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Reciprocation-Burke's Irritability-Maxims.

A Spanish poet, in describing his paramour, tells us, that in thinking of his mistress, he fell into a river, where the heat of his passion had such an effect upon the water, that it bubbled up and boiled the fish, insomuch that those who came to take him out, were diverted from their object by the delicacy of the fish, which were swimming about ready cooked!


The Doctor learned, as learned can be,
But prest, alas! by poverty,

Cured me, when like to smother;
And when I handed him his fee,
He cried, with more than usual glee,
Od'zooks, we've cur'd each other.

Burke's Irritability-On one occasion Mr. Burke's quick sense of indignity discovered itself by flight. He had just risen in the House of Commons, with some papers in his hand, on the subject of which he intended to make a motion, when a rough-hewn member, who had no ear for the charms of eloquence, rudely started up, and said,—Mr. Speaker, I hope the Honourable Gentleman does not mean to read that large bundle of papers, and to bore us with a long speech to the bargain.Mr. Burke was so swoln, or rather so nearly suffocated with rage, as to be in the instant incapable of utterance, and absolutely ran out of the House. On this occasion, George Selwyn remarked, that it was the only time he ever saw the fable realized, A Lion put to flight by the braying of an Ass.

Maxims. Envious people are very miserable, because the happiness of others torment them as much as their own misery. Envy corrodes its possessors, as rust does iron. Envy is the saw of the soul. The beauty of fame is blasted by envy as by sickness. To desire little, levels poverty with riches. It is a noble satisfaction to be ill spoken of when we are conscious of doing what is right. Envy and Idleness married together, and begot Curiosity. Envy and Covetousness are never satisfied. Envy is ashamed and afraid to be seen. Envy is so shameful and cowardly a passion, that nobody ever had the confidence to own it. Envy never yet enriched any man. Envy shooteth at others, and woundeth herself.

To the Ruins of an Old Highland Castle.



When the white locks of age crown the heads of our sires,
And the deep wrinkled brow tells of years that have past,
And the frame all disjoined and the desolate soul,

Mark the struggling of many a wild wasting blast,
We seek for the wreck of their storm-shattered frames,

Some sweet haven of rest, free from the rude wind and wave, We brighten the night of their days with our love,

And we lead their frail steps down in peace to the grave.

But for you ye grey relics of times that are gone,
Ye remembrances sad of gay days now no more,
Ye must bear all unsheltered the pitiless storm,
And the hurricanes shock, and the wild waters roar;.
And your turrets that once bade defiance to heaven,

Or frowned in contempt on the fierce battle fray--
Must totter and tumble, the sport of the tempest,
Or moulder and crumble in ashes away.

Long, long years, have fled since the battle strife rag'd

Round your bulwarks unshaken, when chieftains of might,
From your wide opened gates led the hosts of their vassals,.
Cheered on by the pibroch to rapine and fight;

And long years have fled since thy halls all resounded,
With pipe and with harp, and with dance and with song,
When the sweet strains of minstrelsy floated on high,

Or the glad hymn of victory flowed from the throng.

Thy children have long sought the dust of their fathers,
In ruin have long slept thy festival halls,

And waste are thy turrets and waste are thy chambers,
And covered with wild grass, thy tottering walls;

Weeping Mary.

But no arm of aid has renewed thy strength failing,
No friend has repaired the slow havoes of time;
Nor even tender pity has wept o'er thy downfal

A stranger thou sinkest in thine own native clime.

Would to heaven the cold hearted race that surround thee,
Would learn from the wind or the wave of the deep!
In sighs floats the wind thro' thy courts drear and lonely,
And mournfully murmurs the wave round thy steep.
But fruitless the wish-thou shalt soon pass away,

And not ev'n a stone tell thy site on the shore:

And the bard that laments thee, he too shall depart,


the place that now knows thee shall know thee no more." Dunarbach, Nov., 1818.

C. M. T. M.


By Irvine's stream sat weeping Mary,
Once attractive, young and airy,
But seduced by faithless Harry,

Virtue fled, and pleasure died.
On her cheek sat wrinkled sadness,
Once the seat of joy and gladness,
In her eye the form of madness,

Sat, and eyed the rolling tide.

Settled sorrow on her waited,
Mourning o'er love violated,
Staring frenzy execrated

The deceitful heart of man.

O'er her head destraction gather'd,

In her breast the wild flowers wither'd,
Briny tears, no longer smother'd,

Down her cheeks in torrents ran.

"Heaven" she cried, "O hear my wailing

Darts of madd'ning grief assailing,
Joined with sorrow, life curtailing,

Bitter are the draughts of woe.

Weeping Mary.

O one look of comfort give me,
Into pity's arms receive me,
From this heavy load relieve me
Or in thunder answer-no.

Lay me then with those who resting,
Fear no anguish, pain infesting,
Angry frown, or pride molesting,
But unloaded sleep secure.
Where the Prince of pomp divested
Murdering bandit heaven detested,
And the fiend who virtue blasted,
Mingle, mingle with the poor..

See a ruin'd maid before thee,

Dost thou hear her deep implore thee?
Throw, O throw death's covering o'er me,

Let this be the closing sigh.

Man betray'd me, joy forsook me,
Sorrow bound me, horror took me,
Keen reflection came and shook me,
Here, O Heaven, O let me die.

White the foam rose on the billow,
Sad the thrush sat by the willow,
Sickness rav'd upon his pillow,

Labour paus'd and look'd aghast..
To the caves the hinds retreated,
Flocks upon the mountains bleated
Mirth no longer recreated,

For the tempest gathered fast.

Thick the rattling rain descended,
Thunder bolts the forests rended,
Howling winds the galleys stranded,
Death appeared in dread array.

To escape her spirit tried then,
What she sought was not deny'd then,
For her spirit, as she sigh'd then,

Burst its bands and flew away,

Kilmarnock, 10th Nov., 1818.


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How sacred the hour when in beauty reclines
The day-star's last relic of light!

How dear are the moments when evening reclines,.
Ere it melts in the bosom of night!
Then, chiefly, the pilgrim of sorrow will feel

The visage of nature can lend

Soft peace to the mind, and sweetly reveal
Every grace of the pitying friend.

And then, while, as dim shades of glory that roll
O'er the ruins their history hallows,

The visions of young days revisit my soul,
To the joys that surround it all callous;
My sad heart a sigh of devotion shall breathe
At the shrine of its earliest love,

And dream that the smiles on her lover beneath

Though shining with angels above.

Glasgow, Nov., 1818.

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