Then turning round, his ghastly face
Was twisted with a smile,

"Now living things are far remote,
We'll rest us here awhile.
Brothers we were, good Polydore,
We robb'd in company;

Brothers we were, and we in death

Shall also brothers be.

"Behold the elm, behold the rope,

Which I prepar❜d before.

Thou'rt pale! -'tis but a struggle, man,

And soon that struggle's o'er. Tremble no more, but cheerful come,

And like a brother be;

I'll hold the rope, and in my arms

I'll help you up the tree."

The eyes of Polydore grew dim,
He rous'd himself to pray,

But a heavy weight sat on his breast,

And took all voice away.

The rope is tied, then from his lips

A cry of anguish broke,

Too powerful for the bands of sleep,

And Polydore awoke.

All vanish'd now the cursed elm,
His dead companion gone,

With troubled joy he found himself

In darkness and alone.

But still the wind with hollow gusts

Fought ravening on the moor,

And check'd his transports, while it shook The bolted cottage door.

ON BURNING A PACKET OF LETTERS RECEIVED FROM A FRIEND AT AN EARLY PERIOD OF LIFE, WHOSE CORRESPONDENCE HAD LAPSED INTO SILENCE, AND WHOSE FRIENDSHIP INTO APATHY.

COLD is the hand that gives thee to the flame,
Sweet source of pleasure in my early years!
But, O ye friends! to me impute no blame,
I mark its quick destruction thro' my tears.

Cold was the hand that at one cast destroy'd
Sweet friendship, which, upon that crackling scroll,
Depicted was; even where, with skill employ'd,
Her pen had traced the kindness of her soul.

Ah! why the proof of former joy preserve!
A present grief 'twere folly to retain ;
Years to encrease the change would only serve,

And every change would add severer pain.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A RETIRED SEAT IN A FRIEND'S SHRUBBERY.

YE who love the shady bow'r,
Ye who fear the sultry hour;
Ye who peace delight to meet,
Come to my sequester'd seat.

Ye whose bosoms pant with fears,
Ye who wish to hide your tears;
Ye who pine with secret love,
Seek my quiet whispering grove!

If meditation suit thee best,
Come with me contented rest,

For here each flower and rising tree
Declares the present Deity.

ON A SPRIG OF HEATH.

FLOWER of the waste! the heath-fowl shuns

For thee the brake and tangled wood,

To thy protecting shade she runs,

Thy tender buds supply her food; Her young forsake her downy plumes

To rest upon thy opening blooms.

Flower of the desert tho' thou art!

The deer that range the mountain free,

The graceful doe, the stately hart,

Their food of shelter seek from thee;

The bee thy earliest blossom greets,
And draws from thee her choicest sweets.

Gem of the heath! whose modest bloom
Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor;
Tho' thou dispense no rich perfume,

Nor yet with splendid tints allure,
Both valour's crest and beauty's bower,
Oft hast thou deck'd, a favourite flower.