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Sweet lady, look not thus again ;

Those little pouting smiles recal;
A maid remember'd now with pain,

Who was my love, my life, my all.

Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye,
Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look,

And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh.

Yes; I did love her--madly love

She was the sweetest, best deceiver;
And oft she swore she'd never rove,

And I was destin'd to believe her.

Then, lady, do not wear the smile

Of her, whose smile could thus betray;
Alas! I think the lovely wile

Again might steal my heart away.

And when the spell that stole my mind

On lips so pure as thine I see,
I fear the beart which she resign'd,

Will err again, and fly to thee.

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“ Ah! Mary, sweetest maid, farewell!

My hopes are flown, for a’s to wreck, Heaven guard your love, and heal your heart,

Though mine, alas! maun break."

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“ Ye canna thole the wind and rain,

Nor wander friendless far frae hame, Cheer, cheer your heart, some richer swain

Will soon blot out lost Willie's name."

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“ Pardon, love, 'twas a' a snare

The flock’s are safe we needna part, I'd forfeit them and ten times mair,

To clasp thee, Mary, to my heart.”

“ Could ye wi' my feelings sport,
Or doubt a heart sae warm and true,
I should wish mischief on ye lor't,
But canna wish ought ill to you.”

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Where the chilling north wind howls,
Where the weeds so wildly wave,

Mourn’d by the weeping willow,

Wash'd by the beating billow, Lies the youthful poet's grave.

* This is another very valuable little poem, for which we must do homage to the genius of America. It serves to confirm the opinion, which we have formerly stated, respecting the talents and improvement of our brethrerin that far distant land. The merits of the piece indeed, cannot but be highly appreciated by every man of taste, as well as by every lover of poetry. They are of such a nature as widely to distinguish it from the general tenor of e. legiac compositions, which, for the most part, are either begun without inte rest, or conducted without ability. On the contrary, we are here presented

Beneath yon little eminence,
Mark'd by the grass green turf,

The winding sheet his form encloses,

On the cold stone his head reposes,
And near him foams the troubl’d surf.

“ Roars round its base the ocean,"
Pensive sleeps the moon-beam there,

Naiads love to wreathe his urn,

Dryads thither hie to mourn,
And fairies' wild-notes melt in air !

with the effusions of a mind glowing with all the ardour of the most genere ous feeling, assisted by the dictates of an exuberant fancy, and adorned with the embellishments of classical refinement.

Of the author of so respectable a production, we are sorry to confess our selves to be very ignorant. The only particular indeed, which we can state respecting him, is, that at the time when he composed the present poem, he had scarcely completed his fifteenth year.

Our information concerning the youth who is here so feelingly commemorated, has, however, been more satisfactory and complete. He was a Mr. George Sirrin, a native of the state of New York in America. His father, who was by profession a clergyman, and who had discharged the duties of his office for many years in the district referred to, immediately after the birth of his son, removed with his family to South Carolina. As George was an only, and, of course, a beloved son, his father took his education solely into his own hands, and was, indeed the only instructor which he had in his juvenile studies. The attention of the father was amply rewarded by the unprecedented application, and progress of the extraordinary youth. At the age of seven, he read Cæsar's Commentaries, and before he had attair. ed his ninth year, had perused the works of Horace. From his earliest infancy, he took no delight in the sports of his playful companions, but was often known to steal, even from the most engaging pastime, to wander with a

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