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Scrapiana Poetica.



His hoards were unnumber'd,
He still wish'd for more;
And ne'er gave a farthing
To succour the poor.

He cheated in life,

And he cheated in death,

Nor gave up his vice,

When he gave up his breath: He cheated the worms,

Of their long-look'd for prey; His bones had no flesh For their labour to pay. Learn mortals! true wisdom From this wretched end, And never on perishing Riches depend. Though rolling in wealth

Yet this miser was poor, For when avarice enter'd, Peace fled from the door.

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His Life had made so many flow,
That all the briny fount was dried.

A mighty pain to love it is,
'Tis a pain that pain to miss ;
Of all pains the greatest pain,
Is to love, and love in vain.

KNAVE OF HEARTS. 1 gave, 'twas but the other day, My Chlo' a ticket for the play,

"Tis love such tricks impart; When holding up the card to me, She laughing said, " your emblem see;' And show'd the knave of hearts. Amaz'd I cried, "What means my fair? A knave will lie, will steal, will swear; Your words I pray define."

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She smil'd and said, Nay never start: He's sure a khave that steals a heart; And you have stolen mine."

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Friend you mistake the matter quite, How can you say that woman's light? Poor Comus swears, throughout his life, His heaviest plague has been a wife.


Wigs good I make, and takes my price,
I dress and frizzle very nice;
Likewise I shave all very clean,
Loves well to please both rich and mean;
I keep my razors in fine edges,
And ought to five well by my wages;
My hand is steady, draws no blood,
Come in you shall have usage good→→
Ere I of one a penny lose
Right firm I'll hold him by the nose.

EPITAPH ON A SMITH. Here is confin'd in chains of clay

The corpse of David Bryce; Who though at study every day,

Would ne'er forsake his vice! As he by forgery gain'd his bread, From every one around, Death's hammer now hath struck him dead,

And nail'd him to the ground.

Beneath this stone-her ashes rest
Whose memory fills my aching breast;
She sleeps unconscious of the tear
That tells the tale of sorrow here:
But still the hope allays my pain
That we may live and love again
Love with a pure seraphic fire
That never, never shall expire

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What viewless forms the Eolian organ sweep ?-Campbell.




Scarcely can there be a stronger proof of the kindness of Providence than the wonderful provision which is made for the enjoyment of the human race. This provision is in some in stances complete without the intervention of human ingenuity, and in others some degree of art is necessary. Of the former description may be mentioned sublime and romantic scenery, and the changes of seasons with their respective accompaniments, as the beauty of foliage, and the music of birds. All these are calculated to awaken pleasurable emotions, and may be ranked among the sources of human enjoyment. Man was not called into existence to gaze in listless indifference on the wonders with which he is surrounded. He was formed to explore and admire the works of God; and in these employments he finds ample means of promoting his happiness. He who can feel the vivifying influence of Spring without experiencing a sensible delight-who can listen to the music of the groves without feeling his mind soothed, and disposed to devotionwho can cast a vacant and uninterested gaze over the endless variety of hill and dale, of mountain and valley, with which this earth is diversified-and who can behold the yellow tints of Autumn without blessing Him who crowns the year with plenty, may justly be charged with sullenness against nature, as

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On the Eolian Harp.

Milton expresses it, and certainly cannot be said to appreciate the advantages of his present situation. In these cases he has only to open his eyes or his ears to receive the gratification which unassisted Nature has provided for him.

In other instances some degree of art is requisite to render the elements subservient to the promotion of our enjoyment. As those instances in which the least art is required, are the most pleasing, I will confine my remarks at present to one, not less distinguished for its simplicity, than for the circumstance of its converting the most boisterous of the elements into the means of filling the mind with the most pleasing emotions-I allude to the Eolian Harp; an instrument which I believe is but little known in this part of the country. Subjoined is a description of its mechanism, which an artist will readily comprehend. When the Eolian Harp is properly tuned, the strains are so simple and so sweet, and above all, the transitions are so exquisite that one is apt to be deceived into the belief that some invisible being presides over it, and guides its melodies.

"The Folian Harp is composed of a rectangular box, made of very thin dale, of the same length as the width of the window in which it is to be placed, and about five inches deep and six inches broad. Over the upper surface of this box, which is pierced with sounding holes, like the sounding board of a fiddle, are stretched several catgut, wire, or silk strings with a slight degree of tension. When these strings are in unison, and the instrument exposed in the window to the action of a gentle breeze, they will emit the most agreable combination of wild and melting sounds, changing from one harmonic of the string to another, according to the varying impulse ofthe wind, and its unequal action on the different parts of the vibrating string." The effects of this wild and irregular music are beautifully described by Thomson in the following verses:

"Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid!
With what soft wo they thrill the lover's heart!
Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid,
Who died of love, these sweet complainings part.

But hark! that strain was of a graver tone;

On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws;

Or he the sacred Bard,* who sat alone

In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes.

* Jeremiah.

On the Folian Harp.

Such was the song which Zion's children sung,
When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint;
And to such sadly solemn notes are strung

Angelic harps, to sooth a dying saint."

I would therefore recommend this instrument to your readers as equally calculated to charm the adept in music, and the simple child of nature who knows of no higher strains than Stroudwater, and Jenny's Bawbee. The expense is so trifling, that few need be deterred on that account; and I can assure them that they will find the Æolian Harp a source of the most harmless and pleasing entertainment. And although many of your readers cannot afford a piano or a harpsichord, every cottage may boast of its Æolian Harp: and many of our peasants who never heard of the old or new system, or of the controversy between Logier and De Monti, may convert the air which is diffused around them into the means of supplying those deficiencies.

Before concluding I beg leave to mention one advantage which this natural music possesses over artificial, namely, its endless variety. When we have been a short time in the company of any performer, we become acquainted with all his airs, and the first bar suggests the whole piece; and however we may admire his execution, to use a cant term, we cease to be charmed with novelty. Here on the contrary, all is artless, all is irregular, and every new breeze produces a new strain, which excites a corresponding sensation in the mind: and if we submit ourselves: entirely to the guidance of this ever-varying melody, we shall in all probability, in a very short time, be hurried through all the range of human feeling, from the deepest melancholy to the highest pitch of enthusiasm.

In addition to the quotation already given from Thomson, I make no apology for introducing the following stanzas from the Castle of Indolence, both because they happily illustrate the subject of this paper, and because the perusal of them may induce some of your readers to turn to the chaste and classic pages of a poem too little read by the admirers of the Seasons. The poet is enumerating the properties of the Castle, and pro ceeds thus:

"Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin'd,

Lull'd the weak bosom, and induced ease:

Aerial music in the warbling wind,

At distance rising oft, by small degrees,
Nearer and nearer came, till o'er the trees

Letter from Matthew Kenspeckle.

It hung, and breath'd such soul-dissolving airs
As did, alas! with soft perdition please:
Entangl'd deep in its enchanting snares,

The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares,

A certain music never known before,

Here lull'd the pensive melancholy mind;
Full easily obtain'd. Behoves no more,
But sidelong to the gently waving wind,
To lay the well-tun'd instrument reclin'd
From which, with airy-flying fingers light,

Beyond each mortal touch the most refin'd,
The god of Winds drew sounds of deep delight,
Whence, with just cause, the harp of Æolus it hight,*

Ah me! what hand can touch the string so fine?
Who up the lofty diapason roll

Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine,
Then let them down again into the soul?

Now rising love they fann'd; now pleasing dole
They breath'd, in tender musings, through the heart;
And now a graver sacred strain they stole,

As when seraphic hands an hymn impart;
Wild-warbling nature all, above the reach of art."

I am, Sir, yours sincerely,

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I have hitherto endeavoured to amuse you by such descriptions of remarkable things and personages about Glasgow that excite the notice of a stranger, and would find no difficulty in collecting materials for a series of critical remarks, were not the time approaching when a period must be put to my academic labours, and a conclusion to my office as censor. I hasten ther to close my communications by attempting a description of the Ladies of Glasgow. On such a subject a young man might be excused if he indulged in a strain of panegyric, and instead of

* Is called.

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