That Prelate mark'd his march.-On banners blaz'd
With battles won in many a distant land.

On eagle standards and on arms he gaz'd;

"And hop'st thou, then," he said, "thy power shall stand?

O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,

And thou hast temper'd it with slaughter's flood;
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty's hand,
Gore moisten'd trees shall perish in the bud,
And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood."

The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his train
A wan paternal shade, and bade him kneel,
And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain,
While trumpets rang, and heralds cried " Castile!"
Not that he lov'd him-No!-in no man's weal,
Scarce in his own, e'er joy'd that sullen heart;
Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,
That the poor puppet might perform his part,
And be a scepter'd slave, at his stern beck to start.

The Water-Drinkers.—In a foreign journal are the two following remarkable cases of female water-drinkers:

Catherine Beausergent has been distinguished from the most tender age by a thirst which nothing could quench. In her infancy, she drank two pailfuls of water every day. When her parents endeavoured to prevent her drinking water so abundantly, she procured it clandestinely; in summer, from the river, from fountains, and at the houses of neighbours, even in the streets; and in

winter, with pieces of ice, or from snow, which she melted privately night and day. The harsh manner in which her family treated her on account of this propensity, induced her at length to quit her paternal mansion. She went to Paris, and entered into the service of some persons more indulgent than her parents, and who left her at liberty to drink as much water as she chose. Her conduct in this service was always irreproachable. At twenty-two years of age she was married to a man named Ferry, a cordwainer, from whom she concealed her ardent thirst, through fear he would not espouse her. She had nine children in 1789. During the months she was in a family way, her thirst increased: she refused constantly to quench it with any other drink than fresh water, of which she drank three or four pints at one time. In the winter of 1788, being then near her time of delivery, she drank nearly two pailfuls of water in twenty-four hours: water at that time cost, on account of the extreme rigour of the season, six sous the pail. Her husband, whose wages did not permit him to furnish the necessary quantity, went and collected a quantity of ice and snow, and melted it for her. What is extraordinary, this female, who enjoyed very good health, could never drink a glass of wine without feeling a painful shivering in her limbs. She returned naturally the water she drank, and this water was extremely fetid.

The Journal Etranger, for 1753, makes mention of a young woman of twenty years of age, tall in

stature, but feeble in constitution, who felt for fourteen years an inextinguishable thirst. She drank usually, in twenty-four hours, from eighteen to twenty pints of water; and it was calculated that from the age of six to twenty years, she had drank 95,000 pints of water.

Eulogy, to the memory of that excellent and distinguished
Philanthropist, the late Granville Sharp, Esq.
Addressed to a Friend.

Why mourns my friend in sorrow's deepest gloom,
Why heaves his bosom with such poignant grief,
That matchless merit sinks into the tomb?

Painful to us the change-to him, relief.

Shall worth like his unto the grave descend,
Without the tribute of one parting lay?
Shall Sharp, so long, of all mankind, the friend,
Unhonour'd leave us, for the realms of day?

No: every virtue round thy bier shall, weep;
And Britain's sons partake a genʼral sigh;

The sable children of the western deep,

Shall join in sorrow with a widow's cry.

That lost for ever, is that holy flame,

Which nerv'd thy arm, and strung thy pow'rful tongue; T'impeach oppression's ever guilty name,

And plead the Freeman's rights-the captive's wrong.

Thy genius pierced first the darksome night,
Where groaning Africa, despairing lay;
Her woes, unthought of, met Britannia's sight,
God said, "Let Sharp exist ;" and all was day.

Nor slept thy arm through many a conflict dire,
With pallid avarice it long maintain'd;

Till senates witness'd the consuming fire

Of truth; and lust and cruelty were both enchain'd.

Epigram on a young woman, who, while she was courted by a Shoemaker, married a Soldier; but, liking novelty, left him in the lurch, and returned to Crispin's arms.

At Sligo, we're told, that a fair lively maid,
A courtship long standing with Crispin display'd;
But ere 'twas concluded she alter'd her mind,
And Venus with Mars was in wedlock combin'd:
She wax'd warm again, and, forgetting the past,
Went back to the first, and was true to the last.

The Poplar.

No watch-dog disturb'd the calm season of rest,

And the day beams were faintly the mountains adorning, The night dew still hung on the eglantine's breast,

And the shrill cock first broke the sweet silence of morning.

To the haunts of his childhood, the scenes of his sport, A wanderer came in the stillness of sorrow,

The magic of life's early visions to court,

And the sweetest of hours from remembrance to borrow.

But the fields of his culture were dreary and wild,

And dear were the bow'rs where the rose once was blowing.

The dark weed had grown where the garden had smil'd, And a wildness spread, where beauty was glowing.

1

Yet one poplar surviv'd, and was lofty and fair-
'Twas the pride of his youth, when his sun rose en-

chanting,

And affection had treasur'd his memory there,

And had hallow'd his name on the tree of his planting.
Unknown was the hand that thus witness'd-its truth,
Unknown was the heart with affection thus beaming;
But the wanderer thought on the friend of his youth,
And his spirit was blest, tho' his tear-drops were
streaming.

Thou flower of affection, entwining the heart,

To deck the drear scene of our wanderings given!
Thy balm to our grief can its healing impart,

And thy blossoms of light caught their beauty from
Heav'n!

Fisherman's Song.-By Miss Baillie.
No fish stir in our heaving net,

And the sky is dark, and the night is wet;.
And we must ply the lusty oar,

For the tide is ebbing from the shore;
And sad are they whose faggots burn,
So kindly stored for our return.

Our boat is small and the tempest raves,
And nought is heard but the lashing waves,
And the sullen roar of the angry sea,
And the wild winds piping drearily;
Yet sea and tempest rise in vain,'
We'll bless our blazing hearth again.

Push bravely, mates? our guiding star
Now from its towerlet streameth far;