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If honor prompt the lover's prayer,
If truth his actious guide,

And you his vows with pleasure hear,
Fear not to be his bride.

For he whom truth, whom honor sways,
While love directs the heart,
No sordid motive e'er betrays
To abuse the husband's part.
But if your breast no passion own,
Yet grant him your esteem→
The preference that he has shown
An honor you may deem.

And never ridicule allow

Of him you should respect;
You but degrade yourself and shew
A want of intellect.

The flatterer's idle prate annoys~~
He, like the silly bird,

One form of words to all employs,
Unmeaning and absurd.

O! of his babbling take no heed,
Nor let it seem you prize.
What foolish girls admire indeed,
But good sense must despise.

For but where witless minds repair
The flatterer meets support;
Contempt and scorn await him where
The wise and good resort.

Yet more of pity than of hate

On him, poor wretch, bestow, Whose lot inexplicable fate

Has placed so truly low.

Who views the bloom of innocence
The maiden's cheek adorn,

Yet in her breast with feigned pretence,
Would plant the rankling thorn;

Then joy to crush the lovely flower
He has from Virtue riven,

To blast with base demoniac power.
Her every hope of Heaven;

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As you revere the Holy one,

And in his truth believe,
Him as the wily serpent shun,

That charms but to deceive.
If piety, unchecked, preside

Within your grateful breast,
Though Folly scoff, though Vice deride,
There care shall not molest.

Your parents you will ne'er neglect,
Who ne'er neglected you;

To them are love and high respect
Pre-eminently due.

Scorn not the maid who, rich in charms,
Thy graces may excel,

Nor let pale Envy's base alarms
Within thy bosom dwell.

While those who with yourself compeer
Complacently you meet,

Those doomed to fill an humbler sphere
With mild attention greet.

With open handed charity,

Relieve the poor distress'd,

And kindly soothe the tremulous sigh
That rends the care-worn breast.

If they who've soured your fairest views
Should crave to be forgiven,
The claims of mercy ne'er refuse,

That first-best gift of Heaven.

Make acts like these your constant care,
On earth you'll meet regard;

And may hereafter hope to share
In Heaven's bright reward.

THE DEATH OF EVA.

W. E. jun.

THOUGH intently I gazed on her beautiful face,
Not a likeness of what she once was could I trace:
All was cheerless and void; though her still beaming eye
Reflected the azure that colours the sky;

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And though on her sunk cheek a deep hectic flushed,
And the heart rending sighs in her bosom were hushed:
Yet I knew 'twas a calm, as a messenger senti
To tell us the last of life's vigour was spent
That that bosom though calm would be still calmer yet,
As the sun that is setting will shortly be set,vt
For those feelings, that anguish so sadly had torn,
Were then too much spent any longer to mourn!
And ah! 'twas too true!-For on the loved breast...
Of him who deprived her young bosom of rest,
She expired! And too late her false lover felt
That a heart where the tenderest of feelings had dwelt
He had wantonly pierced. And then, while he gazed,
On that form he'd so often admired and praised,
And saw the deep grief on her pale woe-worn face,
Though silently sleeping in death's cold embrace,
His heart felt remorse-but remorse then too late
To recal back the the past, or the young maiden's fate.
Yet he lived but to mourn; and the last sigh he gave,
Was breathed as he hung o'er his lost Eva's grave,
SAPPHO.

June 30, 1820.

THE MANIAC.

FAIR Maniac! oh ne'er from my eyes shall depart Thy pale drooping form, nor thy woes, from my heart, I'll cherish in sadness the sentiment dear,

And shed o'er thy fate a pathetical tear.

Still, still, I behold thee in tatters arrayed,

Thy hands on thy bosom so franticly laid: [ous eyes, Ah! the wild glance that darts from those still beauteAn absence of reason too surely implies.

A garland of straw, too, thy fingers infold,

To thy view it all glistens with diamonds and gold;
And wild with disorder thy tresses are seen,

And strange are thy gestures, and frantic's thy mein.
Now fixed on the moon thy bewildered gaze,
While many a courtesy welcomes its rays,

I hear thee exclaim, "Oh it shines but for me,
There's no other mortal its lustre can see :
And I love thuray by its silvery light,
For sweet are the visions that burst on my sight!

But the

Lorn victorm has subsided! the conflict is o'er!

and Frenzy shall haunt thee no more: Since none to thy sorrows a balm could apply, Though I mourn thee, I think it was blissful to die. That Being who knew of thy bosom's distress, Hath claimed thee, and well will he yield thee redress For every pang that has tortured thy heart, Ah! he will most kindly a blessing impart; And time shall be lost in the ages that roll, In ministering comfort and peace to thy soul. When Luna's soft radiance the vallies o'ershines, Oft I hie to the spot where the maiden reclines; And surely her spirit, though ranging the skies, My fervent devotion complacently eyes, As with tears of the truest compassion I lave, The verdure that covers the Maniac's grave. London, March 6, 1821.

ON SPRING.

F. HARRISON.

NO longer the snow is discerned on the mountain,
No longer the frost binds the streamlet or fountain;
Bleak winter, at length, from the plains is receding,
And spring with gay footsteps is quickly proceeding;
The blackbird and thrush hail the day's early dawn,
And sweet! oh how sweet! is the breath of the morn.
The snow-drop and crocus their heads are just rearing,
And the violet and primrose will soon be appearing;
The ploughman again in his fields is seen toiling,
And with innocent songs is his labour beguiling:
While the skylarks around him delightfully sing,
And all nature's in concert to welcome the spring.

A CHRISTMAS DITTY..

AN orphan, who not long before
Had lost her parents kind and tender,
Stood near a lord and lady's door,

ZENO.

Who had no child, and lived in splendour.
She warbled strains of genuine woe,
In hope to catch the ear of pity;
Her little heart's pulse beating low,
She sweetly sung her simple ditty:

"Oh! Fortune's favourites, great and good,
Afford a helpless orphan food;

For Christmas comes but once a year,
And when it comes it brings good cheer."

In vain thus flowed her tuneful breath,

Great folks sometimes have little feeling!

Poor child, the clay-cold hand of death
Benumbed her frame, and hushed her trilling.
The neighbouring maids, with many a flower
Bedecked the orphan's grave with pity;
And fancy hears, each midnight hour,
(When winter chills,) her simple ditty:
"Oh! Fortune's favourites, great and good,
Afford a helpless orphan food;

For Christmas comes but once a year,
And when it comes it brings good cheer."

PARODY.

LIVES there a man, with such a head,
Who never to himself hath said,
"Very pretty, 'pon my life!"
If he should happen to have read

Lord Byron's verses to his wife?
Whose heart has ne'er within him burned,
As o'er the pages he has turned

Of Corinth's siege, that work divine,
Or read his Ode to Buonaparte,

(I should not blush to call it mine.)

Lives there a man with such a heart?

With such a heart, with such a head!
That man must be already dead,

A.

E'en while he lives---and when he yields his breath,

At Nature's hour, this is the second death.

B. O.N.

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

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