Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed, And the rent canvass fluttering strew the gale, Still must I on; for I am as a weed, Flung from some rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail. Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell, Then shrieked the timid-and stood still the brave; Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave: And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first, one universal shriek there rushed, A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry THE CREEK-INDIAN CHIEF'S RELATION OF HIS FORTUNES AND MARRIAGE. TOBIN.+ In the excellent Drama of the Indians, the governor of a Spanish settlement sends his daughter, for purposes of policy, into the prison of the leader of the Creeks, an Englishman by birth, who thus relates his story: SOME years are past (no matter now the cause) Like jarring friends, I, and my country parted ; *"As a piece of terrible painting, this is as much superior as can be to every description of the kind-not even excepting that in the Æneid— that ever was created."-Vide "Blackwood" for Aug. 1819. The worthy and talented Author of the "Honey Moon," Mr. Tobin, (who was a respectable Solicitor in London,) died at sea on his passage to the West Indies, whither he was going for the benefit of his health. "The Honey Moon," as is well known, besides being a most successful actingComedy, contains some as delectable portions of poetry as our language affords. I sought my fortune 'midst the Indian Creeks. So very sick at heart, that when at last My jaded senses dropt into oblivion, I cared not, if mine eye-lids, as they closed, But long I slept not; sudden in mine ear These accents softly whispered-"Wake, poor man! Thus, three long weeks she nursed me, and, meanwhile, (For of such little offices as these, The mighty sum of love is all made up!) THE MAGDALEN.-A FRAGMENT. I DO remember it. "Twas such a face As Guido would have loved to dwell upon; But oh the touches of his pencil never Ran like a tendril; one through her shadowy hand Her mouth was tremulous, and her cheek wore then But more like art than nature; and her eye "BE KIND!" ANONYMOUS. Be kind to thy father-for when thou wert young, Who loved thee so fondly as he? He caught the first accents that fell from thy tongue, And joined in thine innocent glee. Be kind to thy father, for now he is old, His locks intermingled with grey, His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold; Thy father is passing away. Be kind to thy mother-for lo! on her brow, O well may'st thou cherish and comfort her now, Remember thy mother-for thee will she pray, With accents of kindness, then cheer her lone way, Be kind to thy brother-his heart will have dearth, The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, Be kind to thy brother-wherever you are, An ornament purer and richer by far, Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours LOVE COMPARED TO THE GOUT. CRABBE." Tales of the Hall.” [The following little dialogue seems to require a few prefatory observations. The subject is the meeting of two brothers who had been long apart, and, during the separation, the younger (Richard) had got married, and was struggling with the world, and a large family; while the elder (George, who had remained Benedict) had been successful, and had accumulated considerable wealth. After the long separation, they have just met, and Richard has been detailing the happy circumstances of his married life to his brother, who, with some incredulity, replies,] GEORGE. "Thanks, my dear Richard; and I pray thee, deign Ardent and tender, are subdued by time. Speak'st thou of her to whom thou mad'st thy vows, Or art thou talking some frail love about They then confine their victim to his home: spare: On man a kind of dignity they shed, Nay, when they quit him, as they sometimes do, But dost thou love this woman? Richard. "O! beyond What I can tell thee of the true and fond! Hath she not soothed me, sick, enriched me, poor, When Care would strive with us his watch to keep, APOSTROPHE TO LOVE,-THE COTTER'S EVENING WORSHIP, &c. BURNS. O HAPPY love! where love like this is found; "In others' arms breathe out the tender tale, "Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale." Is there, in human form, that bears a heart A wretch a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? Woe to his perjured arts! dissembling smooth! Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exiled ? Is there no pity, no relenting ruth, Points to the parents fondling o'er their child, Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild? |