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WILLIAM had got a private hole to spy

The folks who came with writs, or "How d’ye de ?" Poflefling, too, a penetrating eye,

Friends from his foes the Quaker quickly knew. A bailiff in disguise, one day,

Though not disguis’d to our friend Will, Came, to Will's shoulder compliments to pay,

Conceal’d, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill. Boldly he knock'd at WILLIAM's, door,

Dreft like a gentleman, from top to toe, Expecting quick admittance to be sure

But-no. Will's servant, NATHAN, with a straight-hair'd head,

Unto the window gravely Atalk’d, not ran“ Master at home?” the, Bailiff sweetly said

“ Thou canst not speak to him !" reply'd the Man. “ What,” quoth the Bailiff, “ won't he see me then ?”

“ Nay,” Înuffled Nathan, “let it not thus strike thee; “ Know, verily, that WILLIAM PENN

Hath seen thee, but he doth not like thee.”

[graphic]

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

HOW COLD IT IS!

NOS

the bluftring Boreas blows,
Şee, all the waters round are froze;
The trees, that skirt the dreary plain,
All day a murm'ring cry maintain;
The trembling forest hears their moan,
And sadly mingles groan with groan:
How dismal all from east to weit,
Heav'n defend the

poor

diftreft !
„Such is the tale,

On hill and vale,
Each travller may behold it is ;

While low and high

Are heard to cry,
· Bless my heart, how cold it įs!"
Humanity, delightful tale!
Whi

winter gale,
May the high peer, in ermin'd coat,
Incline the heart to forrow's note;
And where, with mis'ry's weight opprefsd
A fellow sits a shiv'ring gues,
Full ample let his bounty flow,
To sooth the bosom chilld by woe:

In town or vale,

Where'er the tale
Of real grief unfolded is ;
Oh!

may
The means to live,

To those who know how cold it is!

we feel

he give

Perchance some warrior, blind and lam’d,
Some dauntless tar, for Britain maim'd;
Consider these, for thee they bore
The loss of limbs, and suffer'd more ;
Oh! pass them not, or if you do,
I'll sigh to think, they fought for you:
Go, pity all, but, 'bove the rest,
The soldier, or the tar diftrest:

Through winter's reign,

Relieve their pain,
For what they've done, fure bold it is ;

Their wants supply,

Whene'er they cry,
“ Bless my heart, how cold it is!"
And now, ye sluggards, floths, and beaux,
Who dread the breath that winter blows,
Pursue the conduct of a friend,
Who never found it offend;
While winter deals its frost around,
Go face the air, and beat the ground,
With cheerful spirits exercise,
'Tis there health's balmy blessing lies :

On hill or dale,

Though sharp the gale,
And frozen you behold it is;

The blood shall glow,

And sweetly flow,
And you'll ne'er cry,

“ How cold it is!"

yet

E L EGY

On the Death of a Husband.

IN free,

'N

My dear Alexis, when I talk of thee? Nor nymph, nor grace, of all the fancy'd train, Nor weeping loves shall aid my pensive strain : True passion has a force too strong for art; She needs no Muse who can invoke her heart :

engagement known?

Tasteless of forms, and from all comfort torn,

The husband-lover-and the friendI mourn!
All that to worth and tendernefs was due ;
Whate'er excess the fondeft passion knew,
I felt-my pray’rs to Heav'n were all for thee ;
And love inspir'd me first with piety.
O! thou wert all my triumph, and my pride ;
My hope, my peace, my shelter, and my guide !
Thy love (sweet ftudy) bufy'd all my days,
And

my

full soul's ambition was thy praise.
Why has my heart this fond
Or, why did Heav'n dissolve the tie so soon?
Whence had the charmer all his pow'r to move ?
Or, why was all my breast so tun’d for love ?

Oh! he could talk-'twas ecstacy to hear;
The list ning foul hung trembling on the ear.
Music's whole pow'r dwelt artless on his tongue,
Awfully soft, like some kind angel's fong!
Pain, that but heard him speak, was charm’d to rest;
And mercy melted from the miser's breaft:
Hours, days, and years unheeded took their flight
For time was only measur'd by delight!

Fancy still paints him fresh in ev'ry grace,
But the thin shade eludes my loft embrace ;
The shrinking vision melts in hapless night,
And a cold horror blots my blasted sight !
Then the palt mis’ry rises to my view,
His death, sad scene! will be for ever new:
Then with the quickest sense his pangs I feel,
And his last accents o'er my silence steal.
My wife ! my sharpest pain, my fondest

care, • Heav'n, for thy fake, will hear a dying pray'r;

Will lead and comfort thee when I am dead; . When from these aching eyes thy form is fled: • When these cold hands, which now thy grasp implore, < Shall tremble at the touch of thine no more. • Oh! where shall my unsocial spirit stray, • How err, unbleft, along th' eternal way. * From all engagements here I now am free, • But that which keeps my lingʻring soul with thee.

• How I have lov'd, thy bleeding heart can tell, . And we may meet-till which dear time, farewell !"

He ceas'd—and waiting angels caught his breath, And his quench'd eyes dissolv'd their beams in death! But, oh! what words have passion to express, What thought can feel, the rage of my diftress ? Why did they tear me from the breathless clay? I should have staid, and wept my life away: Yet, gentle shade! where'er thou now may'lt dwell, Where'er thy spirit does the rest excel, If thou canst listen to my grief, oh! take The softest vows that love and truth can make

For thee, my thoughts all pleasure Thall forego; My tears for thee shall stream in secret woe. • Far from the busy world I will retire, • Where mournful mem'ry feeds the filent fire: « First taught by thee the noblest flame to prove, · The force, the life, the elegance of love! • Sacred I will to thee thy gift confine,

Grasp thee through death, and be for ever thine !'

6

THE ART OF PRINTING.

To speak to eyes, and paint unbody'd thought ! Though deaf and dumb, bless'd skill! reliev'd by thee, We make one sense perform the task of three ; We see, we hear, we touch the head and heart, And take, or give, what each but yields in part ; With the hard laws of distance we dispense, And without found, apart, commune in sense ; View, though confin'd, nay rule this earthly ball, And travel o'er the wide expanded all; Dead letters thus, with living notions fraught, Prove to the soul the telescopes of thought ; To mortal life a deathless witness give, And bid all deeds and titles last and live;

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