Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud I hear not the voice of my love! Why delays my Salgar? why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar! Mrs Thrale or Piozzi. Born 1740. Died 1822. HESTER LYNCH SALISBURY, daughter of a gentleman of Carnarvonshire, was born in 1740. She was early distinguished by her beauty and accomplishments, and in 1763 married Mr Thrale, afterwards member of parliament for Southwark. On his death she retired to Bath, where she afterwards married Piozzi, an Italian, with whom she went abroad; they resided some time in Florence. She afterwards published a volume of poems, "The Florence Miscellany." She is only known now by her little tale "The Three Warnings." She died at Clifton 1822. THE THREE WARNINGS. That love of life increased with years When sports went round, and all were gay, With you!" the hapless husband cried; What more he urged I have not heard, His hour-glass trembled while he spoke- To give you time for preparation, Well pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, He chaffered, then he bought and sold, Nor thought of Death as near: Brought on his eightieth year. And now, one night, in musing mood, The unwelcome messenger of Fate Half-killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies : 66 Surely, my friend, you're but in jest? Since I was here before "Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore." "So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; "To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal ; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me Three Warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease, I can recover damages." "I know," cries Death, "that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable: Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" "Hold!" says the farmer; "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies: "However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends." "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight." "This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." "Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined, "These are unjustifiable yearnings; If you are lame, and deaf, and blind, You've had your Three sufficient Warnings; So come along; no more we'll part;" He said, and touched him with his dart. And now old Dodson turning pale, Yields to his fate-so ends my tale. Born 1740. Rev. Thomas Moss. {Died 1808. A CLERGYMAN of Staffordshire, only known by his poem, "The Beggar's Petition," published in 1769. THE BEGGAR. PITY the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, Yon house erected on the rising ground, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !) Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine? A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; And left the world to wretchedness and me. Mrs Hunter. Born 1742. Died 1821. ANNE HOME, daughter of Robert Home, of Greenlaw Castle, Berwickshire, was born in 1742. She married John Hunter, a celebrated anatomist. Mrs Hunter was the author of several beautiful lyrical poems, some of which were set to music by Haydn. THE LOT OF THOUSANDS. WHEN hope lies dead within the heart, 'Tis hard to smile when one would weep; Yet such the lot by thousands cast But nature waits her guests to greet, |