But, ah! now that I work by their presence un

cheered,

I feel 't is a hardship, indeed, to be poor;

While I shrink from fatigue, now no longer endeared, And sigh as I knock at the wealthy man's door.

Then, alas! when at night I return to my home, No longer I boast that my comforts are many; To a silent, deserted, dark dwelling I come,

Where no one exclaims-" Thou art welcome, my Fanny!"

That, that is the pang! want and toil would impart No pang to my breast, if kind friends I could see; For the wealth that I yearn for is that of the heart— The smiles of affection are riches to me.

Then in pity, ye rich, when to you I apply

To purchase my goods, though you do not buy

any,

With the accents of kindness O deign to deny ;

You'll comfort the heart of poor fatherless Fanny.

THE NORTH-WESTER.

BY JOHN MALCOLM, ESQ.

They were the first

That ever burst

Into that silent sea!

COLERIDGE.

'MID shouts that hailed her from the shore, And bade her speed, the bark is gone, That dreary ocean to explore,

Whose waters sweep the frigid zone;

And bounding on before the gale,

To bright eyes shining through their tears,

'Twixt sea and sky, her snowy sail A lessening speck appears.

Behold her next, 'mid icy isles,

Lone wending on her cheerless way;
'Neath skies where summer scarcely smiles,
Whose light seems but the shade of day.
But while the waves she wanders o'er,
Around her form they sink to sleep;

The pulse of nature throbs no more
She 's chained within the deep!

Then Hope for ever took her flight;
Each face, as monumental stone,
Grew ghastly, in the fading light,

In which their latest sun went down :
And ere its disk to darkness past,

And closed their unreturning day, The seaman sought the dizzy mast To catch its latest ray.

All other secrets of their fate

From darkness would the Muse redeem? Unheard-of horrors to relate,

Which fancy scarce may dare to dream,— Thus much we only know they died; All else oblivion deeply veils, And charnels of the waters wide, That tell no babbling tales.

For them were wishes, longings, fears,
The sleepless night and ceaseless prayer,
Hope gleaming, rainbow-like, through tears,
And doubt that darkened to despair!
Suns, seasons, as they roll away,
No light upon the lost can shed

Their tale a secret till the day

When seas give up their dead.

ON THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

BY THE REV. C. WOLFE.

Sir John Moore was killed by a cannon shot in the moment of victory, at the battle of Corunna, Jan. 11. 1803. He was buried the same night on the ramparts of the Citadel of Corunna, a few hours before the British troops embarked.

NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moon-beam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word in sorrow;
But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought on the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow,

That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow.

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;

But nothing he'll reck if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock tolled the hour for retiring; And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory: We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory.