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Such was my Chloris' bonnie face,
When first her bonnie face I saw,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo’es me best of a'.

Like harmony her motion,
Her pretty ancle is a spy,
Betraying fair proportion,
Wad make a saint forget the sky.
Sae warming, sac charming,
Her fautless form, and gracefu' air ;
Ilk feature---auld nature,
Declar'd that she could do nae mair :
Her's are the willing chains o' love,
By conquering Beauty's sovereign law,
And ay my Chloris' dearest charm,
She says she lo’es me best of a'.

Let others love the city,
And gaudy show at sunny noon,
Gie me the lonely valley,
The dewy eve and rising moon.
Fair beaming and streaming,
Her silver light the boughs amang,
While falling, recalling,
The amorous thrush concludes his sang,
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove,
By wimpling burn, and leafy shaw,
And hear my vows o' truth and love,
And say thou lo'es me best of a'

SHENSTONE, who plumed himself as a song writer, has nothing comparable to the following:

Here is the glen, and here the bower,
All underneath the birchen shade ;
The village bell has told the hour,

what can stay my lovely maid.

'Tis not Maria's whispering call,
'Tis but the balmy breathing galc,
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall,
The dewy star of eve to hail.

It is Maria's voice I hear,
So calls the woodlark in the grove,
His little faithful mate to cheer,
At once 'tis music, and 'tis love.

And art thou come, and art thou true,
O welcome dear to love and me,
And let us all our vows renew,
Along the flowery banks of Cree.

Of the real condition of a sufferer's mind, we cannot form a correct judgment from an erect and smiling air. CRABBE has finely expressed this opinion:

'Tis not for us to tell, Though the head droops not, that the heart is well.


-Vigiles lucernas,
Perfer in lucem.


In my desultory rambles throughout the streets and lanes, the alleys and courts of this charming city, I do not proceed with the plodding pace of a plowman, gazing on the ground. Neither do I indulge myself in such fits of abstraction as totally to prevent the attentive survey of surrounding objects. I stare at signs, with all a clown's curiosity; and at the windows of a print shop, with the eagerness of an amateur.

Instead of mu

sing, as is my habit in my study and bedchamber, I have, in the language of Deborah Primrose, all my eyes about me when I am abroad. Nothing escapes my regard, from Dolly the chambermaid, twirling her mop, to orator Bubble, haranguing the million. I pay the fees most willingly to the master of a puppet show, and generally make one at a party of dancing bears. I seldom

pass Peale’s museum without giving his curiosities a call. Wertmuller's Danz I chastely contemplate in all her glory, and even those sons of fictitious harmony, who so ingeniously contrive to grind music for our gratification, frequently beguile me of the last piece of silver in my purse.

With all this humour, which seems to partake with the character of an idler, a man of pleasure, or a man of the world, rather than with that of a man of letters, I am still studious and contemplative. The process of Thought, is like the furnace of Alchymy. It is in the most intense blaze. My mental mill like suspected and injured Desdemona, turns and turns anı still gors 02. In the public strects, I collect many of my materials for private meditation. I catch a hint from a hawker and derive a theine from tlie theatres. The rapid rotation of the Circus does not, I hope, make me giddy, but wise. I derive sometimes my light from the drowsy watchman's lantern, and a glance at a jeweller's brilliant shelves reminds me full often of Arabian magnificence, the glittering of a fairy palacc, and John Bunyan's Vanity Fair.

Ten midsummer's ago, when I wandered from the country to the town, I remember that one day my attention was arrested by a caricature conceived by the Hogarthian bumour of Gilray. This ludicrous print was suspended under the sign of my perfumer; and was appropriately, entitled “ an idea in the night.A care worn author, in his nocturnal habiliments, night gown and slippers, and nightcap awry, has summoned his reluctant and sleepy servant from the land of Drowsyhead, that an idea in the night may not be lost in the morning. After my mirth had subsided at the expense of this vigilant retainer of the

yawning boy, who seemed to wish all muses and all authors, at the devil, I could not, for my life, refrain from reflecting upon the utility of this practice of recording by the aid of the faithful pen, whatever of witty or wise, whatever of the shining, or the solid

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muses, and his

may occur to fancy, and judgment, during the darkling hours. I thought of the example of Erasmus, I thought of the practice of Pope. Ever since this period, it has been my constant habit whenever, in the phrase of Dr. Johnson, I find myself wakefully disturbed, to rise with alacrity from the sleepless bed, to trim the lamp of midnight, and take up the thread of speculation. My favourite friend, Bob, the rover, who thoroughly understands my humour, has given me a genuine CLASSICAL LAMP, which he assures me, upon the veracity of a tourist, he actually dug out, of the ruins of the last earthquake at Messina. I believe Bob so implicitly that even if the dog lies, I would not be robbed of the delusion to be the first magistrate of my country. The lamp, which I illume by his bounty, is certainly a most brilliant one; and when in a sort of rapture, I survey its steady splendours, I cannot help thinking that, perhaps by the assistance of its blessed light, some Roman student has explored the imperishable page of Tully, or scanned a Seneca's morals, and that it has lighted up many a scene in Terence and brightened the wit of Martial.

Having of late furnished myself with divers jars of the purest oil, having burnished my lamp to a glitter not inferior to Mambrino's helmet, having, moreover, been careful with the pious -author of Tristam Shandy, to see that a sufficient wick ve standing out, I propose, at least once a month, to communicate to the public, Ideas in the night, which, though rapidly conceived may not be willingly forgotten.



The Christmas wreath so late in bloom,
Has faded with the closing year:
But Time, soon lights the season's gloom,
And flow’rs with sunshine, reappear.

What, though twelve months have glided by,
And in their flight have stol'n a bliss;
Shall we, o’er fleeting raptures sigh?
And lose our cake and annual kiss

Shall we not hail, with lib’ral cheer,
Old father Time? whose high command,
Once more renews the dawning year-
Its witching sports, and greetings bland.

Though grave and gray: on him attend,
Young blooming Joys and rosy Hours.
Inspir'd by him, the Muses blend
Their wreath, with Fancy's sweetest flow'rs.

Oft when a feeling thrills the breast,
Whose sadness sooths--whose gloom we prise:
He bids unholy passions rest,
And Mem’ry's fairy forms arise.

Then, many a scene of pleasures flown,
The smile of friends-Affection's tear:
And many a transport do we own;
Which once illum'd Life's social sphere.

More constant than the solar ray
The hobbling wight is still at hand,
To gild with smiles our pilgrim way,
And guide us to a happier land.

When transports fire-or raptures glide Tumultuous, through each throbbing vein

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