But, ah! there came a war, they say,
What is a war, I cannot tell;
But drums and fifes did sweetly play,
And loudly rang our village bell.
In troth, it was a pretty sound

I thought: nor could I thence foresee That, when the kiss of love went round, There soon should be no kiss for me.

A scarlet coat my father took,

And sword as bright as bright could be; And feathers, that so gayly look,

All in a shining cap had he.

Then how my little heart did bound:
Alas! I thought it fine to see;

Nor dreamt that, when the kiss went round,
There soon should be no kiss for me.

My mother sigh'd, my mother wept,
My father talk'd of wealth and fame:
But still she wept, and sigh'd and wept;
Till I, to see her, wept the same.
But soon the horsemen throng around:
My father mounts, with shout and glee:
Then, gave a kiss to all around;

And, ah! how sweet a kiss to me!

But, when I found he rode so far,

And came not home as heretofore:

I said it was a naughty war,

And lov'd the drum and fife no more. My mother oft in tears was drown'd; Nor merry tale, nor song had she; And, when the hour of night came round, Sad was the kiss she gave to me.

At length the bell again did ring;
There was a victory, they said,
'Twas what my father said he'd bring:
But ah! it brought my father dead,

My mother shriek'd her heart was woe:
She clasp'd me to her trembling knee.
O, God! that you may never know
How wild a kiss she gave to me.

But once again-but once again,
These lips a mother's kissss felt.
That once again-that once again-
The tale a heart of stone would melt.
'Twas when upon her death-bed laid,-
(Oh, God! oh, God: that sight to see,)
My child!-my child!" she feebly said,
And gave a parting kiss to me.

66

So now I am an Orphan Boy,

With nought below my heart to cheer: No mother's love, no father's joy,

No kin, nor kind, to wipe the tear. My lodging is the cold, cold ground; I eat the bread of charity;

And, when the kiss of love goes round,
There is no kiss of love for me.

But I will to the grave and weep,
Where late they laid my mother low,
And buried her with earth so deep,
All in her shroud as white as snow.
And there, I'll call on her so loud,

All underneath the church-yard tree, To wrap me in her snow-white shroud; For those cold lips are dear to me.

THOUGHTS ON MIDNIGHT.

CARTER.

WHILE night in solemn shade invests the pole,
And calm reflection sooths the pensive soul;
While reason undisturb'd asserts her sway,
And life's deceitful colours fade away:
To thee, All conscious Presence! I devote
This peaceful interval of sober thought:
Here all my better faculties confine,
And be this hour of sacred silence thine.

If by the day's illusive scenes misled, My erring soul from virtue's path has strayed: If, by example snar'd, by passion warm'd, Some false delight my giddy sense has charm❜d, My calmer thoughts the wretched choice reprove, And my best hopes are center'd in thy love. Depriv'd of this, can life one joy afford! Its utmost boast a vain unmeaning word.

But ah! how oft my lawless passions rove, And break those awful precepts I approve! Pursue the fatal impulse I abhor,

And violate the virtue I adore!

Oft when thy gracious spirit's guardian care
Warn'd my fond soul to shun the tempting snare,
My stubborn will his gentle aid represt,
And check'd the rising goodness in my breast,
Mad with vain hopes, or urg'd by false desires,
Still'd his soft voice, and quench'd his sacred fires.

With grief opprest, and prostrate in the dust, Should'st thou condemn, I own the sentence just: But oh! thy softer titles let me claim,

And plead my cause by mercy's gentle name.

Mercy, that wipes the penitential tear,
And dissipates the horror of despair;

From rig'rous Justice steals the vengeful hour;
Softens the dreadful attribute of pow'r;
Disarms the wrath of an offended God,
And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood.

All pow'rful grace! exert thy gentle sway, And teach my rebel passions to obey : Lest lurking folly, with insidious art, Regain my volatile inconstant heart. Shall every high resolve devotion frames, Be only lifeless sounds and specious names? Or rather while thy hopes and fears controul, In this still hour, each motion of my soul, Secure its safety by a sudden doom, And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb. Calm let me slumber in that dark repose, 'Till the last morn its orient beams disclose: Then, when the great Archangel's potent sound, Shall echo thro' Creation's ample round, Wak'd from the sleep of death, with joy survey The op'ning splendors of eternal day.

THE ORPHANS.

ANONYMOUS.

MY chaise the village inn did gain,
Just as the setting sun's last ray
Tipt with refulgent gold the vane
Of the old church across the

way.

Across the way I silent sped,
The time till supper to beguile

In moralizing o'er the dead,

That moulder'd round the ancient pile.

A A

There many an humble green grave shew'd
Where want, and pain, and toil did rest;
And many a flatt'ring stone I'view'd,

O'er those who once had wealth possess'd.

A faded beech its shadow brown

Threw o'er a grave where sorrow slept ;
On which, tho' scarce with grass o'ergrown,
Two ragged children sat and wept.

A piece of bread between them lay,
Which neither seem'd inclin'd to take;
And yet they look'd so much a prey
To want, it made my heart to ache.

My little children, let me know

Why you in such distress appear? And why you wastful from you throw,

That bread which many a heart would cheer?

The little boy, in accents sweet,

Replied, whilst tears each other chas'd,

"Lady, we've not enough to eat,

"And if we had, we would not waste.

"But sister Mary's naughty grown,
"And will not eat, whate'er I say,
"Tho' sure I am, the bread's her own,
"And she has tasted none to-day."
"Indeed, (the wan starv'd Mary said)
""Till Henry eats I'll eat no more;
"For yesterday I got some bread;
"He's had none since the day before."
My heart did swell, my bosom heave;
I felt as tho' depriv'd of speech-
I silent sat upon the grave,

And press'd a clay cold hand of each,

With looks that told a tale of woe,
With looks that spoke a grateful heart;
The shiv'ring boy did nearer draw,
And thus their tale of woe impart:-