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Some snug recess impervious; shouldst thou try
The custom'd garden walks, thine eye fhall rue
The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs,
Myrtle or rose, all crush'd beneath the weight
Of coarse check'd apron, with impatient hand
Twitch'd off when show’rs impend: or croffing lines
Shall mar thy musings, as the wet cold sheet
Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend
Whose evil stars have urg'd him forth to claim
On such a day the hospitable rites;
Looks blank, at best, and stinted courtesy,
Shall he receive; vainly he feeds his hopes
With dinner of roast chicken, favoury pie,
Or tart or pudding:-pudding he nor tart
That day shall eat!--nor, though the husband try,
Mending what can't be helpd, to kindle mirth
From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow
Clear up propitious; the unlucky guest
In silence dines, and early slinks away.

I well remember, when a child, the awe
This day struck into me; for then the maids,
I scarce knew why, look'd cross, and drove me from them;
Nor soft caress could I obtain, nor hope
Usual indulgences; jelly or creams,
Relique of costly suppers, and set by
For me their petted one; or butterd toast,
When butter was forbid; or thrilling tale
Of ghost, or witch, or murder-So I went
And shelter'd me beside the parlour fire;
There

my dear grandmother, eldest of forms,
Tended the little ones, and watch'd from harm;
Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles
By elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins
Drawn from her ravellid locking, might have sourd
One less indulgent.

At intervals, my mother's voice was heard,
Urging dispatch; briskly the work went on,
All hands employ'd to wash, to rinse, to wring,
To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait.

Then would I sit me down, and ponder much
Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bole
Of pipe amused we blew, and sent alof

The floating bubbles, little dreaming then
To fee, Mongolfier, thy filken ball
Ride boyant through the clouds—fo near approach
The sports of children and the toils of men.
Earth, air, and sky, and ocean, hath its bubbles,
And verse is one of them, -this most of all.

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TO A WRETCH

SHIVERING IN THE STREET.

THY
"HY plaintive voice, so eloquent and meek,

Poor child of wretchedness! I never hear,
But filently I tuin t' indulge the tear
Which pity gives! To me thine accents speak-

Haply of her, who knows no friend, the fate:
Or one to dark despondency consign'd,
Or cast to the cold mercy of mankind,

On life's bleak waste !-But thou, though desolate,
Shait find no fheiter! through her proud abode,

Grandeur, in Folly's {plendid robes, shall flaunt;

Riot his song of merriment ihall chaunt:
But thou shalt journey friendless on thy road,

Nor shall one friendly brother think on thee,
Save him, who pitieth poverty, like me !

2

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE NATURAL SON.

BY THE REV. J. BIDLAKE.

HILDREN of Plenty, who the cheering rays

While love parental crowns your cloudless days,

Meets ev'ry wish, prevents each rising care; Ah! do not spurn misfortune's outcast child,

Who knows no shelter, finds no friendly door; A snow-drop, shatter'd in the dreary wild,

Nipt by the storm, with rain besprinkled o'er. On me no father bends his partial eyes,

No mother in her fostring arms protects; My daily wants no tenderness supplies,

My doubtful steps no precept now directs. Can they deserve the parent's sacred name,

Untrue to nature, and than brute less kind, Who dare to riot in a guilty flame,

Nor own the feelings of parental mind ? Beat not e'en savage breasts with pious love,

Do those forget a parent's tender care ? E'en brutal instinct soft affections prove;

The sweet sensations even reptiles share. Yet polish'd life, unblushing, dares disown

The first, the dearest feelings of the soul ; Falsely refin’d, and boldly shameless grown,

Spurns at all law, defies all soft controul.

Condemn'd to pine, forsook by fickle love,

Of sacred honour stripp'd, of conscious pride; Condemn’d ingratitude's sharp stings to prove,

Of broken heart, alas ! my mother dy'd. In vain, 'tis faid, I stretch'd my

infant arms, That alk'd to meet her fond, her warm embrace; In vain the dawning blush of orient charms

Sat smiling in the roles of my face.
Ah! touch'd by death, beneath his icy pow's,

No answ'ring smiles, no look could she repay;
So, nipt by vernal frosts, a transient flow'r

Hangs o'er the infant bud, and fades away.
On the wide world cast forth, forlorn, unknown,

No friendship bleeds, no kindred breast, for me; No ties of dear relationship I own,

The wand'ring child of casual charity. Canst thou, who gav'st me birth, canst thou maintain,

In ostentatious pomp, yon menial crowd? O! could the refuse of that wanton train

To feed these familh'd lips but be allow'd ! There proudly tow'ring o'er the subje&t land,

By costly art bedeck’d, and lavish taste, Behold my father's sumptuous manfion stand,

The seat of riot, and licentious walle. In golden goblets laughs the luscious wine,

High viands fick’ning appetite invite; On fisken beds their lux’ry links supine,

And wantonness and cost their pow'rs unite. Each faithless friend the ready gate receives,

The cup of water cold where I implore; My familh'd appetite no scrap relieves,

To me and want alone is clos'd the door. Could I but lay this poor dejected head

Where e'en the fav’rite brute may shelter'd feed; Could I but find the straw my humble bed,

Half as the hound belov’d, or pamper'd feed. Yet he, with raptur’d eye, can fondly view

The offspring branch of wedded Avarice;

And is to me, alas! no pity due ?

Thus, guiltless, must I pay the tax of vice? Has bounteous nature been to me less kind ?

Less nicely bade my forming features grow? With true affe&tions less supply'd my mind?

What stain has God affix'd upon this brow?
No little bird that shelters in a tree,

No beast that to the secret covert hies,
But clearly proves kind Heav'n’s vast charity,

And bids me hope for Mercy's large supplies.
Tis said this face is cast in equal mould,
Where of the heart the

pure

sensations play; For oft, too oft, of beauty am I told,

By those who wish that beauty to betray. Hear then, ye sons of Pleasure, hear

my

tale, Who gaily wanton in variety; And think, like me, how, pierc'd by ev'ry gale,

Your offspring asks the mite of charity.

CANZONET.

BY DR. HURDIS.

AN aught be more fair to the eye

Than the bluth of the maidenly year? Can aught with the orchard-bloom vie,

When in May its sweet blossoms appear? Can aught like the eglantine please,

Or the rose-budding ?_Tell me, what can?" O! thrice more attractive than these

Is the check of my sweet little Anne.
What can charm like the spring of the field,

When it trickles transparently by ?
Or what sweeter pleasure can yield

Than to look on the gems of the sky?
What can win like the tremolous dew,

Which the zephyrs on goffamer fan?

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