Hands which the sword of DUNCAN might have grac'd, Or tun'd, like FALCONER, the living lyre.

But science on their birth refus'd to smile,
Nor gave th' instructive volume to their sight;
Their lives were destin'd to perpetual toil,
Unseen the rays of intellectual light.

Full many a song the tuneful bird of night
Warbles unheard amid some lonely place;
Full many a sun, of dazzling lustre bright,
Is lost in distance in the boundless space.

Some generous HOWARD, who, with godlike zeal,
Rov'd o'er the world to set the pris'ner free,
May here the horrors of confinement feel,
Nor e'er again his home or country see.

Some gallant NELSON here unknown may rest
In cells ungenial, lost his soul of fire,
His mind of vigour, and that dauntless breast,
Danger could ne'er appal, nor labour tire."

JOSEPH ATKINSON

was a native of Ireland, and was Treasurer of the Ordnance, under the administration of the Earl of Moira. He was the intimate of Moore, Curran, and the rest of the galaxy of Irish genius; and was, himself, a poet of more than

ordinary ability, as the following jeu d'esprit, addressed to his friend Moore, on the birth of his third daughter, will evince:

“I'm sorry, dear Moore, there's a damp to your joy,
Nor think my old strain of mythology stupid,

When I say, that your wife had a right to a boy,
For Venus is nothing without a young Cupid.

But since Fate, the boon that you wish'd for, refuses,
By granting three girls to your happy embraces,
She but meant, while you wander'd abroad with the
Muses,

Your wife should be circled at home by the Graces!”

He died in Dublin, at the age of seventy-five, in October, 1818, and was sincerely regretted by all who knew him; being admired by the young for his conviviality, and respected by the aged for his benevolence and numerous good qualities.

The following beautiful lines, from the pen of his intimate, Moore, are intended to be engraved on his sepulchre :

"If ever lot was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow

Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'Twas his, who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below.

The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,
The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles,
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles.

Pure Charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds ;
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads.

The happy grateful spirit that improves,

And brightens ev'ry gift by Fortune given;
That, wander where it will, with those it loves,
Makes ev'ry place a home, and home a heaven!

All these were his-Oh! thou, who read'st this stone,
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky

Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,
That ye like him may live, like him may die."

HINDOO POETRY.

THE subjects of many slight popular poems among the Hindoos, are highly curious. Major Broughton, in his slight but pleasing volume on that subject, has preserved the two following, which we deem well worthy of being presented to our readers:

« The daughter of a certain Raja, young and beautiful, fell suddenly into a deep melancholy.

No art was left untried to effect a cure; plays and pantomimes were acted before her; the most ridiculous mimics and buffoons were sent for, and exhibited in her presence: but all in vain; the young Ranee could by no means be induced to smile. At length, a facetious Brahmun undertook to cure her; and, in the character of a jeweller, offered some fine pearls for sale. The following lines contain the Brahmun's speech, with its effect: the first hyperbole failed; but in the next attempt he was more successful.

'O say, within that coral cell

What mighty magic power can dwell;
That cheats my hopes, my sight misleads,
And makes my pearls seem coral beads!
In those black eyes now fury burns ;-
To crabs'-eyes all my coral turns!
But see, she smiles;-my fears were vain ;
My worthless beads are pearls again."

"A young girl, just blooming into youth, laments, in the following lines, the loss of the liberty and ease she enjoyed, while regarded only as a child, in her father's house; and complains of the restraint imposed upon her in that of her husband, to which she has now been removed. When she goes to draw water at the

well, (the general resort of all the females in a Hindoo village,) her jet black hair and beautiful features excite the admiration and despair of the men, and the envy and spite of her female companions; while at home, she is tormented by the watchful jealousy of all her new relations-who are to be understood by the terms mother, sister, and brother.

Though hair as black as glossy raven,
On me's bestow'd by bounteous Heaven,
The gift I find a source of pain;
Yet who of Heaven may dare complain?
They sneer,
and scoff, and taunting swear
I'm proud, because my face is fair:
And how should such a child as I
Restrain their cruel raillery?

My mother, if I stir, will chide;
My sister watches by my side;
And then my brother scolds me so,
My cheeks with constant blushes glow:
Ah then, kind Heaven! restore to me
The happy days of infancy;
And take this boasted youth again,
Productive but of care and pain!""

FONDNESS OF POETS FOR RIVERS.

RIVERS have, in all ages, been themes for the

Poet; and in what esteem they were held by