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He'd boldly echo back again,

Thy feeling, wild romantic strain: Then sounds so soft, so loud, and clear, Should break on thy enraptured ear, That thou should'st think the gales of even, Came freighted with the songs of heaven. And as he poured the deathless strain, Self-kindling with a rapture holy, He'd proud repel the, cold disdain Of wretches born to wealth and folly. Yet though no bright, no dazzling ray Of genius round his pencil play, Still shall thy glowing strain impart A joy to sooth his troubled heart. When Fancy sees thy "champions proud," Meet like the "bursting thunder cloud." Scarce can that heart restrain a sigh, Amid the battle's storm to die. And when in Cranstoun's noble mind, He sees the "courtly Baron bold," By towering valour love-refined, His Margaret's fond affection hold, He sighs to think those days are o'er', And knightly feats can charm no more. When Clara's image blooming breaks Upon his mind, and fondly wakes His soul to scenes so deeply traced, In colours ne'er to be effaced; He'll think upon his early youth, And his own Stella's matchless truth; Who seven long years, besieged by fiends In human shape, in guise of friends, Though thick malignant scandal flew, Still own'd her Henry just and true. When victor in the evening fight, Stands famed de Wilton's injured knight, When vengeance raised the flaming brand And scarce he stays his lifted hand,

She'll see her Henry in the one
Who spared the guilty Marmion.

For joys like these, much honoured Scott,
Accept this strain, ah, scorn it not,
Accept the tribute of a youth,
Unskilled in flattery's art,

It bears, howe'er in sounds uncouth,

The homage of a feeling heart,

Traced in the sacred characters of truth.



The foreign plant-" Forget me not,"
Blossom'd in Autumn's sunny hour,
Transplanted to my native cot,

It bloom'd a parlour-window flow'r.
Its clust'ring buds their fragrance drew
From tender Friendship's fost'ring care,
And gem'd with Pity's sparkling dew,
The sweet exotic flourish'd fair.
When dark November's chilling show'r,
Deepen'd the forest's gloomy shade;
I saw the angry tempest low'r,

And, oh! I fear'd my plant would fade.
Oft as its verdant, glossy leaves,

With gentle hand, was lightly press'd;
The charm, that fairy-fancy weaves,
Clings to my vacant, aching breast.
The sun has left its parting beam,
And tipp'd with gold the distant hill:
Its roseate tints, but faintly gleam,
And all the Autumn gales are still.
The Muse, with timid, anxious eye,
Now, glances o'er her lov'd retreat;
And Hope exhales a trembling sigh,

From buds so frail, and bloom so sweet.


Yet still shall I, those sweets inhale,
Which scent the ambient air for me;
And still shall kiss those blossoms pale,
Which gave their balmy breath to thee.
And when I twine around my cot,
The tendrils of my native bow'r ;
The foreign plant forget me not,”
Shall be my parlour-window flow'r.



Stern winter reigns; the willows green Which droop'd around my cottage-scene; The pensive Autumn's fading flow'r, And all that grac'd my Summer bow'r, Each blushing bud, and odour sweet, Which once adorn'd my sylvan seat, Touch'd by the rigid hand of frost Are all with icy gems emboss'd.

The tendrils from the vine are cleft:
Yet still my foreign plant was left;
My foreign plant, of beauty rare,
Was shielded from the piercing air;
And oft within my rustic cot,
The melting tone-" forget me not"-
Sweetly sooth'd my list'ning ear,
And touch'd the chord to mem❜ry dear.
Yet, as the winged moments flew,
My fragile flow'ret chang'd its huc;
And mem'ry now unfolds a tale,
Attested by its blossoms pale;

Whispers soft, that Friendship's smile,
Sigh, and blush, and dang'rous wile;
And e'en the charm, that fancy weaves,
Linger'd long amidst its leaves.

But, Fate's dark omen broke the spell,
The stars were veil'd; the snow-storm fell:
The drear North-East, with sudden blast,
On all my buds and blossoms past;
Struck by the with'ring hand of frost,
Flow'rs, foliage, fragrance, all are lost.


To the liberal Public we now present the first number of our Miscellany. When it is remembered by Friendship and Candour that our final plan of arrangement was not settled until nearly the close of February, those generous Powers, to whom we have appealed, will promptly pardon the minor blemishes of what must be justly considered as a hasty composition. Our foreign correspondence is not yet fully arranged. Our domestic friends are not completely rouzed. In short, "The scambling and unquiet Time" has precluded the power of accomplishing anything like a complete miscellany. But this apology is merely occasional, and will not be repeated. At the entrance of the visto of success, we are, for a moment, in partial darkness and obscurity. But we see radiance as we advance, and enough of enchantment in the distance to tempt the perseverance of any adventurer. To change the metaphor, nothing is more common among men of refined taste in the pleasures of the table than to refuse their opinion of the character of the Port or Burgundy, they happen to be drinking, until they have swallowed at least six glasses. Among experienced Epicures it would argue a notable want of connoisseurship, to pronounce upon the merits or demerits of vine juice, after tasting only a thimble full. We hope the crusty critic will emulate the patience of the very honest and jovial Gentlemen, we have just described. After perusing six numbers of The Port Folio, and finding all of them either crude or mawkish, he will then have a

right to pronounce the whole vile trash, and refuse both his sanction and custom.

We recommend to the Gentlemen immediately concerned in furnishing papers for the Literary department, to attach to each essay certain cabalistical characters by which the property can be known and identified. The advantages of this practice must be obvious. The suum cuique, the generous maxim of the liberal Romans will be then appropriately ascribed, and more care will probably be employed upon a composition, than if this rule were rejected. In the Tatler, the Spectator, the Connoisseur, the World, and in many other periodical papers of celebrity, this is a settled custom.

We hope too, our occasional and foreign correspondents, will likewise adopt a system of appropriate signatures, in which Reason, Modesty, and Simplicity, should always have a place. Fantastic appellations, to flimsy essays, are equally injudicious and common. Not only our newspapers, but works of a more durable character, are often covered with such a strange set of uncouth figures, that we scarcely recognize our company. We have seen TIMOLEON, in the guise of a cobbler, and TULLIA, assuming the character of a vestal virgin. PHRYNE has vindicated the doctrines of Chastity, and PYм has defended the Church of England. ANACREON has written Odes more obscure and prolix, than those of PINDAR, and PINDAR, not to be deficient in propriety, has indited little songs, shorter and simpler than those of SHENSTONE.

All these absurdities should be avoided, by those, who aspire to correctness of thought, or felicity of expression. We hope this suggestion will have a salutary effect. It is likewise wished that one correspondent would never trespass upon the rights, by assuming the signature of another. This inevitably leads to inextricable confusion, and is, moreover, in the issue, injurious to both parties.

Those Gentlemen, who, assist us with Scientific or Literary papers, are apprized distinctly of the absolute necessity of addressing them seasonably to our Publishers. It is expect

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