She bids us leave our terrors all behind,

And fear no blame from any candid mind :*
Then let your candour due allowance make
For any casual fault, or slight mistake
We may commit, in this our first essay—
Experience yet may blot those faults away.

Our motive is not praise...nor do we aim
To grasp the wreath of never-dying fame-
Our dearest object is the poor's relief,
Who pine in want, and heave the sigh of grief-
To still the hungry orphan's piercing cry,

And make the widow's heart o'erflow with joy."
If such, my friends, could e'er your pity move,
This good design you doubtless will approve;
And, while with charity your bosoms glow,
Will to our failings kind compassion shew.
Now for the play...I'll end my short appeal,
With Heav'n's command..." Let charity prevail."

SONNET TO A PRIMROSE.

"Sweet as the Primrose peeps beneath the thorn."

GOLDSMITH.

SWEET, modest flow'ret, that, beneath the thorn,
Unfold'st thy beauties in the lonely dell,

I meet thy fragrance in the breeze of morn,
In wilds where solitude and silence dwell.

Tho' garden flow'rs a richer tint display,

They oft demand the planter's nicest care; While thou appear'st beneath some shelt❜ring spray, 'Mid April's lingering frosts, and piercing air.

How like the rustic poet's lot is thine!

Whom nature taught the simple song to raise, Doom'd in oblivion's darkest shades to pine,

He chaunts...but seldom gains the meed of praise.

So, in some pathless desart thou art thrown,

To shed thy sweet perfume, and fade unknown.

ANECDOTE OF A HIGHLANDER.

"What I have heard permit me to relate."

WHERE Scotia's lofty mountains rise
Like pillars to support the skies;
Where, blasted by the piercing north,
Fair science puts few blossoms forth-
There men, by learning unrefin'd,

(Which oft corrupts the human mind
Know little more than to be bold;

To sing what bards have sung of old,

And venerate as more than man

The patriarch that leads their clan.

Such DONALD was; unschool'd by art,

Yet none could boast a bráver heart,

And he the great Argyle ador'd,

His house's head and sovʼreign lord.

DRYDEN.

When bleak November's chilling breath

Blew surly o'er the wither'd heath,

DONALD an evening chanc'd to spend,
Some few miles distant with a friend.

The sneeshin' mill and whiskey stout,
With joyous hearts they toss'd about;
But pleasant moments always fly,

Their parting hour too soon drew nigh—

When he his friend's abode forsook,

And home, thro' wilds, his journey took. The wind in sullen whispers blew ;

Night's dusky veil no star broke thro';

And in his way a deep morass

Lay, which he was oblig❜d to cross,

Where one false step might seal his doom,

And make some stagnant pool his tomb.

With prudent care the path he chose,

Till that delusive meteor rose,

Call'd Ignis Fatuus, whose light
Has oft betray'd the wand'ring wight.
As when the starvling sons of France
Behold the Highland clans advance,

They stop with looks of wild dismay,

And fain would shun the deadly fray:

Ev'n so poor DONALD stood amaz'd,

And on the faithless phantom gaz'd.

"Ohon," he cries, "the tiel has sent
"Mischievous Spunkie, 11 wi' intent

"This night to twin me o' my life,
"An' helpless lea' my pairns and wife,

"Pit, Cot be thankit, I can read, 12

"I'se car the messin flee wi' speed."

When thus resolv'd, half choak'd with fear,

He bawls, "In Cot's name tisappear !"

But saw,

with grief, the unconscious light

Still beam illusive on his sight.

Another spell he quickly tries,

And in a voice of terror cries

"In George the King's name tisappear !”

But still it seemed to shine more clear.

Finding those conjurations vain,

With solemn tone he cries again,