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Thr airy ship at anchor rides;

Proudly she heaves her painted sides,

Impatient of delay;
And now her silken form expands,
She springs aloft, she hursts her hands,

She floats upon her way.

How swift! for now I see her sail
High mounted on the viewless gale,

And speeding up the sky;
And now a apeck in ether tost—
A moment seen, a moment lost—
She cheats my dazzled eye.

Bright wonder! thee no flapping wing,
No lahouring oar, no hounding spring,

Urged on thy fleet career;
By native huoyancy impelled,
Thy easy flight was smoothly held

Along the silent sphere.

No curling mist at close of light,
No meteor on the hreast of night,

No cloud at hreezy dawn;
No leaf adown the summer-tide
More effortless is seen to glide,

Or shadow o'er the lawn.

Yet thee, e'en thee, the destined hour,
Shall summon from thy airy tour,

Rapid in prone descent;
Methinks I see thee downward horne,
AVith flaccid sides that droop forlorn,

The hreath ethereal spent.

Thus daring fancy's plume suhlime—
Thus love's hright wings are ctipp'd hy time,
Thus hope, her soul elate,

Exhales amid this grosser air—
Fhus lightest hearts are howed hy care,
And genius yields to fate.

THE CLOCK AND THE DIAL.

DE la MOTte.

It happen'd on a cloudy morn,
A self-conceited clock, in scorn

A dial thus hespoke;
3Iy learned friend, if in thy power,
Tell me exactly what's the hour;

I am upon the stroke

The modest dial thus reply'd,
That point I cannot now decide,

The sun is in the shade;
My information drawn from him,
I wait till his enlightening beam

Shall be again display'd.

Wait for him then, return'd the clock,
I am not that dependent hlock

His counsel to implore;
One winding serves me for a week,
And, hearken I how the truth I speak,

Ding, ding, ding, ding, just four.

While thus the hoaster was deriding
And magisterially deciding,

A sun-heam clear and strong,
Shew'd on the line, three quarters more;
And that the clock in striking four,

Had told his story wrong.

On this the dial calmly said,

(More prompt t' advise than to uphraid,)

Friend, go, he regulated;
Thou answer'st without hesitation,
But he who trusts thy calculation

Will frequently he cheated.

Ohserve my practice, shun pretence,
Not confidence, hut evidence,

An answer meet supplies;
Blush not to say, "I cannot tell,"
Not speaking much, hut speaking weD,

Denotes the truly wise.

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Dame Charity one day was tired
. With nursing of her children three,—
So might you he
If you had nursed and nursed so long
A little squalling throng ;—
So she, like any earthly lady,
Resolved for once she'd have a play-day.

"I cannot always go ahout
To hospitals and prisons trudging,
Or fag from morn to night
Teaching to spell and write
A harefoot rout
Swept from the streets hy pour Lancaster,
My suh-master.

"That Howard'ran me out of hreath,
And Thornton and a hundred more
Will he my death:
The air is sweet, the month is gay,
And I," said she, "must have a holiday."

So said, she doffed her rohes of hrown
la which she commonly is seen,—

Like French Beguine,— And sent for ornaments to town: And Taste in Flavia's form stood hy, Penciled her eyehrows, curled her hair, Disposed each ornament with care, And hung her round with trinkets rare,— She scarcely, looking in the glass,

Knew her own face.

So forth she sallied hlithe and gay,
And met dame Fashion hy the way;
And many a kind and friendly greeting

Passed on their meeting:
Nor let the fact your wonder move,

Ahroad, and on a gala-day,
Fashion and she are hand and glove.

So on they walked together,

Bright was the weather;
Dame Charity was frank and warm;
But heing rather apt to tire,

She leant on Fashion's arm.

And now away for West End fair,
Where whiskey, chariot, coach, and chair,

Are all in requisition.

In neat attire the Graces
Behind the counters take their places,

And humhly do petition
To dress the hooths with flowers and sweets,

As fine as any May-day,
Where Charity with Fashion meets,
And keeps her play-day.

DUTY AND PLEASURE.

MRS. PIOZZI.

Duty and Pleasure, long at strife,
Crossed in the common walks of life ;—
"Pray don't disturh me, get yon gone"
Cries Duty, with a serious tone:
Then with a smile; "keep off, my dear,
Nor force me thus to he severe."

"Dear Sir," cries Pleasure, " yon're so
grave I
You make yourself a perfect slave:
I can't think why we disagree;
You may turn Methodist for me:
But if you'll neither laugh nor play,
At least don't stop me on my way;
Yet sure one moment you might steal,
To see the lovely Miss O'Neill:
One hour to relaxation give;
Oh! lend an hour from life—to live!
And here's a hird, and there's a flower;—
Dear Duty, walk a little slower."

'• My morning's task is not half done," Cries Duty with an inward groan;

"False colours Od each ohject spread,
I know not whence, or where, I'm led!
Your hoasted pleasures mount the wind,
And leave their venomed stings hehind.
Where are you flown V Voices around
Cry, " Pleasure long hath left this ground;
Old Age advances; haste away!
Nor lose the light of parting day.
See Sickness follows; Sorrow threats;—
Waste no more time in vain regrets:—
O Duty I one more effort given
May reach, perhaps, the gates of heaven,
Where, only, each with each delighted,
Pleasure and Duty live united!"

THE TWO WEAVERS.

MRS. MOre.

As at their work two weaver's sat,
Beguiling time with friendly chat,
They touched upon the price of meat;
So high, a weaver scarce could eat.

"What with my hrats, and sickly wife,"
Quoth Dick, " I'm almost tired of life;
So hard we work, so poor we fare,
'Tis more than mortal man can hear.

"How glorious is the rich man's state!
His house so fine, his wealth so great!
Heav'n is unjust, you must agree:
Why all to him, and none to me 1

"In spite of what the Scripture teaches,
In spite of all the Pulpit preaches,
This world,—indeed I've thought so long,
Is ruled, methinks, extremely wrong.

*' Where'er I look, howe'er I range,
*Tis all confused, and hard, and strange;
The good are trouhled and oppress'd,
And all the wicked are the hless'd."

Quoth Johu, " Our ignorance is the cause,
Why thus we hlame our Maker's laws;
Parts of his ways alone we know,
'Tis all that man can see helow.

"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well hegun?

Behold the wild confusion there!

So rude the mass, it makes one stare!

A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say, no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the horder I
Thy carpet now is all disorder!"

Quoth Dick, " my work is yet in hits,
But still in every part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout;
Why, man, that carpet's inside oat."

Says Johu, " thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen;
This world, which clouds thy soal wit*

douht,
Is hut a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and eni-.
We know not what the whole intends;
So, when on earth things look hat odd,
They're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern, can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace:
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the heauteous upper side.

"But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright;
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the Workman is Divine.

"What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;
Then shall we praise, what here we spurofd,
For there the carpet will he turned."

"Thon'rt right," "quoth Dick, "no more

I'll grumhle,
That this world is so strange a jumhle;
My impious douhts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right."

THE BRAMBLE.

BIShOP.

While wits through fiction's regions ram

hle;— While hards for fame or profit scramhle;While Pegasus can trot or amhle;— Come what may come,—I'll sing the BramEle.

'- How now ?*' methinks I hear you say; "Why? what, is rhyme run mad to-day?" No, sirs, mine's hut a sudden gamhol; My muse hung hampered on a hramhle.

But soft! no more of this wild stuff:
Once for a frolic is enough;
So help us, Rhyme, at future need,
As we in soherer style proceed.

All suhjects of nice disquisition,
Admit two modes of definition:
For every thing two sides has got;
What is it?—and what is it not?
Both methods, for exactness' sake,
We with our Bramhle mean to take;
And hy your leave, will first discuss
Its negative good parts ; as thus :—

The Bramhle will not, like the rose,
. To prick your fingers, tempt your nose;
Whene'er it wounds, the fault's your own—
Let that, and that lets you alone.

Yon shut your myrtles for a time up: Your jasmine wants a wall to climh up: But Bramhle, in its humhle station, Nor weather heeds, nor situation: No season is too wet, too dry for't; No ditch too low, no hedge too high for't.

* Some praise, and that with reason too, The honeysuckle's scent and hue:

, But sudden storms, or sure decay,
^Sweep with its hloom its charms away.
The sturdy Bramhle's coarser flower
Maintains its post, come hlast,come shower!
And when time crops it, time suhdues
No charms,—for it has none to lose.

Spite of your skill, and care, and cost,
Your nohler shruhs are often lost;
But Bramhles, where they once get footing,
From age to age continue shooting:

• Ask no attention, no forecasting f Not ever-green—hut ever-lasting.

'Some shruhs intestine hatred cherish, And, placed too near each other, perish:

Bramhle indulges no snch whim;

All neighhours are alike to him:

No stump so scruhhy, hut he'll grace it:

No crah so sour hut he'll emhrace it.

Such and so various negative merits
The Bramhle from its hirth inherits:
Take we its positive virtues next;
For so at first we split the text.

The more resentment tugs and kicks,
The closer still the Bramhle sticks;
Yet gently handled, quits his hold,
Like heroes of true British mould.
Nothing so touchy, when they are teased;
No touchiness so soon appeased.

Full in your view and next your hand. The Bramhle's homely herries stand; Eat as you list—none call you glutton! Forhear—it matters not a hutton. And is not, pray, this very quality The essence of true hospitality! When frank simplicity and sense Make no parade, take no offence; Such as it is, set forth the hest, And let the welcome add the rest.

The Bramhle's shoot, though fortune lay Point hlank ohstructions in its way, For no ohstructions will give out; Climhs up, creeps under, winds ahout; Like valour, that can suffer, die, Do any thing, hut yield or fly.

While Bramhles hints like these can start, Am I to hlame to take their part? No! let who will, affect to scorn 'em, My muse shall glory to adorn 'em: For as Rhyme did in my preamhle, So Reason now cries,—" Bravo, Bramhle 3"

THE MOON AND THE COMET.

MRS. OPXE.

This fact is clear; hoth man and woman
Prize not what's good, hut what's uncom-
mon;
And most delighted still they are,
Not with the excellent, hut rare.

1 could of this give proofs most stahle; But, for example, take a fahle.

'Twas night, hut still a mimic day Shone softly from the milky way: For now the hright unclouded moon Was " riding in her highest noon;" Who, as she slowly sail'd along, Beheld a most unnsual throng. With eyes up-rais'd devoutly gazing, And heard, "Behold! see there I amazing!"— "What can this mean?" dame Cynthia said: "Perhaps," and high she drew her head, "It is, that I on earth to night Shine with unwonted heauty hright, And therefore mortals in a mace Come crowding forth on me to gaze."— And then (for heav'nly heauties love, Like earthly ones, applause to move,) She stoop'd, within a lake helow To see how look'd her sparkling hrow; And, as her crescent she adjusted, She thought, if mirrors might he trusted, That night, so wondrous was her heauty! To gaze on her was mortals' duty. But, oh I sad fall to female pride, She soon with wond'ring looks descried 'Twas not on her that eyes were turn'd; For her no curious ardour hurn'd;

At her no telescopes were aim*d,
Nor wonder at her charms proclaim'd
Some other idol now, she found.
Had fickle man in fetters t>ound;
And Cynthia was competl'd to own,
Unseen her matchless heauty shone.
"But what," she cried " thus rivals me!
I all the stars and planets see:
Orion has his helt in order;
Of Saturn's ring hright shines the horder;
Mars sports his coat of reddest hue;
And Charles has put his horses to :*
But still, these sights so oft are seen,
There's nothing new in them I ween;
And after all, I know, the cry
Is, they are nought when I am hy.
'Tis strange; and I shall surely pout
Until I find my rival out,"—
This said, she looked on ev'ry side
With eager looks of wounded pride,
And round with all the spite inspected
Of conscious heauty quite neglected:
When, lo! she saw with wond'ring hreast,
Just twinkling in the northern west,
And dimly seen, since seen from far,
A rayless, misty, long-tail'd star;
While homage from her charms was ravisb'ii
To he on this poor Comet lavish'd.

* The Constellation of the Great Bear, called sometimes Charles's wain.

ADDRESS TO AN EGYPTIAN MUMMY.

hORACE SMITh.

And thou hast walked ahout—how strange a story!—
In Thehe's streets three thousand years ago!

When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And Time had not hegun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,

Of which the very ruins are tremendous!

Speak, for thou long enongh hast acted Dummy!

Thou hast a tongue—come—let us hear its tune! Thon'rt standing on thy legs, ahove ground, Mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon; Not like thin ghosts or disemhodied creatures, But with thy hones, and flesh, and limhs, and features.

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