious lady has afforded us entertainment

and instruction in the perufal of her volumes; though we do not affign her the first rank among the female writers of the day. There is, however, much to commend ; and our readers will, upon the whole, be pleased with her effusions.

The comedy is entitled How will it End ? nor can we perceive why it should have been rejected. The same may be remarked of the Tragedy - Adela; but the authoress now appeals to an impartial public. Her Elegies and Sonnets contain many just thoughts, well expressed. We, are, however, moft gratified with the

Ode

Ode on Poetry, in four partsClasics, Uncultivated, Sacred, and British. Under each of which heads a number of pleasing articles are detailed and illustrated. The British departinent closes with these two animated ftanzas. The Genius of Poetry thus exclaims :

6 Go tell my ardent youths who pant ,
To emulate their father's fame;
Who, scorning faction's trait'rous rant,
Still kindle at BRITTANIA's name.
Say, though in lonely dells unfought,
Save by pure taste and sober thought,
The exil'd muses rove forlorn ;
Yet tell them virtue's holy deed,
Shall claim its high heroic meed,
The applauding song shall burst, and charm an age

unborn.
For thee, though hope with meteor ray,
No longer gilds thy airy dreams,
Beware, nor prostitute the lay,
The gift of heav'n to hell-born themes.
O rather let oblivion's shade,
The puct and the verse pervade,
Unnotic'd like your linnet's itrain ;
While conscious duty deigns to throw,
O’er thy lone cot a sunny glow,
And tells thy tranquil heart--thou doft not live in

yain,

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