And few, oh! few have impudence (I mean The loveliest works of Heaven-the fair and young)

heaven

A widow'd farmer had an only child,

A daughter fair, the treasure of his soul; She had the looks that once his cares beguil'd,

She had the voice that could his woes

condole,

The looks, the voice of that sweet friend that lay

Within his bosom-now a clod of clay.

Of all the interesting objects seen,

Or rather felt, in this dark world of ours, It is a female child-that embryo green

Of woman-fairest far of all the flowers Of vegetable or of mortal birth, That Heaven hath sent to blossom upon earth.

As in the breast of the half-open'd leaf, The early bud eludes the chilling airThe happy infant feels no human grief, Beneath the shelter of a parent's care, That guardian friend that o'er her com. fort keeps

A watch-like Heaven, that slumbers not nor sleeps.

But when the human rose at length displays

Its summer's blossom exquisitely fair, Ah! who may tell, amid this world's dark ways,

What villain's hand the tender bloom may tear?

Ah! who can tell what poison-pointed

tongue

May blight the flower so innocent and young?

Oh God! the pulses of a parent's heart With deep anxiety must wildly beat, When he beholds his lovely child impart Those peerless beauties that are doom. ed to meet

The public gaze, and to inflame the breast Of human fiends, in smiles of friendship drest.

I know not what the widow'd farmer felt, When he beheld his dear and only child,

A girl of eighteen years-but hearts would melt

With pleasure, when the lovely damsel smiled,

And when she spoke, and sung the poet's lay,

Oh! many a youthful heart was charm'd

away.

But he the affections of her heart that won, A boon for which the village youngsters sigh'd,

Was Allan Graeme, their landlord's only son,

Whom in a sportsman's dress she first espied,

As she sat pondering on a favourite book, Beneath the palms that overhang the brook.

He was a stranger in the neighbourhood,

And little known in any cottage round, Although his father's splendid mansion stood

Beside the hamlet on a rising ground Even as a titled mortal, proud and high, O'erlooks the peasants with a scornful eye. He left the valley in his boyish years;

But now from schools and colleges return'd,

The rose of youth upon his cheek appears, The fires of youth within his bosom burn'd;

A feast, a fight-and of the olden day, Each strange accoutrement and coat of mail;

But this indeed's a very useless matter, Though he had powers even to describe them better.

He seldom takes the trouble to infuse
A moral sentiment into his story;
We roam, indeed, through very pleasant
views,

A land that seems of beauty, love, and glory;

But when we finish, and begin to deem Where we have been-'tis vanish'd like a dream.

Yet worse-why should he hoot the Covenanters,

The holy visions of each pious soul, And give to priests, or churchmen, or dissenters,

Sach names as "Bide-the-Bent" and

"Blattergowl?"

He is not half so wise, (though he be stronger,)

As the good worthy family of Ongar.

Oh! those that labour for the good of man, And woman too, of course, are heirs of praise!

And they shall have it when this little

span

Of life is spent-when many a glaring blaze

Of human idols are extinguish'd quite
Amid the gloom of everlasting night.

Once I had dreams that fame would make me blest,

But wiser Beattie made my dreaming cease;

"Of pomp and power, of wealth and fame possest,

Who ever felt his weight of woe decrease ?"

Alas! for Beattie's dark and dismal days, The peerless Bard that sung the "Min"strel lays."

It makes me laugh, and sometimes makes me weep,

To see a mortal that his kind surpasses, Scrambling, like goat-herd, up ambition's steep

And all for what? to gain the praise of asses

Of senseless idiots, who the watch-word catch,

In blind conviction, like the nightly watch

I now abjure all thoughts of earthly glory; My labours, hence, shall be a public blessing;

For I am telling my unvarnish'd story, My thoughts and feelings, virtue and transgressing;

And they my wisdom that have sense to reckon,

May take me for their pilot or their beacon.

A pilot-faith, I have not power to guide

The unsteady rudder of my own small sloop;

For passions rouse the billows of the tide, And Reason leaves me helpless on the

poop,

And hair-brain'd Fancy says the ship's her own

I fear some London Smack will run me down.

A beacon I am like enough to be;

The crazy vessel soon will sink, I fear; And mortals, toss'd on life's tempestuous sea,

Passing the spot where I have foundered near,

Will shout unto their fellows-" Lads, beware

Poor Caleb Cornhill, luckless soul, lies there!"

Yes, fears are dark before me, and behind Are blasted hopes, and wither'd fields

of bliss ;

And I'll express a wish-although my mind

Has some aversion soon to come to

this

Oh what a loss shall humankind sustain, If Fate shall quickly listen to my strain! "Oh for the dreamless rest of those

That in the dust serenely sleepThat feel no more their own wild woes,

That hear no more their kindred weep!

"How blest are those that in the clay

Forget the pangs this being gave! No fears appal, no hopes betray,

The peaceful inmates of the grave.

"Though near the house of prayer they lie, They never hear the Sabbath bell; Nor when the funeral passes by,

Start at the dead man's passing knell.

"Though whirlwinds wild o'er nature

sweep,

Though battles fill the world with woes, Though orphans wail, and widows weep, It ne'er disturbs their calm repose.

"Though there no coral lip be prest,

Though there shall heave no mutual

sighs; No cheek repose on beauty's breastYet oh how still the sleeper lies!

"Though there no friendly hand shall shake

The hand of friendship any more—