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Indignant of his deeds, the muse who sings
The undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings,
Shall show the monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake or a storm.

Not so the patriot chief, who dared withstand
The base invader of his native land ;
Who made her weal his noblest, only end :
Ruled, but to serve her : fought, but to defend ;
Who, firmly virtuous, and severely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not save:
On worth like his the muse delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph and defeat;
Crowns with true glory, and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Frederick's name.

CCCXCIX. MORRIS.
1. REASONS FOR DRINKING.
There's many a lad I liked is dead,

And many a lass grown old,
And, as the lesson strikes my head,

My heavy heart grows cold. .
But through the bumper's magic glare

I see these iils less plain,
And that I think's a reason fair
To fill my glass again.

2. TOWN AND COUNTRY.
In town let me live, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
O give me the sweet shady side of Pell-Mell.
But a house is much more to my taste than a tree,
And for groves-0 ! a good grove of chimneys for me.

CCCC. MRS GREVILLE.

THE HEART.

Nor peace nor ease the heart can know,

Which, like the needle true,
Turns at the touch of joy or woe,

But turning trembles too.

CCCCI. ANONYMOUS

DEATH.
Hush, idle words and thoughts of ill,
Our Lord is listening : peace, be still !
Be silent o'er a Christian's death,
Wben from the body parts the breath,
Till in thine alter'd voice be known
Something of Resignation's tone.

CCCCII. FREDERIC LOCKER.

1. THE WORLD.
The world! Was ever jester in

A viler than the present ?
Yet if it ugly be-a sin,

It almost is--as pleasant !
It is a merry world (pro tem.),

And some are gay, and therefore
It pleases them--but some condemn

The fun they do not care for.
It is an ugly world. Offend

Good people--how they wrangle!
The manners that they never mend !

The characters they mangle!
They eat, and drink, and scheme, and plod,

And go to church on Sunday- ,
Anů many are afraid of God-

And níore of Mrs Grundy.

2. A SKULL. A human skull! I bought it passing cheap;

It might be dearer to its first employer;
I thought mortality did well to keep

Some mute momento of the Old Destroyer.
Time was, some may bave prized its blooming skin,

Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender ; Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chis,

And never had my doubt about its gender!

Did she live yesterday or ages back ?

What colour were the eyes when bright and waking ? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,

Poor little head! that long has done with aching. It

may have held (to shoot some random shots)

Thy brains, Eliza Fry, or Baron Byron's, The wit of Nelly Gwynne or Doctor Watts,

Two quoted bards ! two philanthropic sirens !

CCCCIII. JOHN ASKHAM.

SELF-SOUGHT SORROW.

We lay up for ourselves life-long regrets,

And careless woes,
O'er which the troubled spirit broods and frets

Without repose.
We turn away good angels from the door,

And welcome in
With smiles, to be our guests for evermore,

The fiends of sin.
We chase vain shadows, which our grasp elude

And mock our care ;
And find too late the phantoms we pursued

Were empty air.
We make unto ourselves a thousand foes

To trip our feet;
We pluck the briar, when we might pull the rose,

And smell its sweet.
We read true wisdom at life's closing page

With fading look ;
Ana while we ponder oe'r the lesson sage,

Death shuts the book!

ADDITIONAL.

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I.-W. BROWN.

Undressing.
A lovely maiden, pure and chaste,
With naked ivory neck and gown unlaced,
Within her chamber when the day is fled,
Makes

poor

her garments to enrich her bed :
First puts she off her lily silken gown,
That shrieks for sorrow as she lays it down ;
And with her arms graceth a waistcoat fine,
Embracing her as it would ne'er untwine.
Her flaxen hair, ensnaring all beholders,
She next permits to wave about her shoulders ;
And, though she cast it back, the silken slips
Still forward steal, and hang upon her lips ;
Whereat she, sweetly angry, with her laces
Binds

up

the wanton locks in curious traces, Whilst twisting with her joints each hair long lingers, As loath to be enchained but with her fingers. Then on her head a dressing like a crown; Her breasts all bare, her kirtle slipping down, And all things off (which rightly ever be Called the foul-fair marks of our misery) Except her last which enviously doth seize her, Lest any eye partake with it in pleasure, Prepares for sweetest rest, while sylvans greet her, And longingly the down bed swells to meet her.

II.-COLLEY CIBBER.

The Blind Boy.
O say, what is that thing call'd light,

Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
What are the blessings of the sight?

O tell your poor blind boy!
You talk of wondrous things you see ;

You say the sun shines bright:
I feel nim warm, but how can be

Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make

Whene'er I sleep or play,
And could I always keep awake

With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe ;
But sure with patience I can bear

A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have

My cheer of mind destroy ;
While thus I sing, I am a king,

Although a poor blind boy.

III.-JACOB JONES.

Sonnets to the Nightingale. “A rose by any other name would smell as swe'ri

A nightingale, by any other name, ,
His ear-entrancing love-notes would repeat,

Notes that no charm but love fulfill’d could tamcn
When, o'er his nested inate and chirping young,
His silence watches of his instinct sprung.
Thy ev'ry name is, like thyself, a spell ;

A keynote typing how thy tunes prevail ; Sweet Bulbul-once, Aëdon--Philomel

Luscinia-Rossignol-our, Nightingale.
Sing on, rare bird ! at ev'ning's fragrant hour,

Till all the echoes all thy strains prolong:
Thy magic modulations have the power
I'd recreate my soul as with a bath of

a

song They call thee sad,—but sadness such as thine

To Sorrow's self were exquisite relief :
They say thou griev'st,--then grief is half divine

Warbled by thee—the very joy of grief.
What time thy plainings melt upon mine ear,

And, on night's solitude, their changes puis', My own past griefs in Mens'ry'e glass appear,

And my lost lov'd ones live-to die once more, Once more my utter anguish to renew,

My desolation, and my blank dismay,

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