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Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew."

William, who, high upon the yard,

Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sighed, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,

And quick as lightning on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast, If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest: The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet.

"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear!

My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

"Believe not what the landsmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind.
They'll tell thee sailors, when away,
In every port a mistress find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

"If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright; Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

"Though battle call me from thy arms,
Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.

Love turus aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye."

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,
The sails their swelling bosom spread;
No longer must she stay aboard:

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land: "Adieu!" she cries, and waved her lily hand.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS.
FROM THE "FABLES."

Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child whom many fathers share
Hath seldom known a father's care.
"Tis thus in friendship: who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who, in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like Gay,
Was known by all the bestial train
Who haunt the wood or graze the plain:
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew
When first the Horse appeared in view!
"Let me," says she, "your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight:
To friendship every burden's light."

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus:
Be comforted; relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implored,
And thus replied the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may without offence pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favorite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,

You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind,
But, see, the Goat is just behind."

The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye:
"My back," says he, "may do you harm;
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm."
The Sheep was feeble, and complained
His sides a load of wool sustained;

Said he was slow; confessed his fears,
For hounds eat sheep as well as hares.
She now the trotting Calf addressed
To save from death a friend distressed.
"Shall I," says he, "of tender age,
In this important care engage?
Older and abler passed you by.

How strong are those! how weak am I!
Should I presume to bear you hence,
Those friends of mine may take offence.
Excuse me, then; you know my heart;
But dearest friends, alas! must part.
How shall we all lament! Adieu;
For, see, the hounds are just in view."

John Byrom.

Byrom (1691-1763) was born near Manchester, was edseated at Cambridge, and studied medicine in France. His poetical reputation seems to have originated in a Pastoral poem, "My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent," published in the Spectator, October 6th, 1714, and mildly commended by Addison. In reading it now, one is surprised to find that so slender a literary investment could have produced such returns of fame. Byom, however, proved himself capable of better things. He invented a system of stenography, in teaching which he had Gibbon and Horace Walpole for pupils. By the death of a brother he at last became heir to the family property in Manchester, where he lived much respected. His poems were included by Chalmers in his edition of the poets.

MY SPIRIT LONGETH FOR THEE.

My spirit longeth for thee
Within my troubled breast,
Although I be unworthy
Of so divine a Guest.

Of so divine a Guest Unworthy though I be, Yet has my heart no rest Unless it come from thee.

Unless it come from thee,
In vain I look around;

In all that I can see
No rest is to be found.

No rest is to be found

But in thy blessed love: Oh, let my wish be crowned, And send it from above!

THE ANSWER.

Cheer up, desponding soul! Thy longing pleased I see; 'Tis part of that great whole

Wherewith I longed for thee.

Wherewith I longed for thee,

And left my Father's throne, From death to set thee free,

To claim thee for my own.

To claim thee for my own

I suffered on the cross. Oh, were my love but known, No soul could fear its loss.

No soul could fear its loss,

But, filled with love divine, Would die on its own cross, And rise forever mine.

AN EPIGRAM ON THE BLESSEDNESS OF DIVINE LOVE.

Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they thought

Of future glory, which Religion taught.
Now, Faith believed it firmly to be true,
And Hope expected so to find it too;
Love answered, smiling, with a conscious glow,
Believe? expect? I know it to be so.

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day; And, being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

St. P. N. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth,

to Rome?

Youth. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
St. P. N. And when you are one, what do you in-
tend?

Youth. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
St. P. N. Suppose it so, what have you next in

view?

Youth. That I may get to be a canon too.

St. P. N. Well, and how then?

Youth.

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Why, then, for aught I know, Spleen" is: "Orandum est ut sit mens sana in corpore It is "inscribed by the author to his particular friend, Mr. C. J."

I may be made a bishop.

St. P. N.

What then? Youth.

Be it so,

Why, cardinal's a high degree,

And yet my lot it possibly may be.
St. P. N. Suppose it was,-what then?
Youth.
Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
St. P. N. Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?

Youth. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high

As long as God shall please, then I must die.

St. P. N. What! must you die, fond youth? and at the best

But wish, and hope, and maybe all the rest?

Take my advice-whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide;
Then think of that which may be; and, indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
Who knows but you may then be, as you hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope?

JACOBITE TOAST.

God bless the king!-I mean the Faith's Defender;
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender!
But who Pretender is, or who is king,-
God bless us all!-that's quite another thing.

Matthew Green.

Little is known of Matthew Green (1696-1737) except that he had his education among the Dissenters, and his employment in the London Custom-house. He is remembered by his poem of "The Spleen;" less known than it deserves to be to modern readers. It contains less than nine hundred lines; is full of happy expressions, and evidently the production of a profound, original, and independent thinker. Gray recognized his genius, and said of him, "Even his wood-notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music." Aikin, while naively objecting to Green's speculating "very freely on religious topics," remarks: "It is further attested that he was a man of great probity and sweetness of disposition, and that his conversation abounded with wit, but of the most inoffensive kind. *** He passed his life in celibacy. Few poems will bear more repeated perusals than his; and with those who can fully enter into them, they do not fail to become favorites." The motto on the title page of the original edition (1737) of "The

sano.

FROM "THE SPLEEN."
This motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapored Muse;
Nor to a narrow path confined,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

The child is genuine, you may trace
Throughout the sire's transmitted face.
Nothing is stolen: my Muse, though mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within;
Nor vainly buys what Gildon' sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

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Such thoughts as love the gloom of night, I close examine by the light;

For who, though bribed by gain to lie,
Dare sunbeam-written truths deny,
And execute plain common-sense,
On faith's mere hearsay evidence?

That superstition mayn't create,
And club its ills with those of fate,
I many a notion take to task,
Made dreadful by its visor-mask;
Thus scruple, spasm of the mind,
Is cured, and certainty I find;
Since optic reason shows me plain,
I dreaded spectres of the brain;
And legendary fears are gone,
Though in tenacious childhood sown.
Thus in opinions I commence
Freeholder, in the proper sense,
And neither suit nor service do,
Nor homage to pretenders show,
Who boast themselves, by spurious roll,
Lords of the manor of the soul;
Preferring sense, from chin that's bare,
To nonsense throned in whiskered hair.
"To thee, Creator uncreate,

O Entium Ens! divinely great!"

1 Gildon published (1718) a "Complete Art of Poetry." He seems to have been a literary pretender. Macaulay speaks of him as "a bad writer," and as pestering the public “with doggerel and slander." Pope mentions him contemptuously.

Hold, Muse, nor melting pinions try,
Nor near the blazing glory fly;
Nor, straining, break thy feeble bow,
Infeathered arrows far to throw

Through fields unknown, nor madly stray,
Where no ideas mark the way.
With tender eyes, and colors faint,
And trembling hands forbear to paint.
Who, features veiled by light, can hit?
Where can, what has no outline, sit?
My soul, the vain attempt forego,
Thyself, the fitter subject, know.
He wisely shuns the bold extreme,

Who soon lays by the unequal theme,
Nor runs, with Wisdom's sirens caught,

On quicksands swallowing shipwrecked thought;
But, conscious of his distance, gives
Mute praise, and humble negatives.
In One, no object of our sight,
Immutable, and infinite,
Who can't be cruel, or unjust,
Calm and resigned, I fix my trust;
To Him my past and present state
I owe, and must my future fate.
A stranger into life I'm come,
Dying may be our going home:
Transported here by angry fate,
The convicts of a prior state.

Hence, I no anxious thoughts bestow
On matters I can never know:

Through life's foul way, like vagrant, passed,
He'll grant a settlement at last;

And with sweet ease the wearied crown,
By leave to lay his being down.

If doomed to dance the eternal round
Of life, no sooner lost but found,
And dissolution, soon to come,

Like sponge, wipes out life's present sum,
But can't our state of power bereave
An endless series to receive;
Then, if hard dealt with here by fate,
We balance in another state,
And consciousness must go along,
And sign th' acquittance for the wrong.
He for his creatures must decree
More happiness than misery,
Or be supposed to create,

Curious to try, what 'tis to hate:
And do an act, which rage infers,
'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs.
Thus, thus I steer my bark, and sail
On even keel with gentle gale;

At helm I make my reason sit,
My crew of passions all submit.
If dark and blustering prove some nights,
Philosophy puts forth her lights;
Experience holds the cautions glass,
To shun the breakers as I pass,
And frequent throws the wary lead,
To see what dangers may be hid:
And once in seven years I'm seen
At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen.
Though pleased to see the dolphins play,
I mind my compass and my way:
With store sufficient for relief,
And wisely still prepared to reef;
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the soul,

I make (may Heaven propitious send
Such wind and weather to the end!),
Neither becalmed nor overblown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.

Robert Blair.

Blair (1699-1746) was a native of Edinburgh, became a clergyman, and wrote a poem, vigorous in execution, entitled "The Grave." In it he ignores the poetical aspects of his subject, and revels much in the physically repulsive. It was written before the "Night Thoughts" of Young, but has little of the condensed force of that remarkable work. There are, however, occasional flashes of poetic fire in Blair's sombre production. He died young, of a fever, leaving a numerous family.

DEATH OF THE STRONG MAN.

Strength, too! thou surly, and less gentle boast
Of those that laugh loud at the village ring!
A fit of common sickness pulls thee down
With greater ease than e'er thou didst the stripling
That rashly dared thee to the unequal fight.
What groan was that I heard? Deep groan, indeed,
With anguish heavy-laden! Let me trace it.
From yonder bed it comes, where the strong man,
By stronger arm belabored, gasps for breath
Like a hard-hunted beast. How his great heart
Beats thick! his roomy chest by far too scant
To give the lungs full play! What now avail
The strong-built, sinewy limbs and well- spread
shoulders?

See how he tugs for life, and lays about him,
Mad with his pain! Eager he catches hold
Of what comes next to hand, and grasps it hard,

Just like a creature drowning. Hideous sight!
Oh, how his eyes stand out, and stare full ghastly!
While the distemper's rank and deadly venom
Shoots like a burning arrow 'cross his bowels,
And drinks his marrow up.-Heard you that groan?
It was his last.-See how the great Goliath,
Just like a child that brawled itself to rest,
Lies still.

Anonymous and Miscellaneous.

THE LINCOLNSHIRE POACHER.

This old ditty was favorite with George IV., and it is said that he often had it sung for his amusement by a band of Berkshire ploughmen. It was once a favorite also at American theatres, where Henry J. Finn, the estimable comedian, used to sing it with great applause.

When I was bound apprentice

In famous Lincolnsheer,
Full well I served my master
For more than seven year,
Till I took up with poaching,

As you shall quickly hear:—
Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night

In the season of the year.

As me and my comrades

Were setting of a snare,

'Twas then we seed the game-keeperFor him we did not care;

For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,
And jump o'er everywhere :—

Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night
In the season of the year.

As me and my comrades

Were setting four or five, And taking on him up again,

We caught the hare alive; We caught the hare alive, my boys, And through the woods did steer:Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night In the season of the year.

Bad luck to every magistrate
That lives in Lincolnsheer;
Success to every poacher

That wants to sell a hare;

Bad luck to every game-keeper

That will not sell his deer:

Oh! 'tis my delight of a shiny night In the season of the year.

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