Tramp, tramp, across the land they speede;
Splash, splash, across the see:
"Hurrah! the dead can ride apace;
Dost fear to ride with me?

"I weene the cock prepares to crowe;
The sand will soon be runne:
I snuff the earlye morning aire;
Downe, downe! our work is done.
"The dead, the dead can ryde apace;
Oure wed-bed here is fit:
Our race is ridde, oure journey ore,
Our endless union knit."

And lo! an yren-grated grate

Soon biggens to their viewe:

He crackte his whyppe; the clangynge boltes, The doores asunder flewe.

They pass, and 'twas on graves they trode;
"Tis hither we are bounde:"

And many a tombstone gostlie white
Lay inn the moonshyne round.

And when hee from his steede alytte,
His armour, black as cinder,
Did moulder, moulder all awaye,
As were it made of tinder.

His head became a naked skull;
Nor haire nor eyne had hee;
His body grew a skeleton,
Whilome so blythe of blee.

And att his dry and boney heele

No spur was left to be;

And inn his witherde hand you might

The scythe and hour-glasse see.

And lo! his steede did thin to smoke,
And charnel fires outbreathe;
And pal'd, and bleach'd, then vanish'd quite
The mayde from underneathe.

And hollow howlings rung in aire,

And shrekes from vaults arose;

Then knew the mayde she mighte no more
Her living eyes unclose.

But onwarde to the judgment seat,
Thro' myste and moonlight dreare,
The gostlie crewe, their flyghte persewe,
And hollowe inn her eare:-

"Be patient, tho' thyne herte should breke,
Arrayne not Heven's decree;
Thou nowe art of thie bodie refte,

Thie soule forgiven bee!"

PROFILES, OR THE WARNING.

On a Lady, who with the Quickness of a Guillotine, took off every one's Head in shade.

LET her abode your soul appal,

For no one there is safe a minute-
You'll lose your head, but that's not all,
For were that all, there's nothing in it!

No, shun the spot of flatt'ring art,

Where nature too conspires to bind you,
Or you will find, when you depart,

You've left both head and heart behind you!

MR. DU BOIS.

TO A RELIGIOUS LADY

On being reproved by her for paying Attention to Celia at

Church.

BY R. FENTON, ESQ.

"Guiltless I gaz'd

POPE.

AND must cach sense its use forego,
The chastest glance not be forgiven?
And are those rules your sect allow,
Severely-rigid, taught by Heaven?
From drinking in the orient light

The eye of health as well restrain ;
Or check the captive's wild delight,
When Freedom hastes to burst his chain.

And is it in the book of life,

The temperate use of bliss to awe?
And can religion be at strife,

With reason, and with nature's law?

Let nature's book my care engage,
There in each line a God we trace:
And where unfolds a fairer page,

Than that disclos'd in Celia's face?

Heaven cast such forms in angel-mould,
To charm the eye and teach us love;
That in the work we might behold
An image of the blest above.

Devotion is but love refin'd:

Heaven gives us sanction to admire;
Can low affections touch the mind
That kindles with seraphic fire?

CATULLUS'S RFTURN HOME TO HIS ESTATE

AT SIRMIO, IMITATED *.

BEST of all the scatter'd lands, that break From spreading sea or hill retiring lake, How happy do I drop within thy breast! With what a sigh of full contented rest! Scarce trusting, that my vagrant toil is o'er, And that these eyes behold thee safe once more! Is aught so blest as such a loose from care, When the soul's load rests with us in the chair; When we return from pilgrimage, and spread The loosen'd limbs o'er all the well-known bed! This of itself repays the grinding toil, And gives to failing knees the fresh'ning oil. Hail, lovely Sirmio; meet thy master's smiles, And laugh, thou sparkling lake, thro' all thine isles! Laugh, ev'ry social spot; your master's come! Laugh, ev'ry dimple on the cheek of home!

LEIGH HUNT, ESQ.

From PITMAN's Excerpta ex Variis Romanis Poetis qui in

Scholis rarias leguntur.

ΤΟ

A SPINSTER IN HER FIFTIETH YEAR.

THAT charming face I love to view,
It emulates the cowslip's hue:

Thy neck, thy hands, thy arms, disclose,
The colour of the Sharon rose.

Thy lips the swarthy Ethiop's shame,
(Their dear delightful form the same ;)
But, oh! a deeper dye they boast,
In mourning for the teeth thou'st lost.
Thy chin, firm guardian of thy mouth,
Dame Nature stinted in its growth;
It yet a thousand arrows bears,
Transform'd to bright and golden hairs.
In coral tint thy eyelids glow,
And weep the setting suns below,
Yet still the tear of sorrow stops,
And stands congeal'd in amber drops.

Fly shepherds, or your hour is come;
If fails her face to seal your doom,
Like ambush'd foes, her potent breath
Inflicts inevitable death.

C.