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POETRY

TO *
ON BEING TOLD I HAD HURT AER FEELINGI.
When the joy-breathing spirit of rapture has flown,

And the heart sinks, oppress'd by the demon of woe,
Could I add to the pangs which the sufferer has known,

Or sharpen the arrows of sorrow?-Oh! no !

Each sigh of her grief I would willingly share,

Bid the tears of her anguish for e'er cease to flow, But could I ever add to the load of despair,

Or oppress the keen feelings of sorrow ?-Oh! no !

Oh! no! I would pray the blest seraph of peace

To soothe all the cares of the mourner to rest, Bid the griefs of her bosom in happiness cease,

And joy fix its haunt in so hallow'd a nest! Liverpool.

W. M. T.

SONNET TO HORATIUS,

PREVIOUS TO HIS GOING TO THE EAST INDIES.

Say, can the fields luxuriant of the East,

Or all the wealth that Asia's sons possess ;
Say, can the dainties of the varied feast,

On wbich proud man lays such an awful stress !
Yield thee more charms than England's lib'ral fare?

Than what the heroes of the island see?
No !-surely no !-her wealth's without compare,

Her sons are honest, virtuous, and free!
How great the contrast !-the extreme how wide !

But I'll not trace them lest I mar thy views;
Be mine the task thy roving feet to guide,

And thine to mind the precepts of the muse!
Where'er thou goest Misery will appear,

Relieve her woes, and bless thy happier sphere.
Hereford-street, 1808.
VOL. IV.

J.G.

LAURA..

SLOWLY bend the willów trees,

O'er the brook their branches ware, Near their roots the trav'ler sees

Th’rustling grass on Edmund's grave. ***

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LYING DICK ; OR, DEATH AND THE DOCTOR.

An English ship, in desperate fight

With Gallic foes engag'd,
For twice two hours, an awful time,

The unequal conflict wag'd.

But victory crown'd the British Aag

Though purchas'd by the blood
Of many a brave and noble tar,

Who for his country stood.

The fight once o'er, the surgeons next

O'er wounded bodies creep,
And those whom death had fairly caught

They sentence to the deep.

One manly fellow on the deck

Had felt the Gallic fire;
Disguis'd with blood, they scarcely knew

Poor Dick; nicknam'd the liar.

For truth from Dick's unsteady tongue,

Too rarely found the way;
Whate'er he said, he freely gave

Imagination play.

Him motionless and stain'd with gore

The surgeon left for dead :
And bade his comrades standing round,

Heave to his watery bed.

They stoop; they heave the bleeding load;

But life was not all gone:
Dick roar'd aloud “ I'm only stunn'd,

“ You lubbers set me down ?”

Amaz’d they stand; but knowing well
· Dick loy'd a lying jest,
At once exclaims, “Why, d- n your eyes,
“ The doctor must know best.”

QUIZ,

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VON SCHLEMNER AND POT LUCK.

AN ANECDOTE.
An Englishman invited once

His Germau friend to dine
On plain pot luck, for such his phrase,

And drink some good port wine.

Mern HERR repair'd at proper time

Witb stomach for the treat:
The viands on the table plac'd,

Von SCHLEMNER took his seat.

Soup, turkey, beef, by turns were serv'd,

MEIN HERR decliu'd each one:
Fowls, turtle, sauce, they follow'd next

VON SCHĻEMNER tasted none !

His host, at length, by kindness urg'd

Press'd him to take some duck; “ Ach mein !" with groans Von SCALEMNER said, “ I vait for de pot luck.”

QUIZ,

THE DOUBT CLEARED UP. TO MISS SARAH MORGAN, OF YATTON COURT, HEREFORDSHIRE,

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