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THE wild dove, to the garden spring,
May come and lave its wandering wing,
And bend above the waters bright,
And murmur, with a dove's delight:
But holier, in the solitude,
Its own pure fountain of the wood,
That blessed home, – that shadow’d nest,
Where, soft and sweet, its dear ones rest!
And flinging from those pinions fair,
The silver drops that hinger there,
The dove will leave the garden spring,
And wave for home its weary wing;
Ah! thus for thee in haunts of light
The stream of joy will sparkle bright,
And thou wilt stay thy step, and sip
The fairy draught with smiling lip,
And linger long amid the flowers,
That blooming wreathe in pleasure's bowers;
And thou wilt weary, like the dove,
And turn thee from the wave away,
To that fair fount of truth and love,
That springs within thy home for aye :
Oh! calm and blest be there thy rest,
As the wild bird’s in woodland nest.


In reply to some observations of Mr Dundas in the House of Commons, Sheridan observed—“The right honorable gentleman is indebted to his memory for his jests, and to his imagination for his facts.”


A Lion, who was so much worn out with age that he had lost his strength, lay groaning in his den ready to die. First came the boar to take his revenge upon him, with foaming tusks, for an old affront; next advanced the bull, and gored the sides of the enemy with his pointed horn. A spiteful ass, who saw the old monarch thus lying at the mercy of every one that had a mind to abuse him, trotted up, and gave him a kick on his forehead.

“Ah,” said the dying lion, “I thought it hard to be insulted in my last moments even by the brave; but to be thus spurned at by thee, who art the meanest of beasts — this alas! is a double death !”

The resentment of the noble is more easily to be borne than the malice of the base.


“Of all the nauseous, complicated crimes That both infect and stigmatize the times, There's none that can with impious oaths compare, Where vice and folly have an equal share.” THERE is something so low, coarse, and wicked in swearing, that it is surprising that men, who wish to be considered as wise and polite, should ever be found in the habit of it. It is a vice to which there is no temptation, and one of those sins which are called presumptuous. Swearing is not only reprobated by the laws of good taste and good manners, but forbidden by the commandment of God. He, who makes use of oaths, would seem to tell us that his bare word is not to be taken.


On thy fair bosom, silver lake!
The wild swan spreads his snowy sail,

And round his breast the ripples break,
As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream |
The dipping paddle echoes far,

And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star. -*

The waves along thy pebbly shore,
As blows the north wind, heave their foam,

And curl around the dashing oar,
As late the boatman hies him home.

As sweet, at set of sun, to view
Thy golden mirror, spreading wide,

And see the mist of mantling blue,
Float round the distant mountain's side.

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,

And swift she cuts, at highest noon,
Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake
O! I could ever sweep the oar,

When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er.


WHEN the unfortunate Duke D'Enghien was awakened in his cell at Valenciennes to be led to the place of execution, he said to the officer who brought the order, “What do you want?” The officer made no answer. “What o'clock is it?” “Midnight,” answered the officer, with a faltering voice. “Midnight,” exclaimed the Prince ; “ah, I know what brings you here; this hour is fatal to me — it was at midnight that I was taken from my house at Ettenheim — at midnight, the dungeon of Strasbourg was opened for me — at midnight again, I was taken out to be brought here—it is now midnight, and I have lived long enough to know how to die ”


A conceit ED fly, who sat upon the shaft of a carriage, thus insulted the mule that drew it; “What a lazy beast you are,” said she, “wont you move your legs a little faster 2 Take care then, that I do not pinch your skin for you with my pointed sting.” “Thou trifling insect ' " said the mule, “whatever you can say is beneath my notice. The person I am afraid of, is he who sits upon the box, and checks my speed with the foaming reins. Away, then, with your trifling insolence, for I know when to hasten, and when to slacken my pace, without being directed by such an impotent being as you are.”

This fable is levelled against those frivolous mortals who affect to give direction without skill, and to threaten without power.



“My father's grave,” I heard her say,
And marked a stealing tear,

Oh, no! I would not go away-
My father's grave is here !

A thousand throbbing sympathies
The lonely spot endear,

And every eve remembrance sighs
My father's grave is here !

Some human tears unbidden start,
As spring's gay birds I hear,

For all things whisper to my heart,
My father's grave is here!

Young hope may blend each color gay,
And fairer views appear;

But no! I would not go away—
My father's grave is here !


THE bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;

The monarch may forget his crown,
That on his head an hour hath been ;

The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;

But I’ll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me.

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