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respect to their libations to Bacchus, the presiding divro nity of the Island, they frequently indulge their appetite to excess in the luxury of the table. From this circum. stance, with the sedentary life to which they habituate themselves, they become subject to chronic disorders, which are followed by the debilities of premature old age,

The writer adds, that early marriages and a numerous offspring greatly shorten the youth, or at least the bloom and gaiety of female life. The mothers (be says) have often from six to twelve children, whom they generally suckle.

LAMENTATION. THOUGH the sun never shines on the grave where she Nor flow'rets tbeir fragrance bestow,

(sleeps, The traveller rests on his journey, and weeps

For the maid who reposes below.
When last I came by she was cheerful and gay,

And hope told of pleasure to come;
But the Sylph with her sun-beam was stolen away,

And now she is cold in the tomb.
The friends that she lov'd can no longer be found,

They have breath'd an eternal adieu ;
Por, when fancy no longer breathes pleasure around,

Her vot'ries will fly away too.
Oh! light may ber spirit recline on its pillow,

And gentle and soft be her sleep:
In the summers-mild eve I will sit by yon willow,

To think of her beauty and weep.

GAMING EXTRAORDINARY. THE late General Scott, so celebrated for his success in gaming, was one evening playing very deep with the Count D'Artois and the Duke de Chartres, at Paris, when a petition was brought up from the widow of a French officer, stating her various misfortunes, and praying reJief: a plate was handed round, and each person put in one, two, or three, louis-d'ors; but when it was held to the General, who was going to throw for a stake of 500 louisd’ors, he said. “Stop a moment, if you please, Sir ; here goes for the widow !" The throw was successful, and he instantly swept the whole into the plate, and sent it down to astonished petitioner,

WHEN I look forth into the face of night,

And see those silent orbs that gem the sky

The moon that holds her glorious path on highThe countless host of stars of lesser light, All moving on their destined course aright,

Through the broad ocean of ipfinity,

Steer'd by the hand of Him whose glories lie Beyond the stretch of mortal sense or sightWhen I behold all heaven divinely bright

With this array, and downward turn mine eyes,My soul expands into its native might,

And loathes the burden of that coil that lies

Like lead upon the soul, and clogs its flight Unte its purer seats and kindred skies.

TWICE to the ark the gales of heaven

The feather'd herald bore:
When freedom was a third time giveu,

She then returned no more.
Thus, dearest Kate, thou must not be
Too oft a wavderer from me.
The heav'n-built ark of peaceful home

Thou still must learn to bear,
Nor pant with truant wing to roam

The deluy'd world of care:
No resting place can ever suit,
So well as home a Molher's foot.

THE CHAIN OF LOVE. IN wanton spot, my Doris from her fair And glossy tresses, tore a straggling hair, And hound my hands as if of conquest vain, And I some royal captive in her chain. At first I laughed—"This fetter lovely maid, Is lightly worn and soon dissolved," I said: I said: but ah I had not learned to prove How strong the fetters that are forged by love. The little thread of gold I stove to sever Was bound like steel about my heart for ever; And from that luckless hour my tyrant Fair Has led and turned me like a single hair,

LAZINESS OF AUTHORS. DR JOHNSON was accustomed to laugh at men who imagined themselves to be fitter for literary composition at one time than another; or that at different times, and under different circumstances, they succeeded better in different kinds of composition. In his own example bowever, we see how little his practice corresponded with bis theoretical notions. The Doctor wrote his far famed Rasselas, to provide the means of defraying the expences of his wife's funeral, and the feeling excited by the occasion; the tune of mind in which it was written is apparent and striking, and inspires a melancholy which sickens the heart, and makes us almost listless of existence. The world was blaok to him, his perves were shaken, and he could not at that moment have written any thing which would have inspired other ideas; nor, we maintain, could he, gigantic as were bis powers, at any time of bis life bave produced Rasselas under joyous impressions, in a state of bilarity resulting from good fortune and a healthful temperament. If in the former condition of mind, he had attempted to be merry, it must indeed have been, in his own expression of Milton, “a melancholy mirth,” and if in the latter state he had attempted to compose Rasselas, he would have thrown down his pen, and confessed biunself incapable of the task.

The term laziness is misapplied in this instance; literary labour can only be well performed, when the mind can be readily brought in unison with the subject; and the laziness generally attributed to authors may be thus accounted for. This is abundantly shewn in the reluctance with which Johnson and many other literary characters always applied to literary labour, and which nothing but necessity could overcome.

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WE well may wonder o'er the change of scene,

Now Summer's contrast through the land is spread,

And turn us back, where Winter's tempest fled,
And left nought living but the ivy's green.

The then bare woods, that tremble over head
Like Spectres, 'mid the storm, of what had been,

And wrecks of beauty ne'er to bloom again,-
Are now all glory. Nature smiles as free,

As the last Summer had commenced its reign,
And she were blooming in Eternity;

So in this life, when future thoughts beguile,
And from past cares our spirits get relieved,

Hope cheers us onward with as sweet a smile
As if, before, she never had deceived.

THERE may be some who loved, like me,
'Though reason, feeling, pride, reproved;
Loved with aching constancy-

Hopelessly loved.
Some, who to words but half sincere
That should have been but half believed,
Lent like me, a willing ear,

And were deceived.
Suffering like me, perhaps they found
One struggling wrench, one wild endeavour,
Break the tie that else had bound

Their souls for ever!
And they were freed—and yet I pine
With secret pangs, with griefs unspoken :
No-their hearts were uot like mine,

Else they had broken!

THE HANDKERCHIEF. A judge of the Police and Spy

(For both are join'd in Eastern nations) Prowling about with purpose sly,

To list to people's conversations,
And pry in every corner cupboard,

According to his dirty calling,
Saw a poor woman passing by,

Who wept and blubber'd,
Like a church spout when rain is falling,

Which strives in vain to vent and utter

The overflowings of the gutter.
Our magistrate thought fit to greet her,

Insisting on the dame's declaring

What caused this monstrous ululation : When she averr'd her spouse had beat her

Black and blue beyond all bearing,

Without the smallest provocation. To work the judge's pen and ink went,

Taking the rogue's address and trade,
And the next morning the delinquent

Was duly into Court convey'd :
When he asserted, that his wife
Was such an advocate of strife,
That she would raise a mighty clangour,
And put herself into a pucker,

For trifles that surpass'd belief,
And, for the recent cause of anger,

He swore, point blank, that he had struck her

With nothing but his handkerchief. The judge, convinced by this averment,

Dismiss'd the case without a word ; When in the court there rose a ferment,

And the wife's angry voice was heard-
To cheat your Worship is too bad!

My Lord, my Lord !' do interpose,
And stop the knave where'er he lingers :
The villain! he forgot to add

That he for ever blows his nose
With his own fingers!"

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