"Oh, who would think her portion blest,
A wandering seaman's wife to be,
To hug the infant to her breast,
Whose father's on a stormy sea !

The thunder bursts, the lightning falls,
The casement rattles with the rain ;
And as the gusty tempest bawls,
The little cottage quakes again.

She does not speak, she does not sigh,
She gazes on her infant dear,

A smile lights up the cherub's eye,
And dims the mother's with a tear.

Oh, who would be a seaman's wife! Oh, who would bear a seaman's child! To tremble for her husband's life,

To weep because her infant smiled!”

Ne'er hadst thou borne a seaman's boy,
Ne'er had thy husband left the shore,
Thou ne'er hadst felt the frantic joy,
To see thy Robin at the door;

To press his weather-beaten cheek,
To kiss it dry and warm again—
To weep the joy thou couldst not speak:
A pleasure's in the depth of pain.

Thy cheerful fire, thy plain repast,
Thy little couch of love, I ween,
Were ten times sweeter than the last-

And not a cloud that night was seen.

Oh, happy pair! the pains you know,
Still hand in hand with pleasure come;
For often does the tempest blow,

And Robin still is safe at home.

KNOWLES.

Tom Tackle.

TOM TACKLE was noble, was true to his word;
If merit bought titles, Tom might be my lord;
How gaily his bark through Life's ocean would
sail!

Truth furnish'd the rigging, and Honour the gale:
Yet Tom had a failing, if ever man had,

That, good as he was, made him all that was bad; He was paltry and pitiful, scurvy and mean, And the sniv'lingest scoundrel that ever was seen: For so said the girls and the landlords 'longshore. Would you know what his fault was ?-Tom Tackle was poor!

'Twas once on a time when we took a galloon, And the crew touch'd the agent for cash to some tune;

Tom took a trip to jail, an old messmate to free, And four thankful prattlers soon sat on his knee. Then Tom was an angel, downright from heaven sent!

While they'd hands he his goodness should never repent:

Return'd from next voyage he bemoan'd his sad

case,

To find his dear friend shut the door in his face.

'Why d'ye wonder?" cried one, “you're served right to be sure;

Once Tom Tackle was rich-now Tom Tackle is poor!"

I ben't, you see, versed in high maxims and sich; But don't this same honour concern poor and rich ? If it don't come from good hearts, I can't see where from,

And I'm sure, if e'er tar had a good heart, 'twas Tom.

Yet somehow or t'other, Tom never did right: None knew better the time when to spare or to

fight:

He, by finding a leak, once preserved crew and

ship,

Saved the Commodore's life-then he made such

rare flip!

And yet for all this, no one Tom could endure;
I fancies as how 'twas-because he was poor.

At last an old shipmate, that Tom might hail land, Who saw that his heart sail'd too fast for his hand,

In the riding of comfort a mooring to find,

Reef'd the sails of Tom's fortune, that shook in the wind:

He gave him enough through Life's ocean to steer, Be the breeze what it might, steady, thus, or no

near;

His pittance is daily, and yet Tom imparts

What he can to his friends-and may all honest

hearts,

Like Tom Tackle, have what keeps the wolf from

the door,

Just enough to be generous-too much to be poor.

DIBDIN.

Edwin,

A FAIRY TALE, IN THE OLD ENGLISH STYLE.

IN Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,
When midnight's fairies daunced the maze,
Lived Edwin of the Green;

Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,

Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shaped he been.

His mountain back mote well be said
To measure height against his head,
And lift itself above;

Yet spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,
This creature dared to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes,
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize,
Could ladies look within;

But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,
And if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion paced along,
All in the moony light;

'Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort
To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd,
'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost
That reach'd the neighbour town;
With weary steps he quits the shades,
Resolv'd, the darkling dome he treads,
And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
And trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once a hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.

Now sounding tongues assail his ear,
Now sounding feet approachen near,
And now the sounds increase:
And from the corner where he lay,
He sees a train profusely gay

Come prankling o'er the place.

But (trust me, gentles!) never yet
Was dight a masking half so neat,
Or half so rich before;

The country lent the sweet perfumes,
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes,
The town its silken store.