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Great Cincinnatus at his plough

With brighter lustre shone,
Than guilty Cæsar e'er could show,

Though seated on a throne,
Tumultuous days and restless nights,

Ambition ever knows,
A stranger to the calm delights

Of study and repose.
Then free from envy, care, and strife,

Keep me, ye powers divine;
And pleas'd when ye demand my life,
May I that life resign.

Pilkingtor.

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE. Dear is my little native vale,

The ring-dove builds and warbles there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale

To ev'ry passing villager.
The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,
And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange groves and myrtle bow'rs,

That breathe a gale of fragrance round,
I charm the fairy-footed hours

With my loud lute's romantic sound;
Or crowns of living laurel weave
For those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,

The ballet danc'd in twilight glade;
The canzonet and ronndelay,

Sung in the silent greenwood shade.

These simple joys that never fail,
Shall bind me to my native vale.

Anonymous.

THE STORM.
Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer !

List, ye landsmen, all to me!
Messmates, hear a brother sailor

Sing the dangers of the sea ;
From bouuding billows fast in motion,

When the distant whirlwinds rise,
To the tempest-troubled ocean,

Where the seas contend with skies.

Hark! the boatswain hoarsely bawling,

By topsail sheets and haulyards stand! Down top-gallants quick be hauling,

Down your stay-sails, hand, boys, hand!
Now it freshens, set the braces,

The topsail sheets now let go;
Luff, boys, luff! don't make wry faces,

Up your topsails nimbly clew,

Now all you'on down beds sporting,

Fondly lock'd in beauty's arms; Fresh enjoyments wanton courting,

Safe from all but love's alarms; Round us roars the tempest louder,

Think what fear our minds enthrals; Harder yet, it yet blows harder,

Now again the boatswain calls!

The top-sail yards point to the wind, boys,

See all clear to reef each course;
Let the fore-sheet go, don't mind, boys,

Though the weather should be worse.
Fore and aft the sprit-sail yard get,

Reef the mizen, see all clear; Hands up, each preventure-brace set,

Man the fore-yard, cheer, lads, cheer!
Now the dreadful thunder's roaring,

Peal on peal contending clash,
On our heads fierce rain falls pouring,

In our eyes blue lightnings flash;
One wide water all around us :

All above us one black sky; Different deaths at once surround us :

Hark! what means that dreadful cry? The foremast's gone, cries ev'ry tongue out,

O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck; A leak beneath the chest-tree's sprung out,

Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick the lanyards cut to pieces;

Come, my hearts, be stout and bold; Plumb the well—the leak increases,

Four feet water in the hold.

While o'er the ship wild waves are beating,

We for wives or children mourn;
Alas ! from thence there's no retreating!

Alas! to them there's no return!
Still the leak is gaining on us !

Both chain-pumps are chok'd below : Heaven have mercy here upon us !

For only that can save us now.

O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys,

Let the guns o'erboard be thrown;
To the pump come ev'ry hand, boys,

See ! our mizen-mast is gone!
The leak we've found, it cannot pour fast,

We've lighten'd her a foot or more;
Up, and rig a jury foremast,

She riglits, she rights, boys, we're off shore.' Now once more on joys we're thinking,

Since kind heaven has sav'd our lives! Come, the can, boys! let's be drinking

To our sweethearts and our wives; Fill it up, about ship wheel it,

Close to our lips a brimroer join : Where's the tempest now, who feels it? None- the danger's drown'd in wine.

G. A. Stevens.

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THE SOFT FLOWING AVON.

Thou soft flowing Avon, by thy silver stream
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakspeare

would dream, The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain: The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

VOL. y.

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Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their

truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth ; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallow'd the turf is that pillow'd his head.

Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow!
Be the swans on tby borders still whiter than snow!
Everfull be thy stream, like his fame may it spread!
And the turf ever hallow'd which pillow'd his head.

Garrick.

SHAKSPEARE'S MULBERRY-TREE. Behold this fair goblet! 'twas carv'd from the tree, Which, O my sweet Shakspeare, was planted by

thee!
As a relic I kiss it, and bow at thy shrine,
What comes from thy hand must be ever divine !
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree;

Bend to thee,
Bless'd mulberry !
Matchless was he

Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal shalt be.

Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high, Who spread round your branches, whose heads

sweep the sky; Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here To root out the natives at prices so dear;

Al shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.

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