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TO MY FRIEND.
DEAR Edward! should it e'er be said
And sympathy unknown;
By instancing our own.
Ours is no tie of common stamp,
Which e’en a breath may end;
Cares only for its friend,
Let Prussia, Germany, and Spain
And quarrel for--a bone.
All have-yet none dare own.
'Tis all to help the farce on,"
When evening closes in the day,
In winter's freezing season:
Nor think of courts, or treason.
On tardy sloth's luxurious bed,
We'll taste the charms of murn?
The music of the horn.
Or else, should frosts enchain the ground,
The gun shall be our care,
They snuff the tainted air. Health, a no longer bashful lass, Who flies the full nocturtial glass,
Each peaceful hour shall bless,
Shall join our social mess.
And gild the cloudless day,
ACCUSED BY HER OF HAVING GROWN
was not then my soul content
When with thee happy-calm without thee.
By Heavens, I scarcely cared about thee. But all my spirits now are flown; And anxious, jealous, fretful, grown, Thy presence oft I rudely fly; Oft silent, sullen, sit and sigh;
Nay oft in accents stern reprove thee! O! wherefore is my bliss expired! Art thou grown odious, I grown tired; Where friendship warm’d does hatred glow? No, no Louisa 'tis not so;
But ʼtis because at length I love thec.
S. W. I.
BY ROBERT ANDERSON.
Stop, gentle traveller; on this rude seat,
If Fortune's favors, traveller, thou canst boast, Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n, Nor loiter here: 'Time's ever on the wing. Yet, should thy panting bosom rest require, Let what thine eye beholds lead thee to heav'o. This Seat, thy wearied body that supports, Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride; And many a humbler tree, and fragrant shrub, Its thick wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast: And oft the hind, to shun the fervid glow Of Summer's noontide sun, has sought its shade; Pleased with wild warblings from its topmost boughs, While o'er his scanty meal. Time-rent, and fall'n, Lo, its decay bespeaks the fate of man. If, pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head, One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And the sear leaves, that quivering, drop around,
Nos leign to view yon cottage in the vale,
And herever he reads them declares then his own. *Tis wisely ordain'd that eac': rascally action
Its own punishment, sooner or later, ensures ;
For the wrong he has done ample vengeance is your's.
He nothing has gained but the bitterest scorn!
R. A. DAVENPORT.