Let me, thy suppliant, take my part
In all thy pleasures, all thy pain;
And ne'er, tho' exquisite the smart,
Of sensibility complain:

Oft let me leave the busy scene,
Devotion at thy shrine to pay;
Oft taste with thee the calm serene
Evening of a well-spent day:

And in thy grotto's hallow'd shade
Gaze at the children of the world,
In Vanity's light barks convey'd,
With every glittering sail unfurl'd:

Smile at the Great, for what they choose
In each fond wish, and fickle mood,
And pity them for what they lose,—
The power divine of doing good.

View the mild glory round the Throne,
Love with obedience command:
For other's rights maintain its own,
And rule to bless a grateful land.-

To cheer me in the vale of years

Still, pensive Nymph! thy grace impart,
Still let thy spring of tender tears
Enlarge and purify my heart;

For with those social feelings flow
The best affections of the mind,

The warmth of friendship, and the glow
Of charity to all mankind.

THE FLOWER o' ANNAN *.

A BALLAD.

BY HECTOR MACNEILL, ESQ.

"THE flower it blaws!-it fades!—it fa's!
And lies unmarkt by ony!

Nae tolling bell sounds its death knell!
And sae lies my luve Johnnie!

"Nae flower that blaws in shelter'd shaws,
Nae rose that decks the valley,

E'er match'd that face, where manly grace,
Blent wi' the rose and lily!

"Nae flower sae rare, sae sweet, sae fair,
On Liffey's banks or Shannon,
E'er lent perfume, or shed a bloom,
Like the sweet rose o' ANNAN!

"He came we met; unwarn'd by fate,
Soon flew Luve's swiftest arrow!

Alas the while! Luve lent the smile
To close the scene in sorrow!

"The morn that's fair, grieves aye the mair, (The witless mind believing)

Whan mid-day pours its storms and showers
To prove the fause deceiving!

* Annandale in the shire of Dumfries.

"War's trumpet blew! my hero flew !
But leil to Luve and Honor,

Wi' parting aith, swóre endless faith
To Luve and NANSY CONNOR!

"A rival came, (accurs'd the name!)
I fled the banks o' Shannon;
I fled frae power, and sought the flower,
The sheltering pride o' Annan!

"Where Kirtle's braes wi' flow'ring slaes,
And hawthorns bloom sae bonie!
There fair to view! it blossom'd true,
The sweetest flower o' ony!

"Kirkonnel's vale soon heard the tale,
The tale o' Truth and Honor!
Kirkonnel's vale now hears the wail
O' Death and Nansy Connor!

"Wha strack the knell when beauty fell!
Wha met the fae o' Shannon ?
In deadly strife wha lost his life!
Wha but the pride o' Annan!

"By Kirtle's flood he drapt in blood!
In Kirtle's stream he's lying!
In Kirtle's bed! his heart's blood red
The chrystal waves deep dying!

"The flower it blaws!-it fades !-it fa's!

And lies unmarkt by ony!

Nae tolling bell sounds its death knell!

And sae lies my luv'd Johnnie!

One of the tributary streams of the river Annan.

"Kirkonnel's vale! record the tale,
Adieu the banks o' Shannon!
In Kirtle's bed, wi' blood dy'd red,
I'll clasp the FLOWER O' ANNAN!”

To Chloe's sweet accents, Attention sat mute;
How charming its tone, as I swell'd the soft strain
To her voice, or return'd it in echoes again!
Little Cupid beat time, and the Graces around
Taught with even divisions to vary the sound.

From my Chloe remov'd when I bid it complain,
And warble sweet numbers to soothe love-sick pain,
How unmeaning its tone, as the rising notes grow!
And the soft-falling measures insipidly flow!

I will play then no more; for 'tis her voice alone,
Fills with raptures my soul, and enlivens the tone!

* See Gent. Mag. Vol. LIX, p. 672, 761.

סינ

A LADY

ON HER BIRTH DAY.

BY THE REV. W. BELOE.

YOUTH gives the hope of many a lovely spring,

Of cheerful suns, of skies without a cloud :

What to the ills of life can solace bring

O'er the torn heart when cares unnumber'd croud?

Elate with joy and smiles we glide along

O'er many a fragrant, many a flowery plain;
Nor heed the Moralist's cold warning song,
Which talks of sorrow, suffering, and pain.

But when the summer of our years is gone,
When ardour chills, and vigour fades away;
Oft must we wander comfortless alone,

And in NOVEMBER-look in vain for MAY.
The nightingale, with breast against a thorn,
Expiring sings her last melodious strains;
The Muse thus hails MATILDA's natal morn,
Proud of her friendship long as life remains.