REPLY TO A LADY, On her asking the cause of the Author's Melancholy at a Public Garden. "WHY, when all is gay around 66 Should the clouds of care be worn? Yet had I braved the ills of life Which meaner spirits might have fled; I could have gloried in the strife Which promised union with the dead; Yes, to my heart have pressed the blade Which lent its brightness to my name, Laughed at the havoc it had made, Cried, onwards, onwards, to my fame. Oh! to this heart ye once were dear, Even as its idols ye were cherished, Honor and fame;-an angel pair, I prized ye, but ye both have perished. Yet had I bid adieu to those, Though loved; though twined around my heart, I'd torn them thence, and could have rose Smiling-though writhing with the smart. But 'tis not this which sinks the eye; No, 'tis not this which swells the breast With such a soul-embittered sigh, Child of the heart that ne'er can rest. Bereft of high ambition's meed, And thou my dearer honour stained, With thee I'd braved, aye, even the world,--- Even to its teeth defiance hurled, And pressing thee, felt not its thorn. I love!---come death and quench this fire, MODERN FRIENDSHIP. TWO tradesmen visited for many years, C. B--E. Each had his pleasures, each his hopes and fears, Valmont to all his trading put an end, And gamed, lived high, and drove his coach and four. Though Philo sought dame Fortune, still she sent Her daughter there, and she to Valmont went; Miss-fortune now contrived his hopes to dash, Caused all his trade and friends to die away, Emptied his shelves of stock, from day to day, And left him smarting underneath the lash. Valmont passed by his shop a short time since, Not like a tradesman now, but like a prince; Philo was labouring to regain his pelf "How do ye, friend," he cries; "Not know me? how!" "I really have forgot you, Sir, I vow." "No wonder, Valmont, you've forgot yourself!" U. U. L. *The Author is no more. His death was accelerated by his ill-fated passion. THE REDBREAST'S VISIT. A Birth-day Melody, addressed to a young Lady, at the moment of whose birth a Redbreast flew into the chamber and remained there several hours. TO hail the birth of beauty's flower, An angel left the skies; To bless fair Stella's natal hour, Round cradled beauty's couch were sung And lays unknown to mortal tongue, The mission past,---his opening wing 3 Yet shall this ever-welcome day Repeat the warbler's song; And long shall Stella's parent May, Her Redbreast's notes prolong. Then, whilst his strains in memory live Till life itself is past, May every future Birth-day give A bliss beyond the last! LINES, Z. On receiving an Eye-shade from "The Lily of the Valley." HER eyes of soft, ethereal blue On mine their magic lustre threw, And quick each throbbing pulse confessed The subtle charm within my breast. My fitful, sad, bewildered air She pitying saw, and formed, to spare J. M. BURNS THE POET. The following verses in the hand-writing of Burns, are Unaided, through thy cursed restriction, For lack o' thee I leave this much-loved shore, EPIGRAMS. R-- B---, Kyle. IN letters large---"This House to Let," Who chanced, just then, the maid to spy:- GUTTLE'S god is beef and mutton, SIMILE. JERRY MANSEL. THE lovely tints that dye the west, JACOB PLAYER. FOR THE POCKET MAGAZINE. METHOUGHT I was straying on the summit of a high romantic mountain, and never before did the works of creation beam on my eyes with such majestic grandeur! Rapt in silent extacy, I could not refrain from crying aloud, Oh, ye lovely scenes! how long shall these eyes gaze on your beauties, or this heart throb in silent adoration! Ye shall still be as fair as you now are, when I, perhaps, shall be pining in the dungeon, or lengthening out a wearisome existence, the sport of adverse fortune, or lingering disease. Could I but see the fate that awaits me, no anticipation of future woes, of uncertain sorrows, would steal from me the bliss of the present hour. Were I but aware of the impending blow, I could, like the traveller who watches the gathering clouds, and marks the rising winds, gather round me my cloak, and brave the impetuous storm. "My son!" a voice exclaimed, (I started, and beheld at my side a venerable old man, whose looks inspired me with awe and veneration,) my son, I have overheard thy soliloquy; the headlong ardour of youth mocks the maturity of wisdom; that which to thy creative and deluded mind seems pregnant with bliss, would bring with it woe and misery; the wise, the merciful Creator hath, in the exVOL. II. No. III. 66 M |