E'en British owls have British hearts,

And

pant

for liberty.

But if my flight you still condemn,
Acquit the owlish nation,

For I from man, and not from them,
Receiv'd my education.

A SONG.

How long will my sorrows increase!
How long must I love her in vain!
With my hopes she has banish'd my peace,
And treats e'en the muse with disdain.

In the dance at the close of the day,
Her hand she unkindly withdrew,

And when I stray'd sadly away,
Refus'd e'en a simple "adien."

Let the false one proceed in her arts,
Not long for her loss will I pine;
She may conquer a thousand vain hearts,
But none half so faithful as mine.

CHARITY.

A SONNET.

When gathering clouds, at winter's stern command,
From northern hills, in gloomy pomp, descend,
"Tis thine, meek charity! compassion's friend,
To soothe misfortune with unsparing hand.

Ye who in sportive festivals delight,

In splendid domes, impervious to the winds,

Ye liitle dream how speeds the cotter's night,
Where every cutting blast admission finds.

His is a bed of straw! and hunger his ;

Close to his neck his shivering infant clings; Whilst you, ye gay! pervade the haunts of bliss, Where fleeting time shakes odours from his wings.

Oh! how superior are the joys of those,
Who seek the sons of want, and mitigate their woes!

A SONNET

TO THE REV. R. POLWHELE.

Poet! Historian! (by whatever name
The muse may hail thee) fain would I desire,
(The strain tho' feeble) that my humble lyre
Might add one flow'ret to thy wreath of fame.

Nor let the barb of haughty scorn assail
A bosom labouring with poetic fears,

For friendly is the tribute, tho' too frail

To brave, like verse of thine, the shock of years. ¡

Whilst on oblivion's cloud-encircled plain,

Urg'd by despair, I join the plodding throng, "Tis thine, Polwhele! a deathless name to gain, The mutual pride of history and song;

For as thou mak'st Cornubia's annals known,
The trump that sounds her fame-proclaims thy own.

A SONNET.

Smooth seems my rugged journey to the tomb When heav'nly music charms me. It has power, When o'er my soul the clouds of sorrow lowr, To shed a noon-day radiance through the gloom.

But most the plaintive soothes me. Sprightly airs,.

That fire the festive dancer, chear not me. To one inur'd to life's depressive cares

Ill suits the mirthful melody of glee. rat ba

Oh, give me melting measures! such as flow
From hosts angelic, when the spirit flies,
Emancipate, from this dull scene of woe
Back to its native region in the skies;

Where round the throne adoring myriads throng,
And strike their golden harps, and tune their choral song.

A SONNET.

Ah! balmy morn! transporting as thou art,

And once so highly priz'd! thou canst no more,
With all thy magic influence, restore

That peace which love has banish'd from my heart.

N