lenity of the Public. The Critic will doubtless find in them much to condemn, he may likewise, possibly, discover something to commend. Let him scan my faults with an indulgent eye, and in the work of that correction which I invite, let him remember, he is holding the iron Mace of Criticism over the flimsy superstructure of a youth of seventeen, and remembering that, may he forbear from crushing by too much rigour, the painted butterfly, whose transient colours may otherwise be capable of affording a moment's innocent amusement.

H. K. WHITE.

NOTTINGHAM.

1

TO MY LYRE.

AN ODE.

I.

THOU simple Lyre !-Thy music wild
Has serv'd to charm the weary hour,

And many a lonely night has 'guil'd,
When even pain has own'd, and smil❜d,

Its fascinating power.

II.

Yet, oh my Lyre! the busy crowd
Will little heed thy simple tones;
Them, mightier minstrels harping loud
Engross, and thou, and I, must shroud
Where dark oblivion 'thrones.

III.

No hand, thy diapason o'er,

Well skill'd, I throw with sweep sublime;

For me, no academic lore

Has taught the solemn strain, to pour,

Or build the polish'd rhyme.

IV.

Yet thou to Sylvan themes canst soar ;

Thou know'st to charm the woodland train:

The rustic swains believe thy power

Can hush the wild winds when they roar,

And still the billowy main.

V.

These honours, Lyre, we yet may keep,
I, still unknown, may live with thee,
And gentle zephyr's wing will sweep
Thy solemn string, where low I sleep,
Beneath the alder tree.

VI.

This little dirge will please me more
Than the full requiem's swelling peal;
I'd rather than that crouds should sigh
For me, that from some kindred eye
The trickling tear should steal.
VII.

Yet dear to me the wreath of bay,
Perhaps from me debarr'd;

And dear to me the classic zone,

Which snatch'd from learning's labour'd throne,

Adorns the accepted bard.

VIII.

And O! if yet 'twere mine to dwell
Where Cam, or Isis, winds along,
Perchance, inspir'd with ardour chaste,
I yet might call the ear of taste

To listen to my song.

IX.

Oh! then, my little friend, thy style

I'd change to happier lays,

Oh! then, the cloister'd glooms should smile,

And through the long the fretted aisle

Should swell the note of praise.

CLIFTON GROVE.

A Sketch in Verse.

LO! in the west, fast fades the lingering light,
And day's last vestige take its silent flight.

No more, is heard the woodman's measur'd stroke
Which, with the dawn, from yonder dingle broke ;
No more, hoarse clamouring o'er the uplifted head,
The crows assembling, seek their wind-rock'd bed;
Still'd is the village hum-the woodland sounds
Have ceas'd to echo o'er the dewy grounds,
And general silence reigns, save when below,
The murmuring Trent is scarcely heard to flow;
And save when, swung by 'nighted rustic late,
Oft, on its hinge, rebounds the jarring gate:
Or, when the sheep-bell, in the distant vale,
Breathes its wild music on the downy gale.

Now, when the rustic wears the social smile,
Releas'd from day and its attendant toil,
And draws his household round their evening fire,
And tells the oft-told tales that never tire:
Or, where the town's blue turrets dimly rise,
And manufacture taints the ambient skies,
The pale mechanic leaves the labouring loom,
The air-pent hold, the pestilential room,
And rushes out, impatient to begin
The stated course of customary sin: