Page images

Who ran to help me when 1 fell,
And would some pretty story tell,
Or kiss the place to make it well?
My Mother.

Who taught my infant lips to pray,
To love God's holy word, and day,
And walk in Wisdom's pleasant way?
My Mother.

And can I ever cease to be
Affectionate and kind to thee,
Who was so very kind to me?
My Mother.

O no! the thought I cannot bear,
And, if God please my life to spare,
I hope I shall reward thy care,

My Mother.

When thou art feeble, old, and grey,
My healthy arm shall be thy stay,
And I will sooth thy pains away,
My Mother.

And when I see thee hang thy head, 'Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, And tears of sweet affection shed,

My Mother.

For God, who lives above the skies,
Would look with vengeance in his eyes,
If I should ever dare despise,

My Mother. From an American Newspaper.



THESE violets to my fair I bring,
The purple progeny of spring;
Nor thou, dear girl, the gift refuse,
Love's earliest tribute to the muse.

Whate'er has beauty, worth, or power,
Or grace, or lustre, is a flower.
Wit is a flower, and bards prepare
The flowers of fancy, for the fair.
In flower of youth, the loves appear,
Leading in flowery youth the year;
And beauty's flowery fetters bind
In sweet captivity the mind.
With flowers the graces Venus deck,
And these adorn a fairer neck;

That neck, whose paradise to range,

A flower I'd prove, and bless the change:
One little hour I'd live then die

A violet in that heaven to lie.

Still as you charm some flower we trace,
Some blossom of the mind or face.
Does Laura lead the courtly dance?
We hail the Flower of Elegance.
Does Fashion's wreath adorn her brow
The Flower of Taste is Laura now.
In Laura's mien, in Laura's mind,
The twin-born Flowers of Grace we find;
And in her blushing cheek we see
The Royal Rose of Dignity.

Yon lily, symbol of her youth,

Blooms next her heart the Flower of Truth.
Oh, might these violet buds express,
The op'ning Flowers of Tenderness!

But not the brightest flower of spring,
That fancy paints, or poets sing;
Nor these nor all the sweets that blow,
The rose's blush, the lily's snow,
With thee in excellence compare,
Or breathe so fresh, or bloom so fair.
For in thy bosom lives a flower
Nor time shall spoil, nor death devour,
A flower that no rude season fears,
And Virtue's sacred name it bears.

Theophilus Swift, Esq.



IN Church-Street in Hackney, not far from the brook,
A shop is establish'd by hook or by crook,
Where, the wants of his patrons and friends to supply,
And promote his own interest too by the by,
The master has tried, to the utmost, his care,
An assortment of all the best goods to prepare;
Where all so dispos'd, may be certain to find
Good clothes for the body, and food for the mind.
And that none may mistake, he thus fully declares,
That he chaffers and deals in the following wares :—
In thread, silk, and worsted, all manner of hose,
And all sorts of handkerchiefs fit for the nose;
There are nightcaps of cotton for old men to wear,
And fillets for young ones to bind up their hair;
Such linen that none in the kingdom can beat,
Strong, fine, and well-threaded, white, lasting and neat;
Gloves, leather, and woollen, and some nice and thin,
Lin'd neatly with fur, to preserve a soft skin:
Good baize, and fine flannel, from Scotland and Wales,
And hats, smartly cock'd in the taste that prevails.
There is pigtail tobacco, and good oronoke,
For gentlemen either to chew or to smoke;
Some fine-spun for ladies, of delicate juice,
And short-cut and shag, for general use.

Then for snuffs, there's rappee, both scented and plain,
And pungent fine Scots, to clear up the dull brain;
With Strasburg, and bergamot too of the best,
Of peculiar fineness, and delicate zest;
Hardham's best thirty-seven, and cephalic enough,
And boxes, to hold both tobacco and snuff.
Then there's paper for writing, of every sort,
As good foolscap and post as can ever be bought,
Gilt, black-edg'd, and plain, and some rul'd to the hand,
Pens, ink, quills, pounce, wafers, wax, penknives and sand;
Here are message-cards too, invitations to carry,
And playing cards stampt with the phiz of King Harry;
Ink-stands of all sorts, both for table and pocket,
And one you may slide the top over and lock it;
Lead pencils, and boxes for wafers and pounce,
And fine spangled writing sand, three-pence per ounce.
There are books of account, in parchment or vellum,
And some with brass clasps, lest long using should
swell 'em ;

Neat sets of Fry's type, to print names upon linen,
And ledgers with alphabets at the beginning.
Port crayons, and cases for pencils in steel,

And neat little books, your bank notes to conceal;
In short, there's whatever the stationer's sell,

As cheap as in London, and finish'd as well.
There are printed books too, of all sorts and conditions,
Well bound, in good order, the fairest editions.
All tastes he can suit, be they ever so various,
And please every fancy, however precarious.

« PreviousContinue »