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ON A PARTRIDGE THAT LOST A WING, WHILE SITTING ON HER EGGS, BY THE SCYTHE.

SHE who cheer'd the waving meads,
Still at solemn eve's return,
Now in deepest sorrow bleeds,
Wounded and forlorn.

Hark, she heard the scythe advance,
In immingled terrors lost;
Yet affection dar'd each chance,
Fearless of the worst.

Late upon thy precious store

Sat'st thou, hapless bird! in peace;

Pleas'd, thy chirring mate before;
Joys how soon to cease!

Now, alas! the passing rail*
Is alone, at evening, heard;
Save, at times, the sighing gale,
O'er the neighb'ring sward, .

Waft the mournful note of woe,
To the fortunate and gay,
While the parents' sorrows flow
On in hopeless lay.

* The meadow-rail, or corn-craik.

Never more, on birring wing,
Shalt thou with thy partner rise;
Yet him love shall often bring
To thy longing eyes.

From the roaming fowler's view,
May ye e'er remain conceal'd;
May no future ills renew

Sorrows that are heal'd.

T. W.

ON A WREN, SEEN IN A THICKET AT THE COMMENCE-
MENT OF THE FIRST FALL OF SNOW IN 1802.

LEAF, whirling after leaf, descends,
And softly falls the early snow;
The wren the sprinkled hedge defends,
She hops among the moss below.

All, silent, wait on dying day,

As noiseless wheels the fleecy shower;
Unless some tenant of the spray

Should fluttering seek a warmer bower.

Erewhile unveil'd her table lay,

And food, each flight of pleasure gave;
But, when the gusts of winter play,

Where shall she food and shelter have?

Perhaps by cold and want oppress'd,
Or victim to the weazel fell,
Her slender frame shall sink to rest,

Without a throbbing friend to tell!

Shall Spring revive her drooping form;
Yet hear her warble in the thorn?
Myself, when sleeps each angry storm,
Be charm'd again at early morn?

Though soon drear Winter's winds shall sing;
And rudely shake the leafless tree; -
Yet Spring the silent hours shall bring-
Perchance to cheer the wren and me! T.W.

A VILLAGE CIRCULATING LIBRARY.

"These are the scandal of letters, and these are generally the men who are to teach others."

SPECTATOR.

Scenery. A house neatly fitted up in the modern cottage style; a door in the centre of the scene and one on each side: over the centre, the words " Circulating Library," in large letters; on one side, "The Reading Room," on the oppo site "Academy."

.... So, so-in times like these it requires every man of business to be as watchful as Cerberus, in order to obtain a decent livelihood-and, egad, if I hadn't, like Cerberus, a triple head, I should never have managed to become, at once, the superintendant of three literary departments, [looking round]" Academy,” “Library," and "Reading Room,”—by which means I draw the whole village to my interest; the women read my novels, the men my newspapers, and the children come to school. To be sure, the news-room is a little too close to the academy, for my customers can't read for the chattering of the boys, and the scholars can't study for the quarrels of the newspaper politicians, who,

while they damn the Times, and upset the Globe, are all ready to fight for the honour of the British Press.

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Well, Dicky, you have carried out the books? Dicky. Yes, Sir; here is the list of what's delivered and what is wanting.

Trian -Oh, let's see [reads] "Counsellor Crab wants Liberal Opinions"—I'm sorry for that, for it's not at home. "The taylor's wife has had Mysterious Warnings, and the apothecary's journeyman, Pills to purge Melancholy." Now you must take Tales of Terror to the widow Tremor- More Ghosts to the sexton's daughter, the Curse of Sentiment to the butcher, Melting Moments to the tallow chandler, and Old Nick to the attorney *.

Dicky.-Yes, Sir; he! he! he!

C ney to Old Nick.

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I'll take the attor

Trian.-No, no, there'll be no necessity for that. Get along, and do as I bid [Exit Dicky. No business stirring to-day-library rather flat· no post from London to bring the papers, and the boys half a holiday. Bless me! here's a trump carda fine high phaëton and four by honours-the gentleman alights too-This way, Sir-Library, or reading room- -newspapers, or novels; or would you please to rest here in the hall, Sir?

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Bows in Sir Harry Pointer, who flings himself into an arm-chair.

Sir Harry. Any where to recover breath. I drove

* We are surprised that it did not occur to the author to make up the climax by sending the "Flowers of Literature" to Mr. Sweetbrier, the gardener.

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the last sixteen miles to a nicety, rather within time by your clocks-saw this was a sort of a house where one might learn the news, so stept in for a moment. You're rather snug here, my man.

Trian-Very, Sir-seminary, library, and oratory, conducted upon the best principles of desk, rostrum, and catalogue, and excellently govern'd by ferula, hammer, and terms of subscription.

Sir Harry.-You're an odd fellow; for you seem to do every thing by the Rule of Three.

Trian. My practice exactly, Sir-Built the whole of this mansion upon the plan of Direct Proportion; for, says I-if the reading room give me half as much as the book-shop, what will the school-room do?

Sir Harry-How the devil should I know?

Trian. Pardon me-I mean what will the academy produce?

Sir Harry-Plenty of blockheads, no doubt, while you are schoolmaster.

Trian. Ha! ha! facetious in the extreme. I wish we had the honour of your company, some evening in the debating club.

Sir Harry.

Perhaps you may. I've some thoughts of getting settled in this part of the world.

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Trian. That's lucky-If you visit our club, a man of your wit would be knocked down for a speech every five minutes.

Sir Harry.-That's one way of getting settled,however. Trian.- [Looking out.] Dear me! dear me! what an accident! and nobody offers to lend the least assistance-there they go-and there goes William-and there goes 'squire Charles, galloping-he has turned

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