wild,

A straw-roofed cabin with lowly wall-
Mine is a fair and pillared hall,
Where many an image of marble gleams,
And the sunshine of picture for ever
streams."

"Oh! green is the turf where my brothers play,

Through the long bright hours of the summer day;

They find the red cup-moss where they climb,

And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme,

And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms they know :

Lady, kind lady, oh! let me go !"

"Content thee, boy, in my bower to dwell!

Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well;

And we'll pluck

die."

the grapes of the richest

OF

A Squire of parts, and some conceit, Tho' not a glaring, first-rate wit, Had lately taken to his arms A damsel of uncommon charms. A mutual bliss their bosoms knew, The hours on downy pinions flew, And scatter'd roses as they pass'd; Emblem of joys too sweet to last; For, lo! th' unequal fates divide The enamour'd swain and beauteous bride. The honey-moon had scarcely wan'd, And love its empire still maintain'd, When forth he must, for business calls., 'Adieu, ye fields, ye groves, ye walls, That in your hallow'd bounds contain My source of joy, my source of pain! It must be so!-Adieu my dear!' They kiss, he sighs, she drops a tear: No. 22.-N. S.

For lovers of a certain cast

Think every parting is the last;
And still whine out, whene'er they sever,
In tragic strain- Farewell for ever!'
Awhile, in melancholy mood,

He slowly pac'd the tiresome road;
For, every road must tiresome prove
That bears us far from her we love.'
But sun, and exercise, and air,
At length dispel the glooms of care;
They vanish like a morning dream,
And happiness is now the theme.
How blest his lot, to gain at last,
So many vain researches past.
A wife so suited to his taste,
So fair, so gentle, and so chaste;
A tender partner for his bed,
A pillow for his aching head,

The bosom good for which he panted;
In short, the very thing he wanted!
"And then, to make my bliss complete,
And lay fresh laurels at my feet,
How many matches did she slight!
An Irish lord, a city knight,
And squires by dozens; yet agree
To pass her life with humble me!
And did not she, the other day,
When Captain Wilkins pass'd our way-
The Captain! Well, she lik'd not him,
Tho' dress'd in all his Hyde-Park trim.
She lik'd his sword-knot, tho'-'twas yel-
low;

The captain is a sprightly fellow !
I should not often chuse to see
Such dangerous visitors as he :-
I wonder how he came to call;
Or why he pass'd that way at all.
His road lay farther to the right;
And me he hardly knew by sight.
Stay! let me think-I freeze, I burn!-
Where'er he went, he must return;
And, in my absence, may again
Make bold to call- -Come hither, Ben:
Did you observe, (I'll lay my life
You did) when first he met my wife,
What speech it was the captain made?'-
'What, Captain Wilkins, Sir?'-'The

same.

Come, you can tell ?'-'I can't, indeed;
For they were kissing when I came.'
Kiss! did they kiss? Most surely, Sir;
A bride, and he a bachelor.'---

Peace, rascal! 'tis beyond endurance;
I wonder at some folks assurance!
Ben, turn your horse-nay, never stare-
And tell my wife I cannot bear
These frequent visits. Hence you dunce!
'The captain, Sir, was there but once.'
Once is too often! tell her, Ben,
That, if he dares to call again,
She should avoid him like a toad,
A snake, a viper!-There's your road.
And, hark'e; tell her, under favour,
We stretch too far polite behaviour;
Tell her, I do not understand
This kissing; tell her, I command-'
Heaven bless us, Sir, such whims as
these-'

Tell her I beg it on my knees,
By all the love she ever shew'd,
By all she at the altar vow'd,
Howe'er absurd a husband's fears,
Howe'er injurious it appears,
She would not see him if he comes;
Nay, if she chance to hear his drums;
Bid her start back, and skulk for fear,
As if the thunder rent her ear.'

O wondrous power of love and beauty!
Obedience is a servant's duty;
And Ben obeys.-But, as he goes,
He reasons much on human woes:

How frail is man, how prone to stray,
And all the long et cætera

Of sayings, which, in former ages,
Immortaliz'd the Grecian sages;
But now the very vulgar speak,
And only critics quote in Greek.

With these, like Sancho, was he stor'd; And, Sancho-like, drew forth his hoard. Proper or not, he all applied,

And view'd the case on every side;
Till, on the whole, he thought it best
To turn the matter to a jest ;
And, with a kind of clumsy wit,
At last on an expedient hit.

Suppose we then the journey o'er, And Madam meets him at the door, 'So soon return'd! and where's your mas

ter?

I hope you've met with no disaster,
Is my dear well?— Extremely so;
And only sent me here to know
How fares his softer, better part.
Ah, Madam! could you see his heart!
It was not even in his power
To brook the absence of an hour.'-

And was this all? was this the whole
He sent you for? The kind, good soul!
Tell him, that he's my source of bliss;
Tell him, my health depends on his;
Tell him, this breast no joy can find,
If cares disturb his dearer mind:
This faithful breast, if he be well,
No pang, but that of absence, feel.'

Ben blush'd, and smil'd, and scratch'd
his head;

Then, falt'ring in his accents, said-
'One message more he bade me bear,
But that's a secret for your ear:
My master begs, on no account,
Your ladyship would dare to mount
The Mastiff Dog.'-' What means the lad?
Are you, or is your master mad?
I ride a Dog! a pretty story!'
'Ah, dearest Madam, do not glory
In your own strength ; temptation's strong,
And frail our nature.'-
Hold your

Y

tongue!

master, Sir, shall know of this.'— 'Dr Madam, do not take amiss Your servant's zeal: by all you vow'd, By all the love you ever shew'd; By all your hopes of bliss to come; Beware the Mastiff-Dog! Be dumb, Insulting wretch! the lady cries, The servant takes his cue, and flies. Whilst consternation marks her face, He mounts his steed, and quits the place. In vain she calls, as swift as wind He scours the lawn; yet cast behind One parting look, which seem'd to sayBeware the Dog!' then rode away.

Why should I paint the hurrying scene Of clashing thoughts which pass'd within,

Where doubt on doubt incessant roll'd?
Enough for me the secret's told.

'I ride a Dog! a strange conceit;
And never, sure, attempted yet.
What can it mean? Whate'er it was,
There is some mystery in the case.
And really, now I've thought a minute,
There may be no great matter in it.
Ladies of old, to try a change,
Have rode on animals as strange :
Helen a ram, a bull Europa;
Nay, English widows, for a faux pas,
Were doom'd to expiate their shame,
As authors say, upon a ram.

And shan't my virtue take a pride in
Outdoing such vile trulls in riding?
And sure a ram's as weak a creature
Here, Betty, reach me the Spectator.'-
Lord bless me, Ma'am, as one may say,
Your ladyship's quite mop'd to day.
Reading will only, I'm afraid,
Put more strange meagrims in your head.
Twere better, sure, to take the air:
Ill order, Ma'am, the coach and pair;
And then, too, I may go beside;
Or, if you rather chuse to ride?'
'Ride, Betty! that's my wish, my aim!
Pray, Betty, is our Cæsar tame?

Tame, Madam! Yes. I never heard-
You mean the mastiff in the yard?
He makes a noise, and barks at folks;
But surely, Ma'am, your la'ship jokes.'-
'Jokes, Betty! no. By earth and heaven,
This insult shall not be forgiven!
Whate'er they mean, I'll ride the dog.
Go, prythee, free him from his clog,
And bring him hither: they shall find
There's courage in a female mind!'

So said, so done. The Dog appears With Betty chirping on the stairs. The floating saque is thrown aside, The vestments proper for a ride, Such as we oft in Hyde-Park view, Of fustian white, lapell'd with blue, By Betty's care were on the spot; Nor is the feather'd hat forgot. Pleas'd with herself th' accoutred lass Took half a turn before the glass;. And, simp'ring said-'I swear and vow, I look like Captain Wilkins now! But serious cares our thoughts demand: Poor Cæsar! stroke him with your hand. How mild he seems, and wags his tail! 'Tis now the moment to prevail.' She spake; and straight, with eye sedate, Began th' important work of fate. A cushion on his back she plac'd, And bound with ribbands round his waist, The knot, which whilom grac'd her head, And down her winding lappets spread, From all it's soft meanders freed, Became a bridle for her steed. And now she mounts. 'Dear Dian, hear! Bright goddess of the lunar sphere!

Thou, that hast oft preserved from fate
The nymph who leaps a five-barr'd gate:
O take me, goddess, to thy care!
O hear a tender lady's prayer!
Thy vot'ress once, as pure a maid
As ever rov'd the Delian shade;
Tho' now, by man's seduction won,
She wears, alas! a looser zone.'

In vain she pray'd. She mounts, she falls!
And Cæsar barks, and Betty squalls.
The marble hearth receives, below,
The headlong dame; a direful blow!
And starting veins with blood disgrace
The softer marble of her face.

Here might I sing of fading charms
Reclin❜d on Betty's fathful neck,
Like Venus in Dione's arms;

And much from Homer might I speak:
But we refer to Pope's translation,
And hasten to our plain narration.

While broths and plaisters are prepar'd, And doctors feed, and Madam scar'd, At length returns th' impatient squire, Eager, and panting with desire. But finds his home a desart place, No spouse to welcome his embrace, No tender sharer of his bliss To chide his absence with a kiss. Sullen in bed the lady lay, And muffled from the eye of day, Nor deign'd a look-averse and sad As Dido in the Elysian shade.

Amaz'd, aların'd, the bed he press'd, And clasp'd her struggling to his breast. My life, my soul! I cannot brook This cruel, this averted look. And is it thus at last we meet?' Then rais'd her gently from the sheet. 'What mean,' he cries, these bleeding

strains,

This muffled head, and bursting veins?
What sacrilegious hand could dare
To fix its impious vengeance there?'
'The Dog! the Dog!' was all she said,
And sobbing sunk again in bed.
The Dog, the Dog! express'd her grief,
Like poor Othello's handkerchief.

Meanwhile had Ben, with prudent care, From Betty learnt the whole affair, And drew the impatient squire aside, To own the cheat he could not hide, See, rascal! see!' enrag'd hé cries, "What tumors on her forehead rise! How swells with grief that face divine !I own it all, the fault was mine,' Replies the lad; ' dear, angry lord: But hush! come hither; not a word! Small are the ills we now endure; Those tumors, Sir, admit a cure; But, had I done as you directed, Whose forehead then had been affected? Had Captain Wilkins been forbiddenAh, master! who had then been ridden?

Extracts

From New Works.

ANECDOTES OF THE BUONAPARTE FAMILY.

From the Supplement to the Memoirs of Bernardin de St. Pierre, by L'Aime Martin. 'M. de Saint Pierre saw one day a young officer enter his closet, whose countenance he had some confused recollection of having seen before. The young officer hastened to tell him that, while yet a stripling, he had dared to write to him on the subject of his Paul and Virginia,' and added

6

I now come to claim the friendship which you then promised me in an answer which I have since most carefully preserved.' M. de SaintPierre begged him to sit down, and asked him his name. .6 My name,' replied the officer, is Louis; I am the brother and aid-de-camp of General Buonaparte. We are just arrived from Italy, and I come to thank the author of the Studies' for the happy moments which the perusal of his work has given me. We read it frequently the General-in-Chief used to keep it under his pillow as Alexander did the works of Homer.' This flattering comparison made M. de St. Pierre smile; but as if it had only awakened his admiration of Homer, he replied, Homer is, in my opinion, the greatest painter of man and of nature.' 'Yes, and I do not forget the passage in 'Studies' where you have eulogized him; for you also are a great painter of nature.' 'I have traced,' replied Bernardin de St. Pierre, " some feeble sketches of her works; but let us speak of your campaigns in Italy.' War is but a doleful subject for a friend of mankind,' observed the young officer. As a Frenchman, I take an interest in it,' replied M. de Saint Pierre ; 'besides, I have myself lived in camps, and have seen death close to me upon the field of battle. It is true that since

your

then I have philosophized a good deal; but, as Montaigne says, 'to philosophize is to learn to die.'

The conversation then took a more animated turn, at the close of which Louis Buonaparte, with a brusque effusion of heart, demanded permission to repeat his visit-a permission of which he profitted the next day; after which they saw each other continually. They often went to the Tuileries together, and there, in one of the solitary walks, talked over their respective chagrins.

M. de St. Pierre, in the decline of life, saw his young wife hurrying to the tomb, and sighed over himself and his children. Louis Buonaparte, though in the flower of his age, was sombre, discontented, in bad health, fatigued with war, and disgusted with the world. He complained bitterly of the exigences of his brother, of the severity of the service, and the aridity of his mathematical studies.

One morning Louis entered M. de St. Pierre's closet with an embarrassed air, and said, I have been unwilling to importune you, but they insist upon it;' and then taking him by the hand, in the most affectionate manner, he added, Here is a work, the author of which is one of my friends-tell me frankly if you think it worthy of being printed.' As he spoke, he laid a manuscript upon the table.

6

M. de St. Pierre would very willingly have excused himself from such a task; but the entreaties of Louis were so pressing that he was forced to comply; he even promised to add some notes. The next morning he set to work, and instead of having to examine, as he dreaded, some essay on politics, found a little pastoral romance, in which, to his great surprize, he remarked a picture of the evils of war, and an energetic tirade against conquerors and ambitious men.

For several days after this he expected to see Louis; but he came not.