THE COTTAGER.

A cow, a pig, the featherd brood,
The cot which on the common stood,
The scythe and sickle, fail and spade,
Brought Hodge, and family, their bread.
When his kind stars these aids afford,
Hodge is as happy as my lord;
He felt no want—was blithe as May,
Cattle, or wife, ne'er went astray.
But now the commons are inclos'd,
His fav’rite stock to sale expos'd ;
His cow, his calf, his pig, are gone,
His sheep are “ kill'd off,” ev'ry one;
His fail, scythe, sickle, and his spade,
Could not supply his house with bread.
Hunger no fear of law descries,
“ No fear of God before his eyes,”
He stole a goose, by famine led,
From that spot where his own had fed.
Now to the justice brought in haste,
That justice who inclos'd the waste,
His worship in a passion flew
In silence Hodge a long face drew-
“ A halter, sirrah, you'll not miss,
For perpetrating crimes like this."
Hodge droop'd his head, and heav'd a sigh;
Then meekly utter'd this reply:

6 The crime is small in man or woman,
Should they a goose steal from a common;
But what can plead that man's excuse,
Who steals a common from a goose ?”

Anonymous.

PARTING.

I

go, my love ; and, till we meet again,

Let hope and constancy the time beguile : Again to meet ! that prospect shall restrain

The tear that starts through my dissembled smile.

Farewell ! but there is finish'd all my boast

That tender accent falters on my tongue ; And I must weep for that dear object lost,

On which I gazd so fondly, and so long,

O stay! O turn ! for I have much to say

One word ! one look! I cannot leave thee so Ah me! she takes a distant different way;

And I unheard, unanswer'd vent my woe.

From her soft voice no more I catch the sound;

No more her beauties grace my happy side: I call, I search in vain, no more is found

My sweet companion, and my promis'd bride.

Back to those happy scenes, remembrance, fly!

Thy lenient aid my sorrows shall remove : For thou from these dear moments canst supply

Full many a proof propitious to my love.

Much tho' I lov'd, I found that love repaid;

And seem'd of all men happy o'er the rest ; Consenting beauty heal'd the wound it made;

And love enslav'd me but to make me blest.

My lips the story of my bosom told,

Check'd by no scornful, no unkind reply ; Her fav’ring glances bade my tongue be bold,

And mutual passion kindled in her eye.

The blush soft spreading o'er her downcast face,

The sudden sigh half rising, half suppress’d, That coy distress that heightens ev ry grace

In silent eloquence her love confess'd.

How sweet to snatch her not unwilling hand,

And all delighted on her charms to gaze; While, mix'd with many a kiss, we fondly plann'd

The tender conduct of connubial days !

Each social virtue decks her gentle mind;

And stedfast Honour waves his banner there ; So chaste a temple, love was proud to find ; And truth proclaims her parting vow sincere.

While sweet remembrance thus relieves my heart,

Ab! why should grief so fair a prospect sour? Yes, we shall meet, and meet no more to part,

And heav'ı, and love shall bless th' expected hour.

Then fare thee well! and to thy constant mind

Still be my mem'ry dear, tho' I am gone;
Still be each thought, each tender wish confind

To me whose heart is full of thee alone :

Fond Hope the while shall cheer my drooping soul,

In sweet impatience shall the time employ, Shall ebide the lazy moments as they roll, And sooth my grief with thoughts of future joy.

London Magazine.

WRITTEN BY DR. JOHNSON,

In ridicule of an Author.

HERMIT hoar, in solemn cell

Wearing out life's evening grey ;
Strike thy bosom, sage, and tell, ,

What is bliss, and which the way?

Thus I spoke, and, speaking, sigh’d,

Scarce repress’d the starting tear,
When the hoary sage reply'd,

Come, my lad, and drink some beer.

THE TULIP AND THE MYRTLE.

'Twas on the border of a stream

A gaily painted tulip stood,
And, gilded by the morning beam,

Survey'd her beauties in the flood.

And sure, more lovely to behold
: Might nothing meet the wistful eye,
Than crimson fading into gold,

In streaks of fairest symetry.

The beauteous flower, with pride elate,

Ah me! that pride with beauty dwells ! Vainly affects superior staté,

And thus in empty fancy swells :

“ O lustre of unrivall'd bloom !

Fair painting of a hand divine! ! Superior far to mortal doom,

The hues of heaven alone are mine!

Away, ye worthless, formless race!" ;

Ye weeds that boast the name of flowers ! No more my native bed disgrace, Unmeet for tribes so mean as yours !