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That owns no decent grave, no letter'd pile,
But doom'd the prey of fierce voracious fowls,

While friends may ardent wish,
Yet strangers to thy fate,

The safe return of injur'd innocence!
When thou, perhaps, no more wilt e'er return,

To taste parental bliss,
1. Or soothe declining age.

Then share, come share with me my humble shed,
Amid my little sons be truly blest,

And heal with friendly balms,
Thy sufferings and thy toils.

EDWIN.
BY ARTHUR OWEN, ESQ.
The gales, across the heathy gloom,

In pausing sounds convey,
The tidings that another tomb

Is waiting for its prey.
'Tis his! the child of feeling dear-

'Tis Edwin's passing bell !
E’en Pity's self lets fall a tear,

As tolls the fatal knell.
Why heaven ?-down impious heart; nor dare

To dictate to thy God;
He surely knoweth whom to spare

On whom to lay the rod.
Young Edwin to illustrious birth

Could proudly lay no claim;
Far better--his own modest worth

Adorn'd his humble name.
Nurs'd among thorns the flow'ret grew,

No tender hand was there,
To bring its beauties forth to view,

Or guard from noxious air :

While in the finish'd border's side,

See base exotics spread
Their tasteless bells, in conscious pride,

Sole tenants of the bed,

He ever felt another's woe

With unaffected grief,
Nor thought with some that to bestow

An ear could bring relief.

No; active charity was his,

And deeply did he scorn
The hollow world, that proffers bliss

But leaves the wretch forlorn;

The peasant's sorrowing soul to ease

He journey'd many a mile,
And what he gave was sure to please

'Twas given with a smile.

Each knee receiv'd a chubby wight,

Who, proud the place to share, Would turn his buttons to the light,

“To see their pictures there ;"

Or tell, with hands twin'd o'er their heads,

His arms about them cast,
Of all their joys—of all their dreads,

Since they had seen him last.

The taunts of those, who should have bless'd

His efforts meant to save,
Rais'd no resentment in his breast-

He pitied, and forgave.

Lost in the dream which genius knows,

His fancy would arise,
Forget this “ little scene” of woes,

And glowing seek the skies;

Oft have I mark'd him by yon hut,

His eyes fix'd on the ground, Ranging the pebbles with his foot, Nor heeding those around.

The worldling's vain pursuits to him

No winning lure possess'd,
Yet harmless mirth or guileless whim

Did ever cheer his breast.

At times in nature-prompted lays

His thoughts would he impart, Which only claim'd the lowly praise

Of flowing from the heart.

But though his strains no polish knew,

Nor ancient classic lore,
Yet from his reader's eye they drew

A tear-he wish'd no more.

The tinkling stream, that speeds along.

Yon woody sinuous vale, Hath often heard his artless song

His sympathetic tale;

On its glad banks in some lone nook,

Emboss'd with musky flowers, He'd hang enraptur'd o'er his book,

Through evening's pensive hours ;

Or watch the feather on its tide

Approach the eddying whirl, Now coily steal from side to side

Now to destruction twirl.

While moralizing on the sight

A pearly drop would gem
His eyelid, with which Pity might

Have deck'd her diadem.

Such were the pleasures he pursu'd,

The charms of nature stole His soft affections, and subdu'd

His wild romantic soul.

Still would he ever humbly kneel,

And thank that great first cause, That God who gives the power to feel,

Who fram'd earth's wond'rous laws.

Poor Edwin! eighteen springs had he

Scarce witness'd here below,
When Fate's inscrutable decree

Dealt out the mortal blow.

Disease assail'd his slender frame,

He, smiling, welcom'd death When leaning on a Saviour's name, • To him resign'd his breath.

Poor Edwin!' to thy grave I'll turn,

And musing o'er the earth,
That covers thee, Oh! may I learn

To emulate thy worth.
Banks of Pimblemere.

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[Mr. Editor,

At Ednam, in the west of Scotland, on the 22d September, the birthday of the celebrated author of the “ Seasons" is kept with all the reverence due to the name of a poet universally admired, and all the enthusiasm of affection for his memory as a native of that part of the country. The bust of the bard is crowned with laurel, the nymphs and the swains foot it on the green to the sound of the tabor, and the day closes with jollity and song. A gentleman, whose friendship I hold very dear, and whose correspondence I value very much, has communicated to me the following Ode for this occasion, a copy of which I should like to see inserted in your miscellany, provided you have as great a regard for the memory of the " Poet of the Year” as has your obedient servant,

C.]

AN ODE
FOR THE BIRTH-DAY OF JAMES THOMSON,

AUTHOR OF THE “SEASONS.”
All hail, thou bright, propitious day;

Long shalt thou be to Britain dear;
And may thy dawning orient ray

With lustre crown the circling year.
Awake, sweet Morn, and plume thy wing, -

With splendour smile o'er freedom's land,
And thou Apollo give to sing,

Thy son's sweet natal morn at hand,

And O! dear, consecrated scene,

Still to his memory sacred be; Rob'd rich in gay, perennial green,

May future ages Ednam see.

On thee may Spring her verdure shed,

Fair as the landscape which he drew, And Summer all the beauties spread

His heav'n-taught Muse hath sung so true.

In Autumn may thy fertile vales

Be crown'd with sheaves, rich as his song, And may each son of thy soft dales

Be as their poet's Winter strong.

Hither let every Scotian bard

Come, and a grateful tribute pay; And, as a mark of true regard,

Their bays before his altar lay.
And thou, O B-, whose magic pen

A flowery garland did prepare,
Come, honour'd bard, to grace the train,

And all its kind effusions share.

O bring with thee thy Doric reed,

And from it pour a plaintive lay,
Let thy sweet Muse tell vale and mead

That Scotia loves her Thomson's clay.

And you, ye modest virgins fair,

With glowing breast this scene attend, To crown his name a wreath prepare,

For he was yours and virtue's friend,

He well could warn your sliding hearts,

To guard against the infectious wound, Which adulation smooth imparts,

When Ev'ning draws her curtain round.

And when on Ednam's verdant top

In modest beauty you appear,
With conscious hearts blush not to drop

For his sweet shade a tender tear.

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