Ol$ 
[Jan. 1, 
Original Poetry. 
Of Hope—life’s darkly chequer’d vision— 
Its passions—follies—pains and fears,— 
Its dimness, and its quick transition, 
Methinks are emblem’d in her tears ; 
Her bright, tho’ fading, hues, and even 
The tempests that deform her heaven. 
And like to life, in bliss beginning, 
But shadowed ere its close, with g’loom, 
Till every tint is bright and winning, 
Yields to the winter of the tomb ; 
Such Autumn’s birth and wane; when 
finished 
Her course prescrib’d, awhile she sleeps. 
But with her beauties undiminished, 
Fresh vigils with each year she keeps ; 
So Christians ’scaped a life of pain, 
Soar, though they never sink again! 
Woburn, Oct. W. 
IMITATION FROM THE PERSIAN. 
In Chin are man} men of shill and learning. 
Who show their genius in the painting line; 
(They have not got their fame without some 
earning,) 
And one of these had sketched out a design. 
Which proved he was a wit, shrewd, and discern¬ 
ing ; 
And I will now endeavour to define 
The subject of his picture, in progression, 
’Twas of three men much differing in expression. 
The first appeared afflicted and most sad, 
Plung'd like a diver in a sea of thought; 
And, as if sore oppress’d with grief, he had 
Fix'd his hand on his beard, and heeded not 
Of what was passing round him, gay and glad : 
The portrait of the second seemed o’erwrought. 
For wretchedness was so depicted there, 
He look’d the very image of despair. 
He had an aspect as if mourning o'er 
The dead, and in his hand he held a stone, 
And with it beat his breast in anguish sore, 
From which it seem’d peace had for ever flown. 
The third was of another stamp, and wore 
The look of joy and happiness alone, 
Was gay and smiling, free from worldly care, 
As though to him life was both good and fair. 
And above each of these was written plain, 
A short description, to tell what was meant, 
That every one who saw might ascertain 
The artist’s fancy, and his true intent; 
(A satire you will find both sound and sane;) 
Over the first, whose mind to thought seem'd 
bent: 
“ This was an Arab, forced by cruel fate, 
To ask in marriage one to be his mate, 
And thinking on it with much bitterness, 
Occasions him to look in such distress.” 
And above him who smote his breast for woe : 
“ This man for beauty did espouse his wife, 
But. such a dame she prov’d, (like some I know) 
That since he never has been free from strife ; 
And now repentance overpowers him so, 
That he is grown quite weary of his life, 
And beats his breast, and frantic tears his hair, 
And gives his soul up to this deep despair.” 
Above tbe third, who seemed so blithe and gay, 
Was written—“ This man is reliev’d from care, 
Because his spouse was lately ta’en away 
By death’s embrace, and secret sorrow ne’er 
Will now' more trouble him by night or day ; 
This is the reason why his features wear 
Such cheerful smiles ; and now from wedlock free, 
He evermore will prize bis liberty.” 
< MARIA. 
A SENTIMENTAL SKETCH. 
On a fine summer’s morn as my rambles I took. 
Near a green, shady bank, by a fast falling brook, 
I saw a fair maiden, the fairest that yet 
These eyes in their search after beauty e’er met; 
Not Angelo’s chisel, though full of each grace. 
Ever moulded, I ween, a more soul-witcliing face. 
O’er her shoulders her locks of pure auburn did 
flow, 
And shaded a bosom far whiter than snow r , 
Like the sunbeam which gives to the dark storm 
relief; 
Meek patience enliven’d her aspect of grief, 
And her eyes, which yet beam’d with Love’s con¬ 
stancy true, 
Like a soft summer’s heaven, were light, clear, and 
blue. 
Hail sw’eetness in woman, whose beauty first 
warms, 
Whose tenderness melts us, whose gentleness 
charms! 
’Ti? pity, those charms ye unrivall'd display, 
Like the rose wins the hand—first to pluck, then 
betray: 
Such fate was Maria’s, ah! where is that grace. 
That spirit of health, and that bloom in the face ? 
And where are those accents which sounded so 
well 
With the dance of her bosom ? Some villain can 
tell; 
For a villain he was who could play such a part, 
As to tear down the fabric of bliss from her heart; 
Who could steal, like a repiile, each bloom to. 
devour, 
And soil the white pure tints of modesty’s flower. 
—Farewell, tbou lorn maiden, and soon may 
relief 
Proceed from that Being who knows all thy grief. 
May He who, when winter howls bleak thro’ the 
skies, 
The poor hungry raven with food kind supplies. 
Once more in thy bosom, sad sorrowful fair, 
Plant a new rose of hope, free from thorns of des¬ 
pair. 
Enort. 
A HYMN. 
Composed by Dr. Hawkesworth in the 
night , about a month before his death , 
which he repeated to Mrs. Havckeswortli 
before he rose in the morning. — Com¬ 
municated by Mrs. Duncombe, of Can¬ 
terbury. 
In sleep’s serene oblivion laid, 
I safely past tbe silent uig-ht, 
At once I see tbe breaking' shade, 
And drink again the morning’ light. 
New born I bless the waking hour, 
Once more with awe rejoice to be, 
My conscious soul resumes her power, 
And springs, my gracious God, to thee. 
Oh ! guide me through the various maze 
My doubtful feet are doomed to tread. 
And spread thy shield’s protecting blaze, 
When dangers press around my head. 
A deeper shade will soon impend, 
A deeper sleep my eyes oppress, 
Yet still thy strength shall me defend, 
Thy goodness still shall deign to bless. 
That deeper shade shall take away, 
That deeper sleep shall leave my eyes. 
Thy light shall give eternal day, 
Thy love the rapture of tbe skies. 
STEPHENS! ANA • 
