FAMINE.

Thanks, Sister! thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle;

With Bones and Skulls I made a rattle,

To frighten the wolf and the carrion crow
And the homeless dog-but they would not go :
So off I flew, for how could I bear
To see them gorge their dainty fare.
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,
And thro' the chink of a cottage wall-
Can you guess what I saw there ?

BOTH.

Whisper it, Sister! in our ear.

FAMINE.

A baby beat its dying mother,

I had starv'd the one, and was starving the other!

Who bade you do't?

BOTH.

FAMINE.

The same! the same!

Letters four do form his name.

He let me loose, and cry'd Halloo !

To him alone the praise is due.

FIRE.

Sisters! I from Ireland came

Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
Halloo! halloo ! the work was done
And on as I strode with my great strides,
I flung back my head and held my sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun

To see the swelter'd cattle run

With uncouth gallop thro' the night,
Scar'd by the red and noisy light.
By the light of his own blazing Cot
Was many a naked Rebel shot:

The house-stream met the flames, and hiss'd,
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,

On some of those old bed-rid nurses,

That deal in discontent and curses.

Who bade you do't?

BOTH.

FIRE..

The same! the same

Letters four do form his name,

He let me loose and cry'd Halloo !

To him alone the praise is due.

ALL.

He let us loose and cry'd Halloo !
How shall we yield him honor due ?

FAMINE.

Wisdom comes with lack of food,
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim,

They shall seize him and his brood

SLAUGHTER.

They shall tear him limb from limb!

FIRE.

O thankless Beldames and untrue,
And is this all that you can do
For him who did so much for you?
Ninety months he, by my troth!
Hath richly cater'd for you both;
And in an hour would you repay
An eight year's work?-away! away!
I alone am faithful! I

Cling to him everlastingly..

To a YOUNG MAN,

Attached to the Sports of the Field.

By CHARLES LLOYD.

Oh stay thy hand-thou hast a power to kill
But none to bring forth life! impressive truth,
Sounding to wisdom like a warning voice,
And teaching that our feebleness to work
The least good thing, should guard us tremblingly
From aught that looks like evil; lest we wrench
From her retired seat the better soul,

The sense which God hath lent us, which that God
Sees not polluted with a slumbering eye;

But vexes him that sets his gift at nought
With aweful darkness, and a fearful wandering!

Thou see'st athwart this grove of trembling trees,
Trembling and glistening with the morning light,
Thou see'st yon lavrock rise! to the great sun
He seems to hasten; save the burning orb
That lives above, nought but this little bird

Varies the mighty solitude of Heaven!
Art thou assur'd the Almighty doth not speak
To that same little bird-that morning's glories
Are not discourses of his watchful love

Gladd'ning this innocent creature? Could'st thou seek
To stop his song of gratulation, quench
His sense of joy, and all those living powers

That dance so cheerly in him? They serve Heaven
Who love his works! and they most feel a God
Who hold each bodily sense a holy thing,
Communicating measurably to all

The influxes of that eternal Spirit

Whose countenance to man are day-light hues,
And sky, and sea, and forests, lakes, and hills
And lightenings, thunders, and prodigious storms,
And suns, and all the company of worlds!

I would not kill one bird in wanton sport,
I would not mingle jocund mirth with death,
For all the smoking board, the savoury feast
Can yield most exquisite to pamper'd sense!

Since nature wills that every living thing
Should gratify the purposes of man,