Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat;
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatte
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labor with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart!

MAY DAY.

The daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odor yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then, lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labor drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then, lads, &c.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note!
What warbles he, with merry cheer?
"Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!"
Then, lads, &c.

Lo! Sol looks down with radiant eye,
And throws a smile around his sky;
Embracing hill, and vale, and stream,
And warming nature with his beam.
Then, lads, &c.

The insect tribes in myriads pour,
And kiss with zephyr every flower;
Shall these our icy hearts reprove,
And tell us we are foes to Love?
Then, lads, &c.

TO MY CANDLE.

Thou lone companion of the spectred night!
I wake amid thy friendly watchful light,

To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep.
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark!
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,

And swells the thundering horrors of the deep! From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies, Now blacken'd, and now flashing through the skies; But all is silence here beneath thy beam.

I own I labor for the voice of praise

For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days?

How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah! falling-falling-ready to expire!

In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er.
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap;
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,

Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now no more! Thus shall the sons of science sink away,

And thus of beauty fade the fairest flowerFor where's the giant who to Time shall say, "Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power!"

ODE TO THE GLOW-WORM.

Bright stranger, welcome to my field,
Here feed in safety, here thy radiance yield;
To me, oh nightly be thy splendor given:
Oh, could a wish of mine the skies command,
How would I gem thy leaf with liberal hand,
With every sweetest dew of heaven!

Say, dost thou kindly light the fairy train,
Amidst their gambols on the stilly plain,
Hanging thy lamp upon the moisten'd blade?
What lamp so fit, so pure as thine,

Amidst the gentle elfin band to shine,

And chase the horrors of the midnight shade?

Oh! may no feather'd foe disturb thy bower,
And with barbarian beak thy life devour:

Oh! may no ruthless torrent of the sky,
O'erwhelming, force thee from thy dewy seat;
Nor tempests tear thee from thy green retreat,
And bid thee midst the humming myriads die!
Queen of the insect-world, what leaves delight,
Of such these willing hands a bower shall form,
To guard thee from the rushing rains of night,
And hide thee from the wild wing of the storm.
Sweet child of stillness, midst the awful calm

Of pausing Nature, thou art pleased to dwell;
In happy silence to enjoy thy balm,

And shed, through life, a lustre round thy cell.
How different man, the imp of noise and strife,
Who courts the storm that tears and darkens life;
Bless'd when the passions wild the soul invade!
How nobler far to bid those whirlwinds cease;
To taste, like thee, the luxury of peace,

And shine in solitude and shade!

THE RAZOR SELLER.

A fellow in a market town,

Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen-pence; Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy, with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a broad black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen-pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.
"No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
Smiling in heart and soul, content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze :

'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried-
All were impostors-"Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,

"I wish my eighteen-pence within my purse." Hodge sought the fellow-found him-and begun: "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,

To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave:

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for then, you dog?" he cries:
"Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile,-"ro SELL."

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine,

Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood,

And in a curl'd white wig look'd wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,

With something in their shoes much worse than gravel:
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls deep sunk in crimes:
A sort of apostolic salt,

That popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray;

But very different was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,

Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin, soon-peccavi cried—
Had his soul whitewash'd all so clever;
When home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit with saints above to live for ever.

In coming back, however, let me say,

He met his brother rogue about halfway

Hobbling with outstretch'd hands and bending knees,
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas:

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,

Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now!" the light-toed whitewash'd pilgrim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"You see it!" cried the other, "'tis no joke;

My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as blubber.

But, brother sinner, do explain

How 'tis that you are not in pain

What power hath work'd a wonder for your toes

Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,

Now groaning, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happen'd, burn ye?"

"Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know,
That just before I ventured on my journey,

To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to BOIL MY PEAS!"

THOMAS BROWN, 1778-1820.

THOMAS BROWN, the distinguished metaphysician, was born at Kirkmabreck,1 in Scotland, and was the youngest son of the Rev. Samuel Brown, minister of the parish. His father having died when he was an infant, he was placed by his maternal uncle, from his seventh to his fourteenth year, at different schools near

In the county of Kirkcudbright, in the south-west part of Scotland, about eighty miles south-west of Edinburgh, near Solway Frith.

London, in all of which he made great progress in classical literature. Upon the death of his uncle in 1792, he returned to his mother's house in Edinburgh, and entered as a student in the university. His attention was at once directed to metaphysical studies by Dugald Stewart's "Elements of the Philosophy of the Human Mind" being put into his hands, and the next winter he attended Mr. Stewart's class. Here he immediately distinguished himself by his acute and profound observations upon this subject, and a friendship commenced between the illustrious teacher and his no less illustrious pupil, which continued through life. In 1798, he published "Observations on the Zoonomia of Dr. Darwin," which was considered a remarkable production for one so young. In 1803, having attended the usual medical course, he took his degree of Doctor of Medicine. In the same year he brought out the first edition of his poems, in two volumes, which exhibit marks of an original mind and a refined taste. His next publication was an examination of the principles of Mr. Hume respecting causation, which Sir James Mackintosh pronounced the finest model in mental philosophy since Berkeley and Hume. A second edition was published in 1806, and a third in 1818 so enlarged as to be almost a new work, under the title of "An Inquiry into the Relation of Cause and Effect."

Up to the year 1808, Dr. Brown continued a practising physician in Edinburgh, though it was not the calling suited to his taste and studies. This year a circumstance occurred that placed him in a situation that entirely harmonized with his inclinations. The health of Professor Stewart had been declining for some time, and he applied to Dr. Brown to supply his place for a short time, with lectures of his own composition. He did so, and gave universal satisfaction; and in 1810 he was, agreeably to Mr. Stewart's wishes, appointed Professor of Moral Philosophy, in conjunction with him. He entered upon his duties with great ardor and untiring industry, and prepared for his students that series of lectures on which his fame rests. In the summer of 1814, he published anonymously his poem entitled "The Paradise of Coquettes," which met with a very favorable reception; and in the next year two others, "The Wanderer of Norway," and "The Bower of Spring." In the autumn of 1818, he commenced his text-book for the benefit of his students. He was then in good health, but in December he became indisposed, and during the summer recess of the next year his health seemed evidently to be failing. When he again met his class in the fall, his lecture unfortunately happened to be one which he was never able to deliver without being much moved, and from the manner in which he recited the very affecting lines from Beattie's "Hermit," it was conceived by many that the emotion he displayed arose from a foreboding of his own approaching dissolution.

"Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;

For morn is approaching your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew:

Not yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom shall save;

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

Oh, when will it dawn on the night of the grave?

This was the last lecture he ever delivered. Day after day he became weaker,

and he died on the 2d of April, 1820.