ODE ON THE MORNING.

Child of the light, fair Morning hour, Who smilest o'er yon purple hill, I come to woo thy cheering power Beside this murmuring rill. Nor I alone: a thousand songsters rise To meet thy dawning, and thy sweets to share, While ev'ry flower that scents the honied air, Thy milder influence feels, and shows the brightest dies.

And let me hear some village swain Whistle in rustic glee along, Or share some true love's tender pain, Breath'd from the milk-maid's song. Wild are those notes, but sweeter far to me, Than the soft airs borne from Italian groves, To which the wanton Muse, and naked Loves, Strike the light-warbling lyre, and dance in gamesome glee.

And Health, the child of blooming sire,
Shall trip along on nimble feet,

With airy mien, and loose attire,
All on the plain to meet:
Gay-laughing nymph, that loves a morning sky,
That loves to glide across the spangled dews!

And with her finger, dipp'd in brightest hues,

My faint cheek shall she tinge, and cheer my languid eye.

Then will I bless thee, morning hour,

And singing hail the new-born day;

And hasten to Amanda's bower

To steal the sweets of May.

And to my verse Amanda will attend,
And take the posey from the sylvan Muse:

For sure the gen'rous fair will not refuse
The Muse's modest gift, her present to a friend.

THE SECRET.

From morn till noon Ventoso on me hung,
And nimbly plied his never-ceasing tongue:
Rare news he had; and secrets told by dozens;
How it falls out that brothers' sons are cousins;
That some folks, strangely, close their eyes at night;
And blind men stumble through their lack of sight;
That boys in time grow up to man's estate;
And new-dropp'd calves through instinct suck the teat;
These wonders he, in confidence made known
To me, and oft he said, " to me alone."
Grateful for this, with looks of anxious fear,
I grasp'd his hand, and whispered in his ear;
"These kind disclosures equal frankness claim;
"But (on your life, your author never name!)
" I have a secret too." On tip-toe rais'd,
With neck out-stretch'd, and open mouth he gaz'd;
And with a solemn pledge his promise gave
To keep the matter silent as the grave.
Still doubtful whether I could trust the man,
I paus'd awhile his countenance to scan:
Then forth with trembling hand, my watch I drew,
And bade him once again his pledge renew.
He vow'd: he swore: "What is it?"-stammering cried,
" It is, my friend!" I faulteringly replied,

"It is but like a Christian bear the shock;-
"It is
indeed it is, past one o'clock!"

RETROSPECTION.

Ry Henry Francis Greville, Esquire.

Gone by is the time when the sun's closing light
Witnessed childhood still eager on frolic and play;
And e'er morning's beam had saluted the sight,
Forsaking repose to retrace Pleasure's way.

Gone by is the time, when, no more pleas'd with toys,
Manhood soared on the pinions of Fancy and Hope;
Expectation still pointing to unpossessed joys,
And Confidence scorning with Wisdom to cope.

And ah! too, gone by is the exquisite grief
Which invaded my bosom as Truth met my view,
When first undeceived, I renounced the belief

That Love was ne'er faithless, or Friendship untrue.
But what still remains, and will never go by,

Even though Winter's frost pours her ice in my veins,
Is the feeling which constantly moistens my eye,
As I turn with disgust from Humanity's pains.

As I view in repentance Shame's feverish glow,
As I hear ineffectual Labour repine,
As I see Talent silently nourish its wo,

And Mis'ry, despairing, its last hope resign;

This ne'er will go by; no, this ne'er will decay:
This feeling God gave when he first gave me breath,
And when Time shall make other sensations its prey,

This shall cheer, though it hasten my passage to death.

The following portrait of one of the finest old men in Europe, a highland chieftain, now living, is recommended not only by the neatness of the versification, but by the fidelity and truth of the drawing.

MACNAB OF MACNAB.

Mark well that old man, whose fine flowing hair,

'Neath his bonnet, the west winds in sportiveness fan, Majestic his step, and so courteous his air,

'Tis MACNAB of MACNAB, the head of the clan.
In the true garb of Scotia the chieftain is dress'd,
Sparkling and black waves the plume o'er his brow,
His plaid o'er his shoulder, and tartan his vest,

While his old knees the kelt and the fillabeg show.
Though oft the foul tempest has roar'd o'er his head,
And the snow-storms of winter have clouded the sky,

Yet the tinge of his cheek is ruddy and red,

And the diamond's fine lustre still shines in his eye.

The chief, should the foes of Great Britain e'er land,
His claymor* would take, unacquainted with fear;
The pibrocht of Macnab would sound o'er the strand,
And warn all the clan that the foe-men were near.

Full oft may the long year his courses perform,

And with smiles, each return, greet this famous old man,

And ne'er may Misfortune's dark gathering storm
Strike Macnab of Macnab, the chief of the clan.

SCRAPS OF ANCIENT ENGLISH POETRY.

THE ROCK OF RUBIES AND THE QUARRY OF PEARL.
By Robert Herrick, Anno 1648.

Some ask'd me where the rubies grew,
And nothing did I say;

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some ask'd how pearls did grow, and where,
Then spoke I to my girl,

To part her lips, and show'd them there
The quarelets of pearl.

UPON ROSES.

Under a lawn than skies more clear,

Some ruffled roses nestling were;

And snugging there they seem'd to lic

As in a flowery nunnery.

They blush'd, and look'd more fresh than flowers

Quicken'd of late by pearly showers;
And all because they were possess'd,
But of the heat of Julia's breast;
Which as a warm, a moistened spring
Gave them their ever flourishing.

TO CRITICS.

I'll write, because I'll give
You critics means to live;
For should I not supply

The cause, the effect would die.

On Cooke the player's marriage with Miss Lamb.

To expiate the sins of yore,
The fool of custom gave his store,
Perhaps a yew or ram.
So, to atone for those of wine,
Repentant grown, at Hymen's shrine
Cooke offers up a LAMB.

Mr. Cumberland in the interesting memoir of his own life; observes "as Goldsmith in his Retaliation, had served up the company at the St. James's Coffeehouse, under the similitude of various sorts of meat, I had, in the mean time, figured them under that of liquors; which little poem I rather think was printed, but of this I am not sure;" happening to possess a copy of that poetical jeu d'esprit, it is transcribed for insertion in your agreeable mélange.

TO DR. GOLDSMITH,

As a Supplement to his "Retaliation."

Doctor! according to our wishes,
You've character'd us all in dishes;
Serv'd up a sentimental treat
Of various emblematic meat:

And now 'tis time, I trust, you'll think
Your company should have some drink :
Else, take my word for it, at least,
Your Irish friends won't like your feast.
Ring then, and see that there is plac'd
To each according to his taste.

To Douglas* fraught with learned stock,
Of critic lore, give ancient Hock :