Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys Fade with the glories of the fading year; "Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,"

And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death, And wet with many a tributary tear!

Eight times has each successive season sway'd The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why Should melancholy cloud my early years?

Religion spurns earth's visionary scene, Philosophy revolts at misery's chain: Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm-- Shall frailty then prevail?

Oh! be it mine To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree; To tread the path of rect.i.tude--that when Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame, That latest breath I may in peace resign, "Firm in the faith of seeing thee and G.o.d."

SONNET.

TO CHARITY.

O! best-beloved of Heaven, on earth bestow'd, To raise the pilgrim sunk with ghastly fears, To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears, And strew with amaranths his th.o.r.n.y road.

Alas! how long has Superst.i.tion hurl'd Thine altars down, thine attributes reviled, The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguiled.

And spread his empire o'er the va.s.sal world?

But truth returns! she spreads resistless day; And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls-- He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls, And all his d.a.m.n'd illusions melt away!

The charm dissolved--immortal, fair, and free, Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity!

HYMN.

Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry.

CHORUS.

Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise, His mercies every where abound, Let all their grateful voices raise.

BOYS.

The friendless child, to manhood grown, Will ne'er forget your parent care; You've made each youthful heart your own, Oh! then accept our humble prayer.

GIRLS.

For ever be that bounty praised, Which every comfort doth impart; In tears of joy the song is raised From minstrels of the glowing heart.

CHORUS.

Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power!

In notes of thankfulness be given; Sure solace in affliction's hour!

Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven.

Hallelujah! Amen.

REFLECTIONS OF A POET,

ON GOING TO A GREAT DINNER.

Great epoch in the history of bards!

Important day to those who woo the nine; Better than fame are visitation-cards, And heaven on earth at a great house to dine.

O cruel memory! do not conjure up The ghost of Sally Dab, the famous cook; Who gave me solid food, the cheering cup, And on her virtues begg'd I'd write a book.

For her dear sake I braved the letter'd fates, And all her loose thoughts in one volume cramm'd; "The Accomplish'd Cook, in verse, with twenty plates:"

Which (O! ungrateful deed!) the critics d----d.

D--n them, I say, the tasteless envious elves; Malicious fancy makes them so expert, They write 'bout dinners, who ne'er dine themselves, And boast of linen, who ne'er had a shirt.

Rest, G.o.ddess, from all broils! I bless thy name, Dear kitchen-nymph, as ever eyes did glut on!

I'd give thee all I have, my slice of fame, If thou, fat shade! could'st give one slice of mutton.

Yet hold--ten minutes more, and I am bless'd; Fly quick, ye seconds; quick, ye moments, fly: Soon shall I put my hunger to the test, And all the host of miseries defy.

Thrice is he arm'd, who hath his dinner first, For well-fed valour always fights the best; And though he may of over-eating burst, His life is happy, and his death is just.

To-day I dine--not on my usual fare; Not near the sacred mount with skinny nine; Not in the park upon a dish of air: But on true eatables, and rosy wine.

Delightful task! to cram the hungry maw, To teach the empty stomach how to fill, To pour red port adown the parched craw; Without that dread dessert--to pay the bill.

I'm off--methinks I smell the long-lost savour; Hail, platter-sound! to poet music sweet: Now grant me, Jove, if not too great a favour, Once in my life as much as I can eat!

SUNDAY.

Come, thou blessed day of rest!

Soother of the tortured breast, Wearied souls release from toil, Life's eternal sad turmoil; How I love thy tuneful bells Which a welcome story tells!

Bids the wanderer rest and pray On this peaceful holy-day.

All creation seems to pause-- Man, uncatechized by laws, Looks to G.o.d with grateful eyes, In such blessed sympathies, All his rebel nature dies!

See the monster crime hath made, Resting from his restless trade, Unfit to live, afraid to die, Hear his deep unconscious sigh, See his former horrid mien, Changed to the bright, serene, View him on his BIBLE rest, Care no longer gnaws his breast; Heaven, in mercy, let him live, Religion, such the peace you give!

A NIGHT-STORM.

Let this rough fragment lend its mossy seat; Let Contemplation hail this lone retreat: Come, meek-eyed G.o.ddess, through the midnight gloom, Born of the silent awe which robes the tomb!

This gothic front, this antiquated pile, The bleak wind howling through each mazy aisle; Its high gray towers, faint peeping through the shade, Shall hail thy presence, consecrated maid!

Whether beneath some vaulted abbey's dome, Where ev'ry footstep sounds in every tomb; Where Superst.i.tion, from the marble stone, Gives every sound, a pilgrim-spirit's groan: Pensive thou readest by the moon's full glare The sculptured children of Affection's tear; Or in the church-yard lone thou sitt'st to weep O'er some sad wreck, beneath the tufty heap-- Perchance some victim to Seduction's spell, Who yielded, wept, and then neglected fell!

But hither come, on yon swoln arch to gaze, And view the vivid flash eruptive blare; Light those high walls with transitory gleam, Illume the air, and sparkle in the stream.

Ah! look, where yonder tempest-shaken cloud, Awful and black as the chaosian shroud, Breaks, like the waves which lash the sandy sh.o.r.e, And speaks its mission in a feeble row.

Thus Meditation hears: "Aspiring height!

Of old, the splendid mansions of the great; Thy fate (tremendous) lours upon the blast, And waits to write on thy remains:--'tis past!