He would teach us to think, to converse, and to

write,

And do all that's proper and vastly polite.

Now my
Lud you will see that the case can't apply,
Where such wares are not wanting, there's no one
to buy.

Judge Ashbourne gets up, 'tis most certainly clear
That no Stranger has failed of a kind welcome here;
And if he has ought that is useful or gay,
We'll not churlishly turn the poor pedlar away.
By laws the most liberal, I chuse to decide,
To encourage a Stranger's my Countrymen's pride
To cherish this sentiment then may be well,
Though we want not to buy, the man wants to sell.
But why should a Stranger much wonder he found i
A lib'ral reception on classical ground?

'Tis literature's soil, no rude barren waste;

Here a Boothby delighted with numbers most chaste,

And yet Moore you may claim, tó renovate taste. I shall now bid farewell, my Lecture here ends, My best adding up, the thanks to my friends; Anxious to leave the impression behind,

I was not ungrateful where they were so kind.

On a Lady,

PLACING A FALLEN ROSE IN HER BOSOM.

1

Rude the wind, unkind the shower,
That made thee droop thy head;
That bent so low, so fair a flower,

The pride of all the bed,

2

Let me preserve thee, beauteous rose,
Where no cold frost appears;

Where thou shalt feel no wind that blows,

No shower but my tears.

SAY thou poor persecuted saint,
Thou mangled martyr of all times;
Mangled in sayings, cute, and quaint,
In heaps of prose, and lots of rhymes;

2

Mangled by sectarists ev'ry day,

All claiming credence right;

Who'd cheat the gospel while they pray, And honest truth keep out of sight,

3

What dost thine hustled highness here?

Truly I'd cut the World, or quit it; 'Tis but in vain thou'dst persevere,

Seldom able to out wit it.

Song,

WRITTEN ON BOARD THE RESOURCE FRIGATE.*

1

NIGHT had past her heaviest glooms,
All but the watch were fast in sleep,
When right a head a vessel looms,
Ploughing fast the stilly deep;

The Quarter Master tends the wheel,
And sings as on the chace we steal;
Steady, Port a little, steady.

2

All hands are call'd, no seaman rests; For now the Boatswain hoarsely cries, "Up all hammocks, down all chests;" See each man to his station flies.

The Quarter Master, &c.

3

A few broadsides decide the fight,
Her colours struck bespeak dismay;
The prize is ours, the helm we right,
And now for England bear away.

The Quarter Master, &c.

4

The helmsman now he ready stands

His heart with love's sweet hope imprest,
The wheel still govern'd by his hand,
The magnet compass in his breast.
The Quarter Master, &c.

* Recollection does not always pour out the vials of wrath. At times it comes in such pleasant guise as makes us give it welcome. It is so with one who has ever leaned over the tafferel of a ship of war in a fine evening, when he recalls the serenity of the picture, contemplating the wake of the vessel in a favoring gale, on a passage home, and the beauty of the setting suu. It is a mistaken notion that a sailor is all roughness and rudeness; among the Officers are to be found men of high polish, when absent from the boisterous duties peculiar to the element. At the time that the Author was lieutenant in the Swedish Marine, a circumstance occurred that deserves mention, as it displays the character of the Naval Officer. He had