Where sad Biitamiia sits with awful care,

Nor War withholds her tribute of a tear!

Surrounding chiefs whose breasts disdain to feel

Th' unheeded anguish of the hostile steel,

Here felt the stronger conflict—here subdued,

In silent grief the mightier conqueror viewed:

Saw her victorious Wolfe expire again;

The kindred mind unvanquished still by pain,

Caught his last patriot pain, his parting sigh,

And seal'd with Conquest's hand his closing eye," There are few readers who will not be affected by the following address to Sir Robert Ker Porter, written after receiving intelligence of the death of Captain Henry Edwin Caulfield, ot the first regiment of foot guards.

Why does the gale from yonder frowning steep,

Steal in such mournful melody of sound;

Or murmuring waves their awful cadence keep,

While wakeful memory walks her trembling round,

Docs not some kindred spirit breathe the strain,

Mourn in.the breeze, or whisper in the gale,

And weep the blighted jays of youth in vain.

Stealing from sympathy her trusted tale i

Fair flowers of genius in your richest bloom,

Giv'n to the wintry storm in all your pride,

Yet friendship bids yon deck a hallowed tomb!.

Ye bloom immortal though your Henry died!

What though to earthly storms your sweets were given,

The perfect blossom shall expand in heaven. Mrs. Cockles' lighter effusions are of equal excellence with her grave and tender compositions. Her former labours have been successfully devoted to the improvement of the rising generation in knowledge and virtue: her present production contains sufficient evidence that she is not less qualified to delight the old, than to instruct the young. H.

ORIGINAL And FUGITIVE POETRY.
TO A LADY,

On receiving in jest a funeral Urn, inscribed with tte name of an Officer.
Bring not the wreath at Pleasure's gay command,
To deck at Fancy's call a hero's bier;
Bring not the trophied urn from Glory's hand,
Or twining laurels gemmed with Valor's tear.

Ah! not the light wing wanton Fancy waves
Can bear Reflection to that war-worn soil,
Where many a Britain yet the tempest Waves,
Or marks the sudden close of earthly toil.

With Freedom's step yet treads the stranger ground,
Firm and unyielding in the awful strife;
Grasps the proud sword, with former laurels bound,
'Midst that dread conflict—liberty and life.

Yet Memory binds o'er many. A tropliied urn,
Busaco's heroes, proud Barossa's boast;
Nor yet the widow'd heart has ceased to mourn
Those blighted buds of Hope, her treasure lost.

Nor yet has ceas'd the orphan's tear to flow,
From eyes in filial anguish rais'd to heav'n;
Nor yet is hush'd the sign of softer woe:
That sigh a Daughter trusts will beforgiv'n.

Ye, who have seen, have heard with trembling grief,
All Friendship's feeling—with her sacred zeal,
Have lent, of Sympathy, the kind relief,
Or wept the destiny she fear'd to fecL

Ah! YE can tell if Fancy's gayest hue,
Can lend one transient touch to gild the scene,
Whilst many a bark, 'midst many a sad adieu,
Yet braves the angry ocean's surging mien.

Mark in mute grief, where weeping beauty stands,
To catch with straining eye the lessening sail!
Mark the white signal from uplifted hands,
Ah! vainly waving in the unfriendly gale.

Mark the slow footstep that reluctant turns,
(Nor turns till then) in twilight's latest hue 1
Mark the keen anguish of that breast which mourns.
Perhaps a parting Husband's last adieu!

Perchance the sacred tear a Mother gives,
Has fallen in anguish o'er some blooming face,
Where in each opening charm remembrance lies,
Which widow'd fondness ne'er forgot to trace.

Perchance a brother, (oh! that horjor'd name
Recalls whate'er is tenderness and truth)
Feels all a weeping sister's cherish'd claim,
The claim of Beauty, Innocence and Youth.

And 'midst the groupe, perhaps a softer sigh,
From trusting friendship may unconscious steal;
Or timid fondness in her tearful eye,
Betray the hope, his bosom fears to feel.

Oh! say, 'mid scenes like these, can Fancy lend
One charm to lull the bursting sigh of care;
Fame claims the Sun,the Husband, and the Friend,
But Feeling consecrates the parting tear.

M. C.

CANTILENA CANTABRIGIENSIS.

Fugit aetas, et faccssit:
Forma decor deflorescit:
Faelix calix, et amores
Procul abigant maerores:
Da Basia, Chloe, vinum Puer,
Dies it, praesenti frnar:
Nulla, nulla sit formido,
Quamvis Caecus sit Cupido,
Per Maeandros et Errores,
Palpat viam ad Mxrores.
Fugit jEfas et facessit,
Forma decor deflorescit,
Da Basia, Chloe, vinum, Puer,
Dies it, praesenti fruar.

THE LATIN IMITATED.
Time impatient flits away,
Charms of beauty soon decay:
Love and wine, the foes to grief,
For those sorrows bring relief:

Kiss, then Chloe, kiss, my lass;
Fill, my boy, the sparkling glass;
We'll the present hour employ,
And secure the flitting joy;
Fear not, fear not Cupid blind,
Though he's wanton, he is kind:
Dread not then his pointed dart,
Which gives the pleasure with the smart;
Through thorny mazes he will rove,
Yet he soothes the way to love:
Then though time should flit away,
Then though beauty should decay,
Kiss me, Chloe,—kiss again,
For we will not live in vain;
We'll not think what time may bring,
But of life enjoy the spring:
While we thus our time improve,
We shall live an age of love.

Mr. EDITOR.

The enclosed account of some extraordinary curiosities, collected by a gentleman in our own country, will, I presume, be agreeable to the Virtuosi; for I much question whether all the cabinets of Europe can furnish greater rarities. It is requisite to premise, that Mr. C— b, who collected them, had been cured of a dangerous illness by the skill of Dr. L :And afterwards having occasion to travel over the West of England, was desired by the doctor to procure for him any uncommon things he should meet with in his journey. How well he has acquitted himself, I leave his own letter to inform.

MR. C—if. TO DOCTOR L .

Since you, dear doctor, sav'd my life,
To bless, by turns, and plague my wife,
In conscience I'm oblig'd to do
Whatever is enjoin'd by you.

According, then, to your command,
That I should search the western land,
Vol. ill. P

For curious things of every kind,
And send you all that I could find.
I've ravag'd air, earth, seas and caverns,
Men, women, children, towns and taverns:
And more varieties can-shew
Than Gresham's brotherhood e'er knew;
Which Carrier Dick shall bring you down,
Next time his waggon comes from town.

First, I've three drops of that same show'r
Which Jove in Danae's lap did pour.
From Carthage brought, the sword I'll send',
Wherewith Queen Dido made her end.
The stone whereby Goliah died,
Which cures the head-ache,—well applied.
A snake-skin, which you may believe
The devil cast who tempted Eve.
A fig-leaf apron; 'tis the same
That Adam wore to hide his shame:
But now wants darning:—I've beside
The blow by which poor Abel died.
A whetstone, worn exceeding small,
Time us'd to sharp his scythe withal.
The pigeon stuff'd, which Noah sent,
To tell him where the waters went.
A ring I've got of Sampson's hair,
Which Delilah was wont to wear.
St. Dunstati's tongs, as story shews,
Which pinch'd the devil by the nose.
The smock which Pen spun, when Ulysses
Was wantoning among the Misses.
The very shaft, as all may see,
Which Cupid shot at Anthony:
And, what beyond the rest I prize,
A glance of Cleopatra's eyes.
Some strains of eloquence, that hung
In Roman times on Tully's tongue,
Which undiscover'd still had lain,
But Erskiae found them out again.

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