And while he strives to reason with his fears,

A phantom still more terrible appears.

I see (distracting sight!) thy widow'd mate
In frantic woe bewail thy hapless fate—
While various images of happier days,

Form in her mind a strange bewildering maze :
The soft endearments of that blissful hour,
When first she own'd love's all-subduing pow'r
That day of rapture, when around your head,
Kind Hymen's torch its purest lustre shed—
The time when from a mother's pains set free,
O'erjoy'd she gave an infant son to thee-.

Such thoughts as these arise in sad array,

Till frenzy quite usurps mild reason's sway.

The storm of grief subsides—your child appearsHis orphan'd state afresh her bosom tears;

And now with deepest agony opprest,

She strains th' unconscious prattler to her breast ; Who, smiling cherub, knows not why she weeps, And wonders why so long his father sleeps! 4

Nor can your

friends assuage her boundless grief,

Themselves requiring comfort and relief;

Alas ! with aching hearts they turn aside,

Their stifled groans, and starting tears to hide,
And thou MARIA ! 5 sweetest of the train,

Who own luxurious fancy's blissful reign,
Shalt bid thy smooth pathetic numbers dow

And strike thy dulcet harp to sounds of woe.
With thine my saddest song

of grief shall blendIn concert we will mourn our common friend; That friend, in whom such virtues were combin'd

"His like again" we may not hope to find.

But as the dawn with joy-dispensing light,

Dispels the sable shades of darkest night;
So reason comes...the frightful dream is fled-
Avaunt ! ye images of doubt and dread !
Indulgent mercy interpos'd to save

My valued friend from an untimely grave :
Oh! may his well - spent future years declare,

That he deserv'd kind Heav'n's protecting cars.

THE RED-BREAST.

"The lonely bird of autumn's reign."

MONTGOMERY,

THE cold nipping frost binds the wandering streams,

And the landscape is buried in snow;

A desolate desart the forest now seems,

The

Where the songsters wild notes late did flow.

poor little Red-breast comes into my door,

And looks with a pitiful eye;

His looks seem to say, as he hops on the floor, "Of hunger poor Robin will die."

Sweet warbler of autumn! complain not of want,
Thrice welcome thy visits to pay,

And, tho' of provisions my cabin be scant,

Thou shalt not fly hungry away.

Here! feed on these crumbs, and let me be thy guard,

For pitiless Tybert is near

Should he seize thee, ah! never thy song would be heard The dull joyless evening to cheer.

Oft, oft when misfortune my spirits depress'd,
Delighted I've listen'd thy strain;

Thy soft, simple music, gave peace to my breast,
And bade me forget to complain.

So soon art thou flown?... Yes, like too many friends, Who, much love and kindness have shewn; Whene'er they accomplish their own selfish ends, Their friendship no longer is known.

Yet art thou more grateful than most of mankind,
Tho' now to the wilds thou art fled—

For when the soft breeze shall the waters unbind

Again thou wilt sing near my shed,

STANZAS

ADDRESSED TO MR ROBT. ANDERSON, ON READING SOME OF

HIS BEAUTIFUL POEMS IN THE BELFAST NEWS-LETTER.

HAIL ANDERSON! nature's sweet bard,
(For nature gives birth to thy lay ;)
What praise could thy merit reward?
What fame thy effusions repay?

Permit me, tho' wild is the strain,
My tribute of praise to bestow;

Nor treat my rude verse with disdain,

Since heartfelt esteem bids it flow.

Thy songs with delight I have read,

Which flow like a smooth-gliding stream,

And sympathy's tear I have shed,

As oft as distress was thy theme.