Yet give me, give me, ere I go,

One little lock of these so blest,
That lend your cheek a warmer glow,
And on your white neck love to rest.

Say, when to kindle soft delight,

That hand has chanced with mine to meet,
How could its thrilling touch excite

A sigh so short, and yet so sweet?

O say-but no, it must not be-
Adieu a long, a long adieu!—
Yet still, methinks, you frown on me,
Or never could I fly from you.

XIV.

ON A TEAR.*

Oh! that the chemist's magic art
Could crystallize this secret treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart,
A secret source of pensive pleasure.

*This beautiful little song, and likewise the four which immediately precede it, are taken from the compositions of Samuel Rogers, Esq., Banker, London. Besides these, and several others of a similar nature, he is the

The little brilliant, ere it fell,

Its lustre caught from Chloe's eye;
Then, trembling, left its coral cell —
The spring of sensibility!

Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.

author of the Voyage of Columbus, and of the well known production entitled the Pleasures of Memory. These are all exceedingly interesting and beautiful in their kind, being calculated to improve while they amuse and delight. They exhibit to us, in a very eminent degree, that power of invention and refinement of feeling, seconded by a certain felicity of expression, which, whatever may be his subject, form the necessary and distinctive qualifications of the poetic character.

Of all the performances of Mr. R. the first place is certainly due to his Pleasures of Memory. It is, perhaps, the only exhibition of its kind, whose intrinsic excellence, without suffering any perceptible deterioration, can sustain a critical comparison with the Pleasures of Hope. Both poets indeed appear to have been peculiarly happy in the choice of their subject, as each has distinguished himself with unrivalled success. They have depicted in a truly poetical style, scenes which, though equally remote from the present, are not, on that account, less interesting or important. Abstracting us for the moment from the particular periods of life at which we may have arrived,-from the peculiar situations in which we may for the time be placed, and from the varied emotions which these necessarily inspire, they both most forcibly direct our attention to the days and to the enjoyments of other years. With all the glowing sensibility of fancy and of hope, the one hurries us forward through the regions both of probability and of wish, while the other, with a fascinating but persuasive sweetness, makes us re-act and re-feel what we may have long ago entirely forgot. The one in the spirit of a fondly fostered child, delights to recollect and to dwell upon the caresses it has formerly enjoyed; the other still throbbing, and full of the injuries of his past life, gladly escapes into uncertain futurity, anxiously soliciting amelioration and redress. In short, both poets, pregnant with the

Benign restorer of the soul !
Who ever fly'st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of love or pity, joy or grief.

The sages' and the poet's theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charmst in Fancy's idle dream—
In Reason's philosophic page.

That very law * which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That source preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.

theme of their song-properly alive to its importance and to its influence, and highly qualified for the execution of the design, have so feelingly collected, arranged, and embellished their respective subjects, that there is little chance left for any future successful competition.

*The law of gravitation.

XV.

THE WEARY PUND O' TOW.

The weary pund, the weary pund,
The weary pund o' tow;

I think my wife will end her life,
Before she spin her tow.

I bought my wife a stane o' lint,
As gude as e'er did grow;
And a' that she has made o' that,
Is ae poor pund o' tow.

The weary pund, &c.

There sat a bottle in a bole,

Beyont the ingle low;

And aye she took the tither souk,
To drouk the stowrie tow.

The weary pund, &c.

Quoth I, for shame, ye dirty dame,
Gae spin your tap o' tow!
She took the rock, and wi' a knock,

She brak it owre my pow.

The weary pund o' tow, &c.

At last her feet, I sang to see't,
Gaed foremost owre the knowe;
And or I wed anither jade,

I'll wallop in a tow.

The weary pund o' tow, &e.

XVI.

MORNA.

Her hair was like the Cromla mist,
When evening sun beams from the west,
Bright was the eye of Morna.

When beauty wept the warrior's fall,
Then lone and dark was Fingal's hall,
Sad was the lovely Morna.

O lovely were the blue-ey'd maids,
That sung peace to the warrior's shade,
But none so fair as Morna.

Her hallow'd tears bedew'd the brake,
That way'd beside dark Orma's lake,
Where wander'd lovely Morna.

Sad was the hoary minstrel's song,
That died the rustling heath among,
Where sat the lovely Morna.