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For him the sun its power displays,

In either hemisphere;
Pours on Virginia's coast its blaze,
Tobacco for his pipe to raise;

And shines to light it-here!

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EPIGRAM.

QUOCUNQUE MODO REM.

A veteran gambler in a tempest caught,
Once in his life, a church's shelter sought;
Where many an hint, pathetically grave,
On life's precarious lot, the preacher gave.
The sermon ended, and the storm all spent,
Home trudg'd old Cog-die, reasoning as he went;
“ Strict truth," quoth he, “ this reverend sage de-

clar'd; “ I feel conviction—and will be prepar'd“ Nor e'er henceforth, since life thus steals away, “ Give credit for a bet, beyond a day!"

JOHN BAMPFYLDE.

BORN 1754.-DIED 1796.

John BAMPFYLDE was the younger brother of Sir Charles Bampfylde. He was educated at Cambridge, and published his sonnets' when very young. He soon after fell into mental derangement; and is said to have passed the last years of his life in confinement.

SONNET.

As when, to one, who long hath watch'd the morn

Advancing, slow forewarns th' approach of day, (What time the young and flow'ry-kirtled May

Decks the green hedge, and dewy grass unshorn With cowslips pale, and many a whitening thorn ;)

And now the sun comes forth, with level ray Gilding the high-wood top, and mountain gray;

And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn; The rivers glisten to the dancing beam,

Th’ awaken’d birds begin their amorous strain,

And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem; Such is the sight of thee; thy wish'd return To eyes, like mine, that long have wak'd to mourn,

That long have watch'd for light, and wept in vain !

1 Censura Literaria, vol. iv. p. 301.

SONNET.

TO MR. JACKSON OF EXETER.

Though winter's storms embrown the dusky vale,

And dark and wistful wanes the low'ring year; 'Though bleak the moor, forlorn the cots, appear,

And through the hawthorn sighs the sullen gale; Yet do thy strains most rare, thy lays, ne'er fail

Midst the drear scene my drooping heart to cheer; Warm the chill blood, and draw the rapturous tear.

Whether thou lov'st in mournful mood to wail Lycid “bright genius of the sounding shore,'

Or else with slow and solemn hymns to move
My thoughts to piety and virtue's lore;
But chiefest when, (if Delia grace the measure,)
Thy lyre o’erwhelming all my soul in pleasure,

Rolls the soft song of joy, and endless love.

SONNET.

ON A WET SUMMER,

All ye, who far from town, in rural hall, Like me, were wont to dwell near pleasant field, Enjoying all the sunny-day did yield,

With me the change lament, in irksome thrall, By rains incessant held; for now no call

From early swain invites my hand to wield

The scythe; in parlour dim I sit conceal'd, And mark the lessening sand from hour-glass fall;

Or 'neath my window view the wistful train Of dripping poultry, whom the vine’s broad leaves Shelter no more.—Mute is the mournful plain,

Silent the swallow sits beneath the thatch,

And vacant hind hangs pensive o'er his hatch, Counting the frequent drop from reeded eaves.

SONNET,

Cord is the senseless heart that never strove,
With the mild tumult of a real flame;
Rugged the breast that beauty cannot tame,
Nor youth's enlivening graces teach to love

The pathless vale, the long-forsaken grove, The rocky cave that bears the fair one's name, With ivy mantled o’er For empty fame,

Let him amidst the rabble toil, or rove In search of plunder far to western clime.

Give me to waste the hours in amorous play With Delia, beauteous maid, and build the rhyme

Praising her flowing hair, her snowy arms,
And all that prodigality of charms

Form'd to enslave my heart and grace my lay, ,

ROBERT BURN S.

BORN 1758.-DIED 1796.

ROBERT BURNS was born near the town of Ayr, within a few hundred yards of “ Alloa’s auld haunted kirk,” in a clay cottage, which his father, who was a small farmer and gardener, had built with his own hands. A part of this humble edifice gave way when the poet was but a few days old ; and his mother and he were carried, at midnight, through the storm, to a neighbour's house that gave them shelter. After having received some lessons in his childhood, from the schoolmaster of the village of Alloa, he was, at seven years of age, put under a teacher of the name of Murdoch, who instructed him in reading and English grammar. This good man, who is still alive, and a teacher of languages in London, boasts, with a very natural triumph, of having accurately instructed Burns in the first principles of composition. At such an age, Burns's study of principles could not be very profound'; yet it is due to his early instructor to observe, that his prose style is more accurate than we should expect even from the vigour of an untutored mind, and such as would lead us to suppose that he had been early ini. tiated in the rules of grammar. His father's removal to another farm in Ayrshire, at Mount Oliphant, un

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