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To hear the drowsy dor come rushing by . With buzzing wing, or hear the cricket cry. To see the feeding bat glance through the wood, To catch the distant falling of the flood; While o'er the cliff the awaken'd churn-owl hung, Through the still gloom protracts his chattering song: While high in air, and pois'd upon his wings, Unseen the soft enamour'd wood-lark sings. These, Nature's works, the curious mind employ, Inspire a soothing melancholy joy: As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping veini Each rural sight, each sound, each smell, combine The tinkling sheep-bell; or the breath of kine The new-mown hay that scents the swelling breeze, Or cottage chimney smoking through the trees. The chilling night-dows fall--away, retire, For see, the glow-worm lights her amorous fire : Then ere night's veil bad half obscured the sky, Th’impatient damsel bung her lamp on high; True to the signal by love's meteor led, Leander hasten'd to his Hero's bed.

ON TIL

DEATH OF A FAVORITE CHILD.

BY THE REV. J. MOIR.

An! whither hast thou flown, delightful boy,
Pride of thy father; all thy mother's joy;
Still pleas’d with all: and happy all to please,
Gay without art, and innocent with ease?
But thou like ev'ry fleeting bliss art gone,
Reclaim'd by Heaven: and its " will be done."
Thy little heart, as honest as thy face,
Now throbs no longer with the seeds of grace:
Bright as they were, alas! thy sparkling eyes
Are doom'd no more in extasy to rise:
Those lips so often kissed are red no more,
How clay cold all that we embrac'd before !
No more these arms shall press thee to my heart,
Thy charms no more their wonted sweets impart.
But why repine? Thy happier mind's at rest;
And, while we cry, triumphs among the blest;
Quits earth's poor comforts for a throne above,
In Heaven's own bosom shares paternal love.
Dear prattling child, to all our hearts still dear,
Long shall we bathe thy memory with a tear :
Farewell—too promising on earth to dwell,
Sweetest of fondlings, best of babes, farewell:

How happy they who thus escape while young,
Ere vice has time to stifle right with wrong;
Whose visionary life, on wings of wind,
Speeds far away, and leaves all ills behind,

TRANSLATION OF THE

FORTIETH ODE OF ANACREON.

BY ROBERT FARREN CHEETHAM.

Cupid once, in evil hour,
Cropp'd the pride of Flora's bow'r;
Cropp'd a rose, nor chanc'd to see,
Within the flow'r a sleeping bee:
But soon his fingers felt the smart
Inflicted by its tiny dart.
The god, unus'd to suffer pain,
Blew his hand, and shriek'd amain:
Flying then with ruffled mien,
To the fair Idalian Queen,
“O Mamma!” he wildly cries,
“Wounded, save, thy Cupid dies!
Me a little serpent stung,
Hid the rose-bud leaves among,
Deck'd with curious wings like me,
Ploughmen call the thing a bee.”

Wiping Love's tear-streaming eyes,
Archly smiling-she replies:
“Cupid, if a thing so small
Pain thee thus, and give thee thrall,
Think, O think, what torturing woe
They, who feel thy dart, must know."

SONNET TO THE RIVER TWEED.

BY THE REV. W.L. BOWLES.

O Tweed! a stranger that, with wand'ring feet,

O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile;

If so bis weary thoughts he might beguile, Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.

The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing charm bestow;

The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below, Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,

When Spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,

Yet here with pensive peace could I abide: Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

To muse upon tby banks at even tide.

R

How happy they who thus escape while young,
Ere vice has time to stifle right with wrong;
Whose visionary life, on wings of wind,
Speeds far away, and leaves all ills behind.

TRANSLATION OF THE

FORTIETH ODE OF ANACREON.

BY ROBERT FARREN CHEETHAM.

.

Cupid once, in evil hour,
Cropp'd the pride of Flora's bow'r;
Cropp'd a rose, nor chanc'd to see,
Within the flow'r a sleeping bee:
But soon his fingers felt the smart
Inflicted by its tiny dart.
The god, unus'd to suffer pain,
Blew his hand, and shriek'd amain:
Flying then with ruffled mien,
To the fair Idalian Queen,
“O Mamma!” he wildly cries,
“Wounded, save, thy Cupid dies!
Me a little serpent stung,
Hid the rose-bud leaves among,
Deck'd with curious wings like me,
Ploughmen call the thing a bec.”

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