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Autumn's jovial scenes delight me;

Winter paves with ice my streams : All the year is mine, you see; Seasons change, like moons, for me! « On the heads of giant mountains,

Or beneath the shady trees;
By the banks of warbling fountains,

I enjoy myself at ease :
Hills and valleys thus you see,
Groves and rivers, made for Me!
“Boundless are my vast dominions ;

I can hop, or swim, or fly;
When I please, my tow’ring pinions

Trace my empire through the sky:
Air and elements, you see,
Heaven and earth, were made for ME !
“ Birds and insects, beasts and fishes,

All their humble distance keep; Man, subservient to my wishes,

Sows the harvest, which I reap: Mighty man himself, you see, All that breathe, were made for ME! “ 'Twas for my accommodation,

Nature rose when I was born ; Should I die --the whole creation

Back to nothing would retur : Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, Sprung-exist-will fall with me!” Here the pretty prattler ending,

Spread his wings to soar away;

But a cruel Hawk, descending,

Pounc'd him up-an helpless prey !
-Could'st thou not, poor Wagtail ! see,
That the Hawk was made for THEE?

J. Montgomery.


Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball,
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,
Seeking her food, with ease might have purloind
The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down
Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,
And all thy embryo vastness, at a gulp,
But fate thy growth decreed : autumnal rains,
Beneath thy parent tree, mellow'd the soil,
Design’d thy cradle, and a skipping deer,
With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd
The soft receptacle, in which secure,
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through.
Time made thee what thou wast—king of the

woods !
And time hast made thee what thou art-a cave
For owls to roost in ;-once thy spreading boughs
O’erhung the champaign, and the numerous flock
That grac’d it stood beneath that ample cope
Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm.
No flocks frequent thee now; thou hast outliv'd
Thy popularity, and art become
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile,) a thing
Forgotten as the foliage of thy youth !


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Written on a Picture of YARDLEY OAK, by Mr. J. Montgomery.
This sole survivor of a race

Of giant oaks, where once the wood
Rang with the battle or the chace,

In stern and lonely grandeur stood.
From age to age it slowly spread

Its gradual boughs to sun and wind ;
From age to age its noble head

As slowly wither'd and declin'd.
A thousand years are like a day,

When fled; no longer known than seen ;
This tree was doom'd to pass away,

And be as if it ne'er had been ;-
But mournful Cowper, wand'ring nigh,

For rest beneath its shadow came,
When lo ! the voice of days gone by

Ascended from its hollow frame.
O that the poet had reveal'd

The words of those prophetic strains,
Ere death the eternal mystery seal'd!

-Yet in his song the Oak remains.
And, fresh in undecaying prime,

There may it live, beyond the power
Of storm and earthquake, man and time,

'Till Nature's conflagration-hour.

THE SLAVE'S AVENGER. “Who shall avenge the slave ?I stood and cried : “The earth, the earth !" the echoing sea replied.

I turn'd me to the ocean, but each wave
Declin’d to be the avenger of the slave.
“Who shall avenge the slave ?” my species cry-
“ The winds, the foods, the lightning of the sky:”
I turned to these,—from them one echo ran-
“The right avenger of the slave, is man!”
Man was my fellow ; in his sight I stood,
Wept, and besought him by the voice of blood :
Sternly he look’d, as proud on earth he trod,
Then said, “ The avenger of the slave is God!".
I look'd in pray’r towards heav'n—awhile 'twas still,
And then" methought God's voice replied ——“ Í


Child of dishonour, guilt, and shame,

Lone outcast from thy kind,
Whose passion's rage no voice could tame,

Whose arm no law could bind,
That human breast all fiend within,
And scorch'd and black’ning still with sin-
Where art thou? Does some shatter'd shed

Thy guilty haunt conceal ?
There dost thou shake at human tread,

And dread the rattling wheel?
By night a wand'rer pale and drear-
By day, a fear-worn tenant here?
Or dost thou from yon prison’s grate,

Send forth the fitful yell?
Condemn'd a few short hours to wait

Alive in that sad cell:
Then, with convulsive heave, to rend
This mortal curtain, and descend !

Poor child of woe! there was a day,

(O would it yet might be !) When life unstain'd before thee lay,

All promise e'en to thee!
On its fair pages there was not
One hue of sin, one error's blot.
A babe! to some fond mother's side

With sweet affection prest;
Thy little crimson lips applied

For nurture to her breast;
Thy hands, then innocent and weak,
Spread on her bosom or her cheek.
Yes, and I know that many a day

She bathed thee with her tears,
Delighted with the fond essay

To plan thy future years ;
Or bleeding fast at sorrow's vein,
At thought of life's sure coming pain.
Early bereav’d, perchance, on thee,

Sole relic, she relied,
To heal a widow'd heart, and be

Instead of one who died ;
And many a lonely night she spent
By turns on him and thee intent.
And didst thou in that op'ning prime

Her dream of hope prolong?
E’en then she saw thy germ of crime,

But would not see thee wrong ;
Fearing, she hop'd, from day to day,
Till passion wrench'd thee from her sway.
Then darkly onward sped the years,

, That chill'd thy heart to stone;

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