'Twas thus a dark infernal sprite
A native of the blackest night,
Portending mischief to devise
Upon Sly Dick he cast his eyes;

Then straight descends the infernal sprite,
And in his chamber does alight:

In visions he before him stands,

And his attention he commands.

Thus spake the sprite-hearken my friend,
And to my counsels now attend.
Within the garret's spacious dome
There lies a well stor❜d wealthy room,
Well stor❜d with cloth and stockings too,
Which I suppose will do for you,
First from the cloth take thou a purse,

For thee it will not be the worse,
A noble purse rewards thy pains,

A purse to hold thy filching gains;
Then for the stockings let them reeve
And not a scrap behind thee leave,
Five bundles for a penny sell

And pence to thee will come pell mell;

See it be done with speed and care
Thus spake the sprite and sunk in air.

When in the morn with thoughts erect
Sly Dick did on his dream reflect,
Why faith, thinks he, 'tis something too,
It might perhaps it might be true,

I'll go and see-away he hies,
And to the garret quick he flies,
Enters the room, cuts up the clothes
And after that reeves up the hose;
Then of the cloth he purses made,

Purses to hold his filching trade.

*** Cætera desunt. * * *

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

Almighty Framer of the Skies!

O let our pure devotion rise,
Like Incense in thy Sight!

Wrapt in impenetrable Shade

The Texture of our Souls were made
Till thy Command gave Light.

The Sun of Glory gleam'd the Ray,
Refin'd the Darkness into Day,

And bid the Vapors fly:
Impell'd by his eternal Love
He left his Palaces above

To cheer our gloomy Sky.

How shall we celebrate the day,
When God appeared in mortal clay,
The mark of worldly scorn;
When the Archangel's heavenly Lays,
Attempted the Redeemer's Praise

And hail'd Salvation's Morn!

A Humble Form the Godhead wore,
The Pains of Poverty he bore,

To gaudy Pomp unknown :
Tho' in a human walk he trod
Still was the Man Almighty God
In Glory all his own.

Despis'd, oppress'd, the Godhead bears
The Torments of this Vale of tears;
Nor bade his Vengeance rise;

He saw the Creatures he had made,
Revile his Power, his Peace invade;
He saw with Mercy's Eyes.

How shall we celebrate his Name,
Who groan'd beneath a Life of shame
In all Afflictions tried!

The Soul is raptured to conceive

A Truth, which Being must believe,
The God Eternal died.

My Soul exert thy Powers, adore,
Upon Devotion's plumage soar
To celebrate the Day:

The God from whom Creation sprung
Shall animate my grateful Tongue ;
From him I'll catch the Lay!*

• In many of the pieces which were confessedly written by him there are marks of genius, not indeed equal to those of the counterfeit Rowley, but such as prove, that the boy who wrote them could write better. In composing the ancient poems, all his attention had been exerted. It

APOSTATE WILL.*

In days of old, when Wesley's power
Gathered new strength by every hour
Apostate Will, just sunk in trade,
Resolved his bargain should be made;
Then strait to Wesley he repairs,
And puts on grave and solemn airs;
Then thus the pious man addressed.
Good sir, I think your doctrine best;

was the first, and seems to have been the greatest object of his life, to raise himself to future eminence by the instrumentality of a fictitious poet of a former age. Nights, if not days were devoted to the work; for we have it on record, that he used to sit awake in his chamber during the silence of midnight. But the little compositions which he wrote for the magazines, were either written in a careless mood, when he relaxed his mind from his grand work, or in a moment of distress, when an extemporary essay or copy of verses was necessary to procure him a halfpenny roll and a draught of small beer. When he found that the editors were more desirous of quantity than quality, and, amidst the numerous volunteers in their service, seemed backward to engage with one who wanted a stipend, he foresaw that even the little which nature wanted would not be supplied-He saw, and resigned his indignant spirit.-VICESIMUS KNOX.

This poem is transcribed, says Sir Herbert Croft, from an old pocketbook in his mother's possession. It appears to be his first, perhaps his only copy of it; and is evidently his hand writing. By the date he was eleven years and almost five months old. It is not the most extraordinary performance in the world: but, from the circumstance of Chatterton's parentage and education. it is unlikely, if not impossible, that he should have met with any assistance or correction; whereas, when we read the ode which Pope wrote at twelve, and another of Cowley at thirteen, we are apt to suspect a parent, friend, or tutor, of an amiable dishonesty, of which we feel, perhaps, that we should be guilty. Suspicions of this nature touch not Chatterton. He knew no tutor, no friend, no parent-at least no parent who could correct or assist him. This poem appears to have been aimed at somebody, who had formerly been a Methodist, and was lately promoted (to the dignity, perhaps, of opening a pew or a grave; for Chatterton was the sexton's nephew) in the established church.-LOVE AND MADNESS.

Your servant will a Wesley be,
Therefore the principles teach me.
The preacher then instructions gave,
How he in this world should behave:
He hears, assents, and gives a nod,
Says every word's the word of God,
Then lifting his dissembling eyes,
How blessed is the sect! he cries;
Nor Bingham, Young, nor Stillingfleet,
Shall make me from this sect retreat.
He then his circumstance declared,
How hardly with him matters fared,
Begg'd him next morning for to make
A small collection for his sake.
The preacher said, Do not repine,
The whole collection shall be thine.
With looks demure and cringing bows,
About his business strait he goes.
His outward acts were grave and prim,
The methodist appear'd in him.
But, be his outward what it will,

His heart was an apostate's still.

He'd oft profess an hallow'd flame,

And every where preach'd Wesley's name;

He was a preacher, and what not,
As long as money could be got;
He'd oft profess, with holy fire.
The labourer's worthy of his hire.