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In scanty life eternity we taste,
View the first ages, and inform the last;
Arts, hiftry, laws, we purchase with a look,
And keep, like fate, all nature in a book.

NIGHT.

N

OW silence reigns, and solemn darkness (preads,

Guilt trembles, and is seiz'd with sudden dread,

And, waits, with horror, the return of light. Light will return-but not to them retum

In whose dark souls no ray of virtue shines ; Not all the splendour of the sprightly morn,

Can clear the mist that clouds the guilty mind. Though fashion throws a veil before their crimes,

And guilt may pass conceal'd in pleasure's name: Yet conscience will be heard—remorse, at times,

Will hold a mirror that reveals their shame. The law of God's engrav'd upon our hearts,

Instinct -or reason-or some ray of sight, Which sacred wisdom to the mind imparts,

To teach us how to think, and act aright. Though conscience from the breast awhile may stray,

She never totally gives up her reign; But soon or late, she will resume her sway,

And bring remorse and anguish in her train. But darkness has no horrors to the mind,

Where virtue and the fear of God do dwell; Was chaos to return again, they'd find

An inward light that would its gloom dispel. Though forked lightnings from the heavens dart,

Or o'er their heads should awful thunder roll, It would not move the good and virtuous heart,

Nor give one terror to the guiltless soul.

THE LOTTERY.

S lately faunt'ring through the Hall,

call,

And Anak's giant fons are seen,
With haughty brow, and threat'ning mein,
I stopp’d, attentively to view
The features of the anxious crew;
Who, oft deceiv'd by Fortune’s wiles,
Expected her uncertain smiles.
The clock strikes nine-the wheel turns round,
Obedient to the well-known sound.
The tickets drawn, with frequent bawl,
“ Blank !_blank!”-re-echoes thro' the Hall :
A dismal gloom o’er-shadows all.
At length, horse Stentor loudly cries-
“ Ten thousand pounds!" O noble prize!
“ Ten thousand !" quickly flies around,
And each eye sparkles at the sound ;
But soon by various passions torn,
Their breasts with various tumults burn.
This smiles with joy, that starts with fear,
This bites his lips, that tears his hair;
Another doubts, and trembling cries-
“I hope my number is a prize!”
The wheel is shut; with progress flow,
Returning crowds in silenice
The day's success is quickly shown,
And Fortune's favours all made known.

The tradesman to the office flies;
His tickets, blanks, falute his eyes;
Amaz'd, he utters many a moan,
All hope of thirty thousand's gone ;
Attacks Dame Fortune as unkind,
And cries, with discontented mind-

Why, Fortune, play me such vile pranks, . “ To turn your wheel, and give me blanks ? “ Enrich'd with vast increase of store, “ I hop'd to keep my coach and four. “ All blanks! Alas! my bliss is flown, “ My money loft, my credit Home he returns; despairing, ties The halter round his neck, and dies

go.

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gone !"

Such is the fate of many a fool,
Who idly spurns the golden rule;
And thus prefers uncertain gain,
To honesto Labour's golden mean.
Thrice happy he, who nobly dares
To laugh at idle Fortune's snares;
Procuring, with assiduous toil,
The well-earn'd riches of his native soil.

TO RELIGION.

BY CHARLES WATKINS, ESQ.

FR
TRIEND of the drooping heart! fill whisp'ring peace,

To staunch the tear which Anguish bids to roll;
The balm of Comfort and of Hope increase,

And trustless Fear and dull-ey'd Doubt control,

And raise to ecstacy the grateful soul,
And teach mankind the paths of bliss to know,

And how, with tranquil awe, their God adore ;
Reveal the source, whence only grace could flow,

And future spheres—when woe shall be no more ; Thou canst alone those sacred aids bestow, Which calm the sorrowing soul thro' each sad scene below!

TO A LADY,

Who refused to accept of a KNIFE from the Writer.

SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY MR. SHERIDAN.

A Knife, dear girl! cuts love, they say:
For any tool, of any kind,
Can sep’rate what was never join’d.
The knife that cuts our love in two,
Will have uch tougher work to do;

Must cut your softness, worth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size and merit.
To level yours with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste,
And from your bngle beauty's store
Chip what would dizen out a score.
The self same blade from me must fever
Sensation, judgment, fight, for ever;
All mem'ry of endearments past;
All hopes of comfort long to last ;
All that makes fourteen

years
with

you
A summer-and a short one too;
All that affection feels and fears,
When hours, without you, seem like years...
Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
Believe this knife would cut the moon,)
Accept my present undeterr'd,
And leave all proverbs to the herd.
If in a kiss (delicious treat!)
Your lips acknowledge the receipt,
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And fond to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only-cut and come again..

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THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

ELEGY

ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF DECEMBER.

YES
ZES, I will climb yon rough rock's giddy height,

That o'er the ocean bends his brow severe;And, as I muse on TIME'S NEGLECTED FLIGHT,

Wait the last sunshine of the parting Year! Why do the winds so sadly seem to rave !

Why broods such solenn horror o'er the deep! Is it that FANCY points the yawning grave;

And, fick’ning, thudders at the pond'rous fleep? For, O! since LAST DECEMBE R's hoary head

Bow'd to oblivion's wave, and funk beneath, From this strange world what flutt'ring clouds are fled,

To throng the caverns of relentless Death. And ev'ry transitory shade is lost,

That, in its course, was fondly call’d“ To-Day!” Spring's sweets are gone! and Summer's flow'ry boasi!

And Autumn's purple honours pass’d away! And now, though Winter, in rude îmantle drest,

Extends his icy sceptre o'er the plain; Soon shall he fink on April's dewy breast,

And laughing May shall re-affume her reign! But Man, when once his bright day's flush is o'er,

And youth's too fleeting pleasures take their wing, Must on life's scene re-vegetate no more,

But leap its gulph, to find a second spring.

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