in this world; secondly, in the world to come. The effects that it works in this world are, in some, M, murder,-in others, A, adultery,-in all, L, looseness of life, and in some, T, treason. The effects that it works in the world to come, are--M, misery,-A, anguish,-L, lamentation,-and T, torment. And so much for this time and text.

"I shall improve this: First, by way of exhortation:-M, my masters,-A, all of you,-L, leave off, -T, tippling. Or, secondly, by way of commination, -M, my masters,-A, all of you,-L, look for,T, torment. Thirdly, by way of caution, take this :A drunkard is the annoyance of modesty, the bane of civility, the destroyer of reason, the brewer's agent, the innkeeper's benefactor, his wife's sorrow, his children's trouble, his own shame, his neighbour's scoff, a walking swill-bowl, the picture of a beast, and the monster of a man.'

He then concluded in the usual form; and the young men, pleased with his ingenuity, not only sincerely thanked him, but absolutely profited more by this short and whimsical sermon than by any serious discourse they had ever heard.

THE DEBTOR.

Children of affluence! hear a poor

man's prayer ! O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless Despair, Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb ! Unused Compassion's tribute to demand,

With clamorous din wake Charity's dull ear, Wring the slow aid from Pity's loitering hand, Weave the feign'd tale, or drop the ready tear. Far different thoughts employ'd my early hours; To views of bliss, to scenes of affluence born, The hand of pleasure strew'd my path with flowers, And every blessing hail'd my youthful morn.

But, ah, how quick the change! the morning gleam
That cheer'd my fancy with her magic ray,
Fled like the garish pageant of a dream,

And sorrow closed the evening of my day.

In evil hour, to specious arts a prey,

I trusted (who from fault is ever free ?)And the short progress of one fatal day,

Was all the space 'twixt wealth and poverty

Where could I seek for comfort or for aid?
To whom the ruin of my state commend?
Left to myself, abandon'd and betray'd,

Too late I found the wretched have no friend!

E'en he, amid the rest-the favour'd youth
Whose vows had met the tenderest warm return-
Forgot his oaths of constancy and truth,
And left my child in solitude to mourn.

Pity in vain stretch'd forth her feeble hand,
To guard the sacred wreath that Hymen wove,
While pale-eyed Avarice, from his sordid stand,
Scowl'd o'er the ruins of neglected love.

Though deeply hurt, yet sway'd by decent pride,
She hush'd her sorrows with becoming art;
And faintly strove with sickly smiles to hide
The canker-worm that prey'd upon her heart;

Nor blamed his cruelty, nor wished to hate
Whom once she loved, but pitied, and forgave;
Then, unrepining, yielded to her fate,

And sank in silent anguish to the grave.

Children of affluence! hear a poor man's prayer! O haste, and free me from this dungeon's gloom! Let not the hand of comfortless Despair

Sink my grey hairs with sorrow to the tomb.

GLENARA.

O, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
"Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn'd not aloud,
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
They march'd all in silence-they look'd on the ground.
In silence they reach'd, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
Now here let us place the grey stone of her cairn ;
"Why speak ye no word!" said Glenara the stern.
"And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
"Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your
brows?"

So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made,
But each, mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd.

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; "And empty that shroud, and that coffin did seem: "Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."

O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,

'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
"I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
"On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
"Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream."
In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,
Now joy to the house of fair Helen of Lorn!

THE NEGRO'S COMPLAINT.

(COWPER.)

Forced from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn;

To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in paltry gold;
But, though their's they have enroll❜d me,
Minds are never to be sold.

Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection

Dwells in white and black the same.

Why did all-creating Nature

Make this plant for which we toil?
Sighs must fan it, tears must water,
Sweat of our's must dress the soil.
Think, ye masters iron-hearted,
Lolling at your jovial boards;-
Think how many backs have smarted
For the sweets your cane affords.
Is there, as ye sometimes tell us,
Is there ONE who reigns on high?
Has He bid you buy and sell us,
Speaking from his throne the sky?
Ask Him, if your knotted scourges,
Matches, blood-extorting screws,
Are the means which duty urges
Agents of his will to use?

Hark! he answers :- wild tornadoes
Strewing yonder sea with wrecks,
Wasting towns, plantations, meadows,
Are the voice with which He speaks.

He, foreseeing what vexations
Áfric's sons should undergo,
Fix'd their tyrants' habitations
Where the whirlwinds answer, No.
By our blood in Afric wasted,
Ere our necks received the chain;
By the miseries that we tasted,
Crossing in your barks the main;
By our sufferings since you brought us
To the man-degrading mart-
All sustained with patience, taught us
Only by a broken heart!

Deem our nation brutes no longer,
Till some reason ye can find,
Worthier of regard, and stronger,
Than the colour of our kind,
Slaves of gold! whose sordid dealings
Tarnish all your boasted powers,
Prove that ye have human feelings
Ere ye proudly question our's!

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY. A man in many a country town we know, Professing openly with death to wrestle, Ent'ring the field against the foe,

Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother;
So, (many a suffering patient saith)

Though the Apothecary fights with Death,

Still they're sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Esculapian race
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,
Or make a bill;