thy sisters fallen from heaven? are they who rejoiced with thee, at night, no more? Yes, they have fallen, fair light! and thou dost often retire to mourn. But thou thyself shalt fail, one night, and leave thy blue path in heaven. The stars will then lift their heads: they, who were ashamed in thy presence, will rejoice. Thou art now clothed with thy bright ness. Look from thy gates in the sky. Burst the cloud, O wind! that the daughter of night may look forth! that the shaggy mountains may brighten, and the ocean roll its white waves in light.

FROM THE SONGS OF SELMA.

STAR of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! Thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud: thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin, with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast! when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass.

Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

Colma. It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent

pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain;

forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon! from behind thy clouds. Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place where my love rests from the chase alone. his bow near him, unstrung: his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone, by the rock of the mossy stream. I hear not the voice

The stream and the wind roar aloud of my love! Why delays my Salgar? why the chief of the hill his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah! whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes: we are not foes, O Salgar!

1740

Mrs Thrale or Piozzi. {Died 1822.

HESTER LYNCH SALISBURY, daughter of a gentleman of Carnarvonshire, was born in 1740. She was early distinguished by her beauty and accomplishments, and in 1763 married Mr Thrale, afterwards member of parliament for Southwark. On his death she retired to Bath, where she afterwards married Piozzi, an Italian, with whom she went abroad; they resided some time in Florence. She afterwards published a volume of poems, "The Florence Miscellany." She is only known now by her

uttie tale "The Three Warnings." She died at Clifton 1822

THE THREE WARNINGS.
THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground;
'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,

And looking grave-"You must," says he,
“Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.'

With you! and quit my Susan's side!

With you!" the hapless husband cried;
"Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged 1 have not heard,
His reason could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke --
"Neighbour," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,

And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" old Dodson cries. "So soon, d'ye call it?" Death replies : "Surely, my friend, you're but in jest? Since I was here before

'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined; "To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand. With but a secretary's warrant.

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable: Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" "Hold!" says the farmer; 66 not so fast! I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies: However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends."

"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; 1 warrant you hear all the news."

"There's none," cries he; "and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings;

So come along; no more we'll part;"
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now old Dodson turning pale,
Yields to his fate--so ends my tale.

Rev. Thomas Moss.

Born 1740

Died 1808.

A CLERGYMAN of Staffordshire, only known by his poem, "The Beggar's Petition," published in 1769.

THE BEGGAR.

PITY the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years:
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road.,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief.
And tears of pity could not be repressed.