With timely care I'll sow my little fleld,

And plant my orchard with its master's hand, Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast?
Or, lulled to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest?

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away?

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go?

To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know?

Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

Ah, foolish man, who thus of her possessed,
Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings spoke him blest,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind!
With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,
Nor trust to happiness that's not our own
The smile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am loved alone.

Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguished from the rest.
For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock:

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,

And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep, By marble fountains lay the pensive head,

And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep?

Delia alone can please, and never tire,

Exceed the paint of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,

And equal rapture glows through every night!

Beauty and worth in her alike contend,

To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason joined.

On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,

Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

Oh, when I die my latest moments spare,

Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still."

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart,
Oh. leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,

These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:
Let them, extended on the decent bier,

Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.
Song-Away! et nought to Love displeasing.*
Away! let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride nor gloomy fear.
What though no grants of royal donors,
With pompous titles grace our blood:
We'll shine in more substantial honours,
And, to be noble, we'll be good.t

Our name while virtue thus we tender,
Will sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though, from fortune's lavish bounty,
No mighty treasures we possess;
We'll find, within our pittance, plenty,
And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age, in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung!
To see them look their mother's features,
To hear them lisp their mother's tongue!

This beautiful piece first appeared in a volume of Miscellaneous Poems, published by D. Lewis. 17.6. It has been erroneously ascribed to John Gilbert Cooper (1723-1769), author of a volume of poems, and some prose works (including a Life of Socrates).

+ This sentiment has been expressed in similar, but more pointed language by Mr. Tennyson:

Howe'er it be. it seems to me.
'Tis only noble to be good:

Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere.

And when with envy Time transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys;
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go wooing in my boys.

The Mystery of Life.

By JOHN GAMBOLD, a bishop among the Moravian Brethren, who died in 1771.

So many years I've seen the sun, [own,
And called these eyes and hands my
A thousand little acts I've done,
And childhood have, and manhood
known:

O what is life! and this dull round
To tread, why was a spirit bound?

So many airy draughts and lines,

And warm excursions of the mind,
Have filled my soul with great designs:
While practice grovelled far behind;
O what is thought! and where withdraw
The glories which my fancy saw?

So many tender joys and woes

Have on my quivering soul had power;
Plain life with heightening passions rose,
The boast or burden of their hour:
O what is all we feel! why fled
Those pains and pleasures o'er my head?

So many human souls divine.
So at one interview displayed,

Some oft and freely mixed with mine,

In lasting bonds my heart have laid: O what is friendship! why impressed On my weak, wretched, dying breast?

So many wondrous gleams of light,

And gentle ardours from above,
Have made me sit, like seraph bright,
Some moments on a throne of love:
O what is virtue! why had I,
Who am so low, a taste so high?

Ere long, when sovereign wisdom wills,
My soul an unknown path shall tread,
And strangely leave, who strangely fills

This frame, and waft me to the dead:
O what is death! 'tis life's last shore,
Where vanities are vain no more;
Where all pursuits their goal obtain,
And life is all retouched again;
Where in their bright result shall rise
Thoughts, virtues, friendships, griefs, and
joys.

The Beggar.

By the Rev. T. Moss, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Pill and of Trentham, Staffordshire. He published in 1769 a small collection of miscellaneous poems.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek

Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon honse, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor !)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,

A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity c'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
"Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow, and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot';
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wide stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

My tender wife-sweet soother of my care!
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span;
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These lines of the young, poet seem to have suggested a similar piece by Samuel Rogers, entitled, To

Go-you may call it madness, folly:

You shall not chase my gloom away;
There's such a charm in melancholy,
I would not, if I could, be gay.

Oh, if you knew the pensive pleasure
That fills my bosom when I sigh,
You would not rob me of a treasure
Monarchs are too poor to buy.

SCOTTISH POETS.

Though most Scottish authors at this time-as Thomson, Mallet, &c.-composed in the English language, a few, stimulated by the success of Allan Ramsay, cultivated their native tongue. The best of these was Fergusson. The popularity of Ramsay's Tea-table Miscellany led to other collections and to new contributions to Scottish song, including The Charmer,' by J. Yair, 1749-51. In 1776 appeared Ancient and Modern Scottish Songs, Heroic Ballads,' &c. The editor of this collection was DAVID HERD (1732-1810), a native of St. Cyrus, in Kincardineshire, who was clerk to an accountant in Edinburgh. Sir Walter Scott calls Herd's collection 'the first classsical collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads.' Above fifty pieces were written down from recitation, and thus preserved by the meritorious editor.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

WILLIAM HAMILTON of Bangour, a Scottish gentleman of education, rank, and accomplishments, was born of an ancient family in Ayrshire in 1704. He was the delight of the fashionable circles of his native country, and became early distinguished for his poetical talents. Struck, we may suppose, with the romance of the enterprise, Hamilton, in 1745, joined the standard of Prince Charles, and became the volunteer laureate' of the Jacobites, by celebrating the battle of Gladsmuir. On the discomfiture of the party, Hamilton succeeded in effecting his escape to France; but having many friends and admirers among the royalists at home, a pardon was procured for the rebellious poet, and he was soon restored to his native country and his paternal estate. He did not, however, live long to enjoy his good-fortune. His health had always been delicate, and a pulmonary complaint forced him to seek the warmer climate of the continent. He gradually declined, and died at Lyon in 1754,

Hamilton's first and best strains were dedicated to lyrical poetry. Before he was twenty he had assisted Allan Ramsay in his 'Tea-table Miscellany.' In 1748, some person, unknown to him, collected and published his poems in Glasgow; but the first genuine and correct copy did not appear till after the author's death, in 1760, when a collection was made from his own manuscripts. The most attractive feature in his works is his pure English style, and a somewhat ornate poetical diction. He had more fancy than feeling, and in this respect his amatory songs resemble those of the courtier-poets of Charles II.'s court. Nor was he more sincere, if we may credit an anecdote related of him by Alexander Tytler in his life of Henry Home, Lord Kames. One of the ladies whom Hamilton annoyed by his perpetual compliments and solicitations, consulted Home how she should get rid of the poet, who, she was convinced, had no serious object in view. The philosopher advised her to dance with him, and shew him every mark of her kindness, as if she had resolved to favour his