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persons singing his own beautiful lines on the pleasures of home,he was not only denied the possession of one himself, but was even destitute of the necessaries of life.

The following beautiful little lyric is from the pen of General BURGOYNE, of our Revolutionary annals:

When first this humble roof I knew,
With various care I strove;

My grain was scarce, my sheep were few,
My all of life was love.

By mutual toil our board was dressed,
The spring our drink bestowed;
But when her lip the brim had pressed,
The cup with nectar flowed!

Content and peace the dwelling shared,
No other guest came nigh;

In them was given, though gold was sparec
What gold could never buy.

No value has a splendid lot,

But as the means to prove,
That from the castle to the cot,
The all of life is-love

Here is DARWIN's sweet Song to May:

Born in yon blaze of orient sky,

Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold;
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,

And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.

For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow,

For thee descends the sunny shower;
The rills in softer murmurs flow,

And brighter blossoms gem the bower.

Light graces decked in flowery wreaths,
And tiptoe joys their hand combine,
And Love his sweet contagion breathes,
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine.
Warm with new life, the glittering throng,

On quivering fin and rustling wing,
Delighted join their votive song,

And hail thee Goddess of the Spring!


This charming American song, the Old Oaken Bucket, is by WOODWORTH :—

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view;

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew:
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure-

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well,—
To old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

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Reverting again in imagination to one of the "nooks and corners" of Old England, y clept the "Grecian Coffee-House," let us endeavour to recall from the buried past, that once famous rendezvous of the wits, poets, and playwrights. It was here that a somewhat portly personage, of ungainly gait, but of good-tempered face, was wont to meet with his cosy companions, and while away many an hour consecrated to poetry, politics, and potations. We refer to "poor Goldy," as he was familiarly called; and a more generoushearted, gifted man,-one so studious of the happiness of others, and as strangely indifferent to his own,-it would not be easy to instance. His eccentricities of character have imparted to his history a romantic interest, rarely found in the record of a scholar's life. A restless love of adventure, combined with an incorrigible

imprudence, perpetually involved him in difficulties; so that while the powers of his genius provoked the admiration of the world, his ludicrous inconsistencies of conduct no less excited its ridicule. Our smiles and tears are alike provoked by his mad exploits, his College career, his flight to Cork, his utter destitution, and also his unconquerable passion for roaming over Europe on foot,beguiling his troubles and replenishing his purse, meanwhile, by means of his flute: or, as we follow him to his infelicitous, though brief, apprenticeship to "the poor chemist,"-from which condition his good friend and patron, Johnson, not only released him, but introduced him to the world of letters. Speaking of GOLDSMITH, Johnson remarked, that "no man was more foolish than he was when he had not a pen in his hand, or none more wise when he had." The Doctor was, indeed, a true friend to the author of The Vicar of Wakefield, in a time of especial need, that critical dilemma with his landlady.


GOLDSMITH was a hard worker with his brain. He considered four lines a day, good work. Occasionally he read much at night, in bed; and when he wished to extinguish his candle, it is said he used to throw his slipper at it,-for, like Thomson and others, he was afflicted with a very indolent body. He was greatly astonished when Dodsley, his publisher, offered five shillings a couplet for his Deserted Village, when each line was fairly worth as many pounds ; for it took him seven years in beating out its pure gold. Of all his poems, this bears the palm for finished excellence; and our interest in it is not lessened by knowing that it describes scenes in which he was, in early life, himself an actor. Auburn, the poetical name for the village of Lissoy, is situated in the county of Westmeath; the name of the schoolmaster was Paddy Burns, "a man severe to view;" and the ale-house, with its large spreading hawthorn bush, has also been identified,-where

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place.

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