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Yes, winter, though icicles hang on thy brow,

And nature disconsolate mourns; . . Yet Scotia will ever exult in thy reign, in

For she owes thee the birth of a Burns.

When your bellowing tempests, incessant and deep,

Terrificly howl through the sky:
Do you visit a spot where his fame is unknown,

A spot where 'twill wither or die.

Yes, yes, the bright fame of the bard will decay

For nature itself will expire: But the last lover's song, o'er the wreck of mankind;

Will echo his heavenly lyre.



Have you not seen the timid tear,

Steal gently from mine eye?
Have you not mark’d the flush of fear,

Or caught the murmur'd sigh? .

And can you think my love is chill,

Nor fix'd on you alone?
And can you rend, by doubting still,

A heart so much your own?

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The boatswain's shrill whistle pip'd all hands ahoy,

The word, to weigh anchor was given, When pale turn'd the cheek of the poor Sailor Boy,

His eyes were uplifted to heaven,

nd was it dismay that affected his breast,

Or dread of the deep that pervaded his feelings? h! no, 'twas a passion more keenly exprest, 'Twas the throb of affection, 'twas Nature's appealings.

o home and to kindred he'd bidden farewell, o)

He strove his sensations to smother,
But mem'ry had bound round his bosom her spell,

And he mus'd on the words of his mother :-
My hope is thy conduct, thy father is dead,

“ Be true to thy king, and ne'er shrink from thy duty, · The furrows of age on my temples are spread,

“ Thy sister has nought but her virtue and beauty.”

The Sailor Boy's cheek was bedew'd with a tear,

His messmates beheld his emotion,
With hearty huzzas his young bosom they checr,

It swell’d with a loyal devotion :
Aloft up the shrouds to his duty he flew,

His heart glow'd with courage, all obstacles braving, From his neck his dear sister's last token he drew,

The pledge of her love from the top gallant waving.

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of These elegant stanzas, so justly admired for their extreme streetness have been generally ascribed to Fletcher, in whose tradegy of Rollo, Duke of Normandy, they are to be found, but as the first of them had appeared a considerable time before, in Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, and as all the songs introduced into that author's plays, seem to have been his own composition, Mr. Malone, in his improved edition of Shakespoare's Sonncts, has, (we think with justice), inserted them as his,

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" They made her a grave too cold and damp,

“ For a soul so warm and true;
« And she's gone to the lake of the dismal swamp,
- Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp,

" She paddles her white canoe.

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* This affecting little piece is from the pen of Mr. Thomas Moore, and is founded, he tells us, on a story current in Norfolk, in America, of a young anan, who lost his reason upon the death of a girl whom he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the dismal swamp, it is supposed e had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses.-The great dismal swamp is ten or twelve miles distant from Norfolk, and the Lake in the middle of it (about seven miles long) is called Drummond's Pond.

Amid the singular constellation of genius that at present illuminates our poetical horizon, the star of Moore shines with no weakly lustre. This eminent individual, the only son of Mr. Garret Moore, formerly a respectable merchant in Dublin, and who still resides there, was born May 28th, 1780. While attending the grammar school of that city, he evinced such precocity of talent, as determined his father to give him the advantages of a superior education ; and, at the age of fourteen, he was entered a student in Trinity College..

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