So said, he fix'd them on his snout,
And stard, and wink'd, and look'd about,

But all in vain :
" Perhaps de soight's too old,” the pedlar cries,

Sher, try anoder pair;

Dese, sher, vill shute you to a hair.” Again the bumkin try'd ;

His eyes ran o'er the page again, But all was dark and puzzling as before.

“ Vell, sir,” cry'd Moses, “can you now see better?” “ Not I," quoth Hodge, with angry roar;

“ I cannot tell a letter." Then madly stamp' and rav'd, Swearing he'd have the cheating Hebrew shav'd; He'd dock his chin, he'd mow his grisly beard. “ Vy, sher,” cry'd Moses, striving to be heard,

Perhaps you cannot read, and if ’tis so, Noting vill help you out, you know;

De spectacles are very goot indeed, But den, perhaps you never vent to school."

“What,” growld the clown, with fiery eye, And redden'd face, whose anger you might see,

“ D’ye take me for a fool ?
If I could say my A, B, C,

What need have I
For any helps to read ?”

I. Britton, Jun.

THE WYE.

Soft as those tear-besprinkled smiles

Which deck with loves each pitying eye, This wand'ring river woe beguiles,

And steals an hour from misery.

Tender is the mellow hue

Which softens all the ev’ning hour; This stream displays as soft a view,

And wakes a sympathetic pow'r.

Sweet is the shore the Arabs boast,

With roses cover'd, and with gum, The Wye, as sweet, delights us most,

Since far remov'd from worldly hum.

Soft is the strain that sooths the mind,

Disposing all the soul to weep; So soft, so mild, so gently wind These lovely waters to the deep.

Mirror.

TO A COQUETTE.

Ye

Es, we will part, these stifled sighs

Shall smother ev'ry spark of fire, Which those two heaven-created eyes

Seem'd still so willing to inspire.

Perhaps, dear girl, you'll ask, what crime

Could thus so suddenly subdue A flame so ardent, so sublime,

As that which once I felt for you?

No crime, no sin, perhaps mankind

May laugh at scruples I regret; Sweet maid, as I am not quite blind,

I find thou art a true coquette.

Then flaunt along the crowded street,

Attract all hearts too if you can, Charm ev'ry coxcomb that you meet,

And only lose--an honest man.

Thus Indian folly you surpass,

Who (as by travellers we're told) Are charm’d with little bits of glass,

And buy them with their purest gold. And when your fading roses fly,

Your lilies are no longer seen, Ah! may you

ne'er have cause to cry, How very fuolish I have been.

Mirror.

THE LADY'S ANSWER.

Yes, we will part—I see tis vain
To hold you in the graceful chain

Of elegance and fashion:
Before your stormy jealous sighs,
Love spreads his silken wings and flies,

Scar'd at the gust of passion.

Why should you hope that you alone
Should mount my heart's divided throne,

So obstinate and mulish:
Would you enchain a woman's will ?
Then bid the raging sea be still !

I'm sure you're very foolish. .

Ah, if poor women were to die
Merely for their coquettry,

Or veering like the weather,
Impartial justice, so sublime,
Would gather them in every clime,

And hang us all together.

But ere I close my flippant strain,
Were all men hang'd for being vain,

(Now pray be not offended)
Lamenting, heaven would shortly see
Both sexes huddled on the tree,
And so the world be ended.

Mirror,

ADVICE TO A FRIEND.

Gaze not, my friend, on Celia's eye,

Where thousand loves in ambush wait; Now, while thou canst, the danger fly,

Nor dare, like me, to tempt thy fate.

Those charms I view'd in luckless hour,

Awe-struck as Persians at the sun; My bosom own’d their instant pow'r,

I did but look, and was undone.

So through the air with winged force

And deadly aim the bullet flies; Although unseen its trackless course, The warrior feels it, and he dies.

Maunde.