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To lady Sarah's tother night

I went an hour to spend;
When, seizing by my button tight,

Thus spoke a country friend.
6 Who is that man, round whom appears

Such an admiring crowd,
Why catch his tale with eager ears,

And often laugh aloud?
How ready every mortal looks

With bows and smiles to greet him!
By all the good and holy books

They seem as if they'd eat him !
66 He has some charm! What's his conditions

Come tell me, if you know it,
Say, is he traveller, politician,

Wit, orator, or poet?”
No, he is more, far more, than these,

For they would vainly try
With all their powers combin'd to please,

If he were standing by!
“ His praises many a tongue shall swell,

His merit so abounds!
He is !-" “ What is he? quickly tell!".
"Worth five score thousand pounds !"

R. A. D.


Fast by the shores of England lay

The ship securely moor’d;
Nor fear'a the seamen, night or day,

The loudest winds that roar'd:
Carousing, and from care all free,
For all their native land might see.

Bit far across the ocean borne,

With seamen from his home,
Ceas'd not the African to mourn

His idle wish to roam;
For well, no friend nor home, he knew,
That he on England's shores might view.

He, thoughtless once of future time,

And woes he ne'er had known,
With strangers for a distant clime-

--A boy-forsook his own;
And in his floating new abode
Over the seas delighted rode.

The circumstances of these lines were stated in the news papers and magazines about a year ago. The boy came from the Cape of Good Hope in one of his Majesty's ships the Zealand, then lying at the Nore, as servant to an Officer on board, and was known to be possessed with the faith of his country,

No chains of slavery he wore,

No tyrant's call obey'd;
The bonds himself he sought he bore;

And in a garb array'd
That might his willing office tell,
He serv'd a gentle master well.

But change of climate never can

Drive nature from the mind : Soon thro’ the plains in dreams he ran,

And woods he left behind : There with his comrades would rejoice, And-started at his mother's voice.

Short was the solace then he found

In his own hills and dales; And to the melancholy sound

Of dashing waves and sails, Arous’d from that delusive sight, He, listning, wore away the night.

So to his shudd'ring dreams awhile,

And to his hopeless days,
He ineckly bent, and with a smile

Could e'en on England gaze:
For tho' despair was all around,
His heart it's liberty had found.

Not the deep shades of night he chose

To veil his purpos'd deed;
But the brigit morning;-trom his woes

For ever to be freed-
He from the vessel's lofty side
Plung'd far into the foaming tide,

Nor plung'd unseen; ror him the wave

Swept from the aching view
So swiftly but perforce to save

The fearless seamen flew:
But, shunning aid of cord or plank,
With calm complacent mien he sank.

So he again a mother sought

In his own home to view;
For the wild faith he there was taught

Was all of death he knew :
And she, for whom his heart had pin’d,
Altho' a Hottentot-was kind !


WARZH 21., 1805.


WRITTEN IN THE CHAPEL OF ROSLII. THROUGH the cold twilight of the haunted aisle

The lunar beam of shadowy Autumn falls, And the low winds, like whispering voices, steal

Thro’ the arch'd casements of the gothic walls. And ghastly, mid the visionary gloom,

The awful phantoms of forgotten years Bend o'er the slumberin

warrior's ruin'd tomb, And bathe the marble with unearthly tears.

Hark in the deep pause of the fitful storın

Celestial music warbles to the night; And tranced Fancy views a lovely form,

On yon proud battlements’ * tremendous height!

Her white robes flutter in the eddying air,

Love's holiest lustre lights her humid eye, The dewy ringlets of her golden hair

Stream in the blast, that thunders thro' the sky.

To catch the first glimpse of the polished helm,

That binds her absent warrior's kingły brow, Alone she watches, tho' the tempests whelin

The waving woods, and trembling cliffs below.

Ah! little dream'd she the Iberian gales,

That shook the blossoms of the orange grove, Far far from her and Roslin's fairy vales,

Blew o'er the cold grave of her murdered love t.

And still when falls the pale autumnal even,

The lone Enthusiast lingers in the dell,
To hear soft mingling with the breath of Heaven

The widow'd mourner's aerial vespers swell.


* Roslin Castle. In allusion to St. Clair of Roslin who undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land with the heart of Robert Bruce, but was driven by contrary winds upon the coast of Spain, and engaging in the service of the Spanish King, was slain in a battle with the Moors.


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