This rose was white, and to be blest
Around it insect myriads flew ;
Charm'd by the wonders of its breast,
Thrice essenc'd in the summer dew.

But when the lip of beauty shed
A rival sweetness on that breast,
It blush'd, and droop'd its fragrant head,
Asham'd to be so proudly blest.

Its colour chang'd, a crimson glow
Fix'd on its alter'd form appears,
While round the sighing zephyrs blow,
And nature bathes its breast with tears.

Then does not every kiss impart,

In magic thrills of speechless pleasure, Reproaches to the wand'ring heart

That knows not how to prize the treasure?

O! yes, then let

my bosom prove

No throb, but friendship's throb divine; And let the kiss of fickle love,

Capricious monitor, be thine.

FATHERLESS FANNY.

KEEN and cold is the blast loudly whistling around,
As cold as the lips that once smil'd upon nie;
And unyielding, alas! as this hard frozen ground,
The arms once so ready my shelter to be.

Both my parents are dead, and few friends I can boast,
But few to console, and love me, if any;

And my gains are so small, a bare pittance almost!
Repays the exertions of fatherless Fanny.

Once, indeed, I with pleasure and patience could toil, But 'twas when my parents sat by and approv'd! Then my laces to sell I went out with a smile, Because my fatigue fed the parents I lov❜d.

And at night, when I brought them my hardly-earn'd gains, Though small they might be, still my comforts were

many,

For my mother's fond blessing rewarded my pains,
My father stood watching to welcome his Fanny.

But, ah! now that I work, by their presence uncheer'd,
I feel 'tis a hardship, iudeeed, to be poor;
While I shrink from fatigue, now no longer endear'd,
And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door.

Then, alas! when at night I return to my home,
No longer I boast that my comforts are many;
To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,

Where no one exclaims "Thou art welcome my Fanny!"

That, that is the pang! want and toil would impart No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see'; For the wealth I require is that of the heart,

The smiles of affection are riches to me.

Then, in pity, ye rich, when to you I apply

To purchase my goods, though you do not buy any, With the accents of kindness, O deign to deny, You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny. The Albion.

EPIGRAM.

HARK forward! cries the Squire; his hounds
Dash o'er his neighbour Crabtree's grounds,
Who bawl'd aloud (although too late)
"I wish your honour would but try
To do to folks as you're done by,

Nor let them run through my estate."
"My friend" replies the laughing Squire,
"I'm doing just what you desire;
To all the country 'tis well known

I don't mind running through my own."

Meteors.

STANZAS

WRITTEN IN PANCRAS CHURCH-YARD.

FRO

ROM wanton scenes, the shew of fools,
Ye idle here repair!

Where wisdom, yet untaught in schools,

Embalms this calmer air!

Here pride has struck its lofty sail,
That rov'd the world around;
Here roseate beauty, cold and pale,
Has lost the pow'r to wound.

Alas! no pleasing objects here
The perish'd sense invite ;
No music charms the tuneful ear,
No colours strike the sight.

Within this silent spot of peace,
What numbers lie comprest;
The wicked here from mischief cease,
The weary here find rest.

Here let me muse, and, wrapt in thought,

The realms of death survey;

'Till by the view reflective taught I learn to live to-day.

T

How vain is life! To-morrow's dawn

Perhaps I ne'er may see!

Between, how slight the curtain drawn,
Eternity and me!

Indulgent God-whatever share
Of fleeting life I prove,
Oh! be it still my foremost care
To gain thy guardian love.

That so-when this dissolving frame
Shall mingle with the dust,
Preserv'd my better part may claim
A portion with the just.

Imprison'd in this house of clay,
The soul dejected sighs;

By death unchain'd—she soars away,

And seeks her native skies.

Weckly Amusement.

ON THE DECEITFULNESS OF HOPE..

FT have divines and sages taught,
"Our earthly hopes how frail!"
Yet has their doctrine, wisdom-fraught,
Been deem'd an empty tale.