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THE WELCOME EVENING.

LET those that know no other bliss,

Than this poor dying life can give, Sigh when they think how short it is, And how precariously we live.

But thou, my soul, hast joys in store,
May'st say, at ev'ry setting sun,
Courage, my heart, come, one day more
Of a vain vexing life is gone.

Hail ye, sweet ev'ning shades! all hail!
Drive those intruding cares away;
Hide with your kind relieving veil

The sick'ning vanities of day.

Wrapt in these gentle shades I rest,

Hid from the world, the world from me;

But oh! none knows how I am blest
In this divine obscurity.

Thro' groves of bliss I seem to stray,
And, in the thickest glooms of night,
I shine in everlasting day,

And blaze with intellectual light.

While half the world dream, start, and sleep,
And half cheat, fight, curse, rave, and groan,
Then I my silent jubil' keep,
And hold my festival alone.

'Till morning's melancholy dawn

Lets in confusion and the day, And noise and tumult hurry on,

And chase sweet Salem's peace away:

How doleful all the world seems then!
How dismal what we here call day!
The earth seems one vast howling den,
And men like rav'nous beasts of
prey.

Oh! what is all that men call light,
Life, music, pomp, delight, and mirth,
But raving dreams, and hideous night,
Howling and spectres, hell and death?

When will th' eternal morning dawn

Let in salvation, and true day? Restore sweet Salem's joys again, And chase this hurrying time away. Rev. W. Richards.

EPITAPH.

BENEATH the droppings of this spout,

There lies the body once so stout

Of FRANCIS THOMPSON;
A soul this carcase once possess'd,
Which for its virtues was caress'd
By all who knew the owner best.
The Rufford records can declare
His actions, who for seventy year
Both drew and drank its potent beer.
Fame mentions not, in all that time,
In this great butler the least crime
To stain his reputation ;
To Envy's self we now appeal,

If aught of fault she can reveal,
To make her declaration.

}

Then rest, good shade, nor hell, nor vermin fear,
Thy virtues guard thy soul, thy body good strong beer.
He died July 6th, 1739, aged 83.
Ollerton Church Yard.

THE SIGH.

WHEN youth his fairy reign began,
Ere sorrow had proclaim'd me man;
While peace the present hour beguil'd,
And all the lovely prospect smil'd,
Then Mary, 'mid my lightsome glee,
I heav'd the painless sigh for thee.

And when along the waves of woe
My harrass'd heart was doom'd to know,
The frantic burst of outrage keen,
And the slow pang that gnaws unseen;
Then, shipwreck'd on life's stormy sea,
I heav'd an anguish'd sigh for thee.

But soon reflection's power impress'd
A stiller sadness on my breast,
And sickly hope, with waning eye,
Was well content to droop and die.
I yielded to the stern decree,
Yet heav'd a languid sigh for thee.

And, tho' in different climes to roam
A wanderer from my native home;
I fain would sooth the sense of care,
And lull to sleep the joys that were,
Thy image may not banish'd be,
Still, Mary, still I sigh for thee.

S. T. Coleridge.

BY A LADY

DESERTED BY HER LOVER.

I CAUGHT a bright fantastic cloud,

And in the glitt'ring moonlight dress'd it; Then, of the beauteous pageant proud, Too fondly to my bosom press'd it.

I fancied by the dubious light,

I saw my phantom sweetly smiling; My bosom throbb'd with wild delight, All reason's sober fears beguiling.

What dreams of joy my soul revolv'd!

What pleasant visions hover'd o'er me! Till, by th' incautious warmth dissolv❜d, My treasure faded from before me.

Condemn'd henceforward still to grieve,
My senses rove in wild confusion;
Nor can I scarcely yet believe
My bliss was all a vain illusion.

From treach'rous hope will I no more
Deceitful forms of pleasure borrow;
But silently my loss deplore,

And sink a prey to silent sorrow.

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Literary Leisure.

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