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THE MID-WATCH,

ON THE NIGHT BEFORE AN ACTION.

WHEN 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come,
And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd main,
Then sailors think of their far distant home,

And of those friends they ne'er may see again :
But, when the fight's begun,

Each serving at his gun,

Should any thought of them come o'er your mind,
Think only-should the day be won!
How 'twill cheer

Their hearts to hear

That their own dear sailor he was one.

And thus, brave tar, if you a mistress kind
Have left on shore; some pretty girl, and true!
Who many a night doth listen to the wind,
And sigh to think how it may fare with you:
Oh, when the fight's begun,

Each serving at his gun,

Should any thought of her come o'er your mind, Think only-should the day be won!

How 'twould cheer

Her heart to hear

That her own true sailor he was one.

Naval Chronicle.

ON THE VIEW OF A SHIPWRECK

FROM THE SHORE.

THE wild winds roar, a moment ceas'd,
A dreadful pause succeeds;

The shriek of terror strikes the ear.
The heart with pity bleeds.

No human aid can interpose,
The shatter'd bark to save;
The 'whelming waves resistless fill
The sailor's wat❜ry grave.

No more the tender ties of home,
Shall meet their blest return:
The wife, the parent, and the child,
Through many a day shall mourn.

The stormy night shall wake their woes
From some delusive dream,

When oft to their fond arms restor❜d
The long lost friend shall seem-

The friend with whom, in early years,
Their happiest hours were known,
Whether by youthful sports endear'd,
Or kindred claims their own.

Within the deep profound they rest,

Far from their native shore,
Till future ages pass away,

And man shall weep no more.

Naval Chronicle.

THE HERMIT.

Ar the close of the day when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove;
'Twas then, by the cave of a mountain reclin'd,
A Hermit his nightly complaint thus began,
Tho' mournful his voice, his heart was resign'd,
He thought as a sage, but he felt as a man:

"Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe,
Why thus, lonely Philomel, flows thy sad strain?
For Spring shall return, and a lover bestow,
And thy bosom no trace of misfortune retain.
Yet if pity inspire thee, ah! cease not thy lay,
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;
O sooth him, whose pleasures like thine pass away,
Full quickly they pass-but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The moon half extinguish'd her cresent displays :
But lately I mark'd, when majestic on high
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to splendour again ;—
But man's faded glory no change shall renew,
Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain!

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, Perfum'd with fresh fragrance, and glittring with dew. Nor yet for the of Winter I mourn; ravage Kind nature the embryo blossom will save,— But when shall Spring visit the mould'ring urn, O when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

Beattie.

THE LAWS OF THE ROAD.

THE Laws of the Road are a paradox quite,
For when you are travelling along,

If you keep to the left you'll be sure to be right,
If you keep to the right you'll be wrong.

Museum of Wit.

IDYLLIUM.

THE PRISON.

O, WELCOME, Debtor! in these walls
Thy cares, and joys, and loves forego,
Approach; a brother Debtor calls,
And join the family of woe!

Did Fortune, with her frowning brow,
Thy late and early toils withstand ?
Or slander strike the fatal blow,
Or griping us'ry's iron hand?

Say, does a wife, to want consign'd,
While weeping babes surround her bed,
Peep through, and see the fetters bind
Those hands, that earn'd their daily bread?

Does she in vain on knees that bend,
The marble heart of wealth implore?
Breathless pursue some flying friend,
Or beat in vain the closing door?

Look up, and share our scanty meal;
For us some brighter hours may flow;
Some angel break these bolts of steel,
For HOWARD marks, and feels our woe.
Dr. Darwin.

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