And has he cast the book of God aside?
Are these the fruits of unbelieving pride?
O had he but been wise, and known his end,
That book had sent him to a heavenly friend;
Had shown for every need a rich supply,
Had taught him how to live and how to die;
Had drawn the veil aside, and blest his eyes
With Heaven his home, and happiness his prize.—
Such honour have the Saints:-their earthly cares
Belong to God, while confidence is theirs;

Their treasures are with Him, where no decay
Consumes the store, no robber seeks a prey.

Lo, with his torch the great Archangel's come,
And Earth receives her long-expected doom;
High o'er her funeral-pile the flames ascend,
And dust and ashes are Creation's end;

There, 'midst the wreck, the Christian counts his cost; "MY GOD IS MINE, and nothing have I lost!"

TO A FRIEND,

WHO HAD PRESENTED THE WRITER WITH A PENCILCASE.

THE dull Poetaster, as pert as a parrot,

Whom poverty nails to a sky-kissing garret,

When friends show their kindnesses time after time,

Is fain to repay them with flattery's rhyme.

3

O how

O how will he cry up their virtues and graces,
And cram a large budget with bushels of praises!
For when Truth has emptied her very scant store,
Invention's at hand to supply him with more.

"Invention (says he) is sweet Poetry's soul:

"Who would shackle bright Genius with Truth's strict "control?

"On Parnassus's nag when I once am astride,
"Shall I rein in my courser, or wait for a guide?"

But we'll let him alone; for, poor heart, 'tis his living:
His friends are as fond of receiving as giving;
And if to their vanity incense he burn,

'Tis but what they expected he'd do in return.

Sure then I was ne'er cast in so happy a mould;
I've no praises for silver, no flatt'ry for gold;
Nor can furnish a cart-load of varnish and paint
To bedizen a de'il till he pass for a saint.

Yet I see no objection to putting together
A few paltry verses, though dull as the weather,
To pay my best thanks, with the very best grace,
To my friend Mr. B. for my neat pencil-case.

May the pencil that dwells in this glittering shell
Prove 'tis anxious in all that is good to excel!
Devoted to reason, to virtue, and grace,
May it ne'er write a word for repentance to rase!

Then,

And has he cast the book of God aside?
Are these the fruits of unbelieving pride?
O had he but been wise, and known his end,
That book had sent him to a heavenly friend;
Had shown for every need a rich supply,
Had taught him how to live and how to die;
Had drawn the veil aside, and blest his eyes
With Heaven his home, and happiness his prize.—-
Such honour have the Saints:--their earthly cares
Belong to God, while confidence is theirs;
Their treasures are with Him, where no decay
Consumes the store, no robber seeks a prey.

Lo, with his torch the great Archangel's come,
And Earth receives her long-expected doom;
High o'er her funeral-pile the flames ascend,
And dust and ashes are Creation's end;

There, 'midst the wreck, the Christian counts his e "MY GOD IS MINE, and nothing have I lost!"

TO A FRIEND,

WHO HAD PRESENTED THE WRITER WITH A
CASE.

THE dull Poctaster, as pert as a parrot,
Whom poverty nails to a sky-kissing garret,
When friends show their kindnesses time af
Is fain to repay them with flattery's rhyme.

3

SELECT

Then, though worth in itself scarce a pitiful grou
It shall prove not unworthy so splendid a coat;
Nor shall furnish a type of what hypocrites are,
Whose hearts are as false as their outsides are fair.

THE UNHAPPY SPANIARD*.

Written after reading in the newspapers the distressing account of 2 Father witnessing, from the deck of a frigate, the total loss of his property, and destruction of his family, in consequence of the blow. ing up of another frigate, which he had only a short time quitted.

How vast is my despair!

Ne'er may it hope relief.
Words cannot paint my care,
Nor utter half my grief.

Amongst sentiments which accompanied this little offering of a pious Muse, were the following: "Having room in my paper, I add a few lines, in which I have endeavoured to put grief into words, I fear, with little effect. Pray do not imagine that I have presumed to fancy them fit for the public: short pieces require, in my opinion, a high degree of finishing; and if I were ever so capable of giving it, I have no leisure.

« Virginibus puerisque canto," from morn to noon, from noon to dewy and frosty eve; and have no business at Parnassus. " Propria que maribus," and " Thirty days hath September," is the poetry with which I am called to be conversant : no wonder, then, if, when I attempt to sing," Nil majus generatur."

I am, dear Sir,
Latinè et Anglicè,

In prose and in verse,
Respectfully yours,

JOHN BULLAR, Jun."