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That part's enough of beauty's type

To warm an honest fellow;
And tho' it touch me not when ripe,
It melts me still when mellow.

Then who'd be grave, &c.
Life's a voyage, we all declare,

With scarce a port to hide in : It may be so with pride or care,

That's not the sea I ride in: Here floats my soul in fancy's eye,

Here realms of bliss discover, Bright worlds, that fair in prospect lie; To him that's half seas over.

Then who'd be grave, &c.

WOMAN.
When life looks lone and dreary,

What light can dispel the gloom ?
When time's swift wing grows weary,

What charın can refresh his plume? 'Tis Woman, whose sweetness beameth

O'er all that we feel or see;
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,

Oh, Woman!
Let conquerors fight for glory,-

Too dearly the meed they gain;
Let patriots live in story,—.

Too often they die in vain. Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,

This world can offer to me No throne like Beauty's bosom, No freedom like serving thee, Oh, Woman!

LORD GREGORY.

Ah!

ope, Lord Gregory, thy door! A midnight wanderer sighs; Hard rush the rains, the tenipests roar,

And lightnings cleave the skies.
Who comes with woe at this drear night

A pilgrim of the gloom?
If she whose love did once delight,

My cot shall yield her room.
Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn,

That once was priz'd by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn

Thou gav'st to love and me. But should'st thou not poor Marian know,

I'll turn my feet and part: And think the storms that round me blow,

Far kinder than thy heart.

STREPHON AND LYDIA. ALL lovely on the sultry, beach,

Expiring Strephon lay, No hand the cordial draught to reach,

Nor chear the gloomy way.
Ill-fated youth! no parent nigh,

To catch thy fleeting breath,
No bride to fix thy swinning eye,

Or smooth the face of death.
Far distant from the mournful scene,

Thy parents sit at ease,
Thy Lydia rifles all the plain,

And all the spring to please.

Ill fated youth! by fault of friend,

Not force of foe, depress’d,
Thou fall’st, alas! thyself, thy kind,

Thy country, unredress' ! *

THE NEGRO GIRL. Yon poor Negro girl, an exotic plant,

Was torn from her dear native soil, Reluctantly borne o'er the raging Atlant', And brought to Britannia's

isle.
Though Fatima's mistress be loving and kind,

Poor Fatima still must deplore:
She thinks on her parents left weeping behind,

And sighs for her dear native shore.
She thinks on her Zadi, the youth of her heart,

Who from childhood was loving and true,
How he cried on the beach, when the ship did depart-

'Twas a sad everlasting adieu :

lady

In an interleaved copy of Johnson's Musical Museum, now in the possession of Miss Eliza Bayley of Manchester, the folluwing account of the above song is given, in the hand-writing of ROBERT BURNS.-" The Strephon and Lydia, mentioned in this song, were perhaps the loveliest couple of their time. The genteman was commonly known by the name of Beau Gibson. The

was the “Gentle Jean,” celebrated in Mr. Hamilton of Bangour's poems. Having frequently met at public places, they had formed a reciprocal attachment, which their friends thought

as their resources were by no means adequate to their tastes and habits of life. To elude the bad consequences of such a connexion, Strephon was sent abroad with a commission, and perished in Admiral Vernon's expedition to Carthagena."

dangerous,

The shell-woven gift which he bound round her arm,

The rude seamen unfeelingly tore,
Nor left one sad relic her sorrows to charm,

When far from her dear native shore.

And now, all dejected, she wanders apart,

No friend, save retirement, she seeks;
The sigh of despondency bursts from her heart,

And tears dew her thin sable cheeks;
Poor hard-fated girl, long, long she may mourn!

Life's pleasures to her are all o'er,
Far fled ev'ry hope that she e'er shall return,

To revisit her dear native shore.

THE LARK FROM EARTH DELIGHTED SPRINGS.

The lark from earth delighted springs,

And sings of love with dawning day;
Of love sweet Philomela sings,

Beneath the moon's pale silver ray.
With op'ning leaves, when Phæbus shines,

The sun-flow'r courts his passing beam;
The woodbine round the oak-tree twines,

And willows kiss the gliding stream.
Since ev'ry breath that fills the gale,

And ev'ry sound that wakes the grove;
Still echo love's delightful tale,

And ev'ry zephyr whispers love.

Then let us use the golden hour,

Ere fate the fairy scene dispels;
For ah! when age usurps his pow'r,

The heart no more with rapture swellom

THE RETURN OF SPRING.

Come, join with me, ye rural swains,
And wake the reed to cheerful strains,
Since winter now has fled our plains,

With all his rueful store:
No more the furious, blust'ring sky,
From Greenland's dreary mountains high,
(Where worlds of ice tumultuous lie)

Extends the mighty roar.
With dark’ning rage o'er yon rude Forth,
No more the chill bleak breathing north,
Grim throws the fleecy tempest forth,

Thick thro' the black’ning sky, Till o'er each hill and sullen vale, A universal white prevail, And deep beneath the snowy veil,

The sad creation lie.

The hoary tyrant now has fled,
Young blooming spring our fields o'erspread,
Hope, wealth, and joy are by her led,

An all-enliv’ning train.
Along yon dale, or daisied mead,
Soon as young morn uplifts her head,
The hind yokes in the willing steed,

Blythe whistling o'er the lawn. The stately grove and thick’ning wood, That winter's furious blasts withstood, Unfold the verdant leafy brood,

High waving in the air; While o'er the mountain's grassy steep, Are heard the tender bleating sheep, Around the wanton lambkins leap,

At once their joy and care.

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