From his wan cheek.-And scarce less wretched he

When wintry winds blow loud and frosts bite keen,—

The dweller of the clay-built tenement,

Poverty-struck, who, heartless, strives to raise

From sullen turf, or stick plucked from the hedge,

The short-lived blaze; while chill around him spreads

The dreary fen, and Ague, sallow-faced,

Stares through the broken pane ;—Assist him, ye

On whose warm roofs the sun of plenty shines,

And feel a glow beyond material fire!

THE CATERPILLAR.

No, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now; Depart in peace, thy little life is safe,

For I have scanned thy form with curious eye,
Noted the silver line that streaks thy back,
The azure and the orange that divide

Thy velvet sides; thee, houseless wanderer,
My garment has enfolded, and my arm
Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet;
Thou hast curled round my finger; from its tip,
Precipitous descent! with stretched out neck,
Bending thy head in airy vacancy,

This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed
To ask protection; now, I cannot kill thee.
Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race,

And recent from the slaughter am I come

Of tribes and embryo nations: I have sought

With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal,
Where, folded in their silken webs they lay
Thriving and happy; swept them from the tree
And crushed whole families beneath my foot;
Or, sudden, poured on their devoted heads
The vials of destruction.—This I've done,
Nor felt the touch of pity: but when thou,—
A single wretch, escaped the general doom,
Making me feel and clearly recognise

Thine individual existence, life,

And fellowship of sense with all that breathes,Present'st thyself before me, I relent,

And cannot hurt thy weakness.So the storm

Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields,

And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on:

The victor shouts triumphant; he enjoys

The roar of cannon and the clang of arms,
And urges, by no soft relentings stopped,

The work of death and carnage. Yet should one,
A single sufferer from the field escaped,
Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet,
Lift his imploring eyes,—the hero weeps;

He is grown human, and capricious Pity,

Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one With sympathy spontaneous :-T is not Virtue, Yet 'tis the weakness of a virtuous mind.

ON THE

DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch,

For youth, for love, for happiness destroyed,
Her universal population melts

In grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved,
And rough unpolished natures learn to feel
For those they envied, leveled in the dust

By Fate's impartial stroke; and pulpits sound
With vanity and woe to earthly goods,

And urge and dry the tear.-Yet one there is

Who midst this general burst of grief remains
In strange tranquillity; whom not the stir

And long-drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd,
That by his very windows trail the pomp

Of hearse, and blazoned arms, and long array.