EPITAPH ON A HARE.

Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue,
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's halloo;

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,

Who, nursed with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack hare.
Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And when he could, would bite.
His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw:
Thistles or lettuces instead,

With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,

But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humour's sake,
For he would oft beguile

My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

A MOONLIGHT SCENE.

SOUTHEY.

How calmly, gliding through the dark blue sky,
The midnight moon ascends! Her placid beams,
Through thinly scatter'd leaves, and boughs grotesque,
Mottle with mazy shades the orchard slope;
Here o'er the chestnut's fretted foliage, grey
And massy, motionless they spread; here shine
Upon the crags, deepening with blacker night
Their chasms; and there the glittering argentry
Ripples and glances on the confluent streams.
A lovelier, purer light than that of day
Rests on the hills; and oh! how awfully,
Into that deep and tranquil firmament,
The summits of Auseva rise serene!

The watchman on the battlements partakes
The stillness of the solemn hour; he feels
The silence of the earth; the endless sound
Of flowing water soothes him; and the stars,
Which, in that brightest moonlight well-nigh quench'd,
Scarce visible, as in the utmost depth

Of yonder sapphire infinite, are seen,
Draw on with elevating influence
Towards eternity the attemper'd mind,

Thus thy guardian angel sang,
As he bore thy soul on high;
While with Hallelujahs rang
All the regions of the sky.

Ye that mourn a father's loss,

Ye that weep a friend no more!
Call to mind the Christian cross,
Which your friend, your father bore.
Grief, and penury, and pain,
Still attended on his way,

And oppression's scourge and chain,
More unmerciful than they.

Yet, while travelling in distress—
"Twas the eldest curse of sin-
Through the world's waste wilderness,
He had a paradise within;

And along that vale of tears,

Which his humble footsteps trod, "

Still a shining path appears,

Where the mourner walked with God:

Till his Master from above,

When the promised hour was come

Sent the chariot of his love

To convey the wanderer home.

Saw ye not the wheels of fire,

And the steeds that cleft the wind?

Saw ye not his soul aspire,

When his mantle dropt behind?

Ye who caught it as it fell,

Bind that mantle round your breast!

So in you his meekness dwell,

So on you his spirit rest!

Yet, rejoicing in his lot,

Still shall memory love to weep

O'er the venerable spot

Where his dear cold relics sleep.

Grave! the guardian of his dust,
Grave! the treasury of the skies,

Every atom of thy trust

Rests in hope again to rise.

Hark! the judgment-trumpet sounds"Soul! rebuild thy house of clay,

"Immortality thy walls,

"And eternity thy day!"

MARIA.

LAURENCE STERNE was born in 1713, and died 1768. Great as a wit, his writings are strangely incongruous with his office as a clergyman. Pathetic as are his expressions of sentiment, he was, unhappily, of a shallow and selfish disposition.

FIRST PART.

-THEY were the sweetest notes I ever heard; and I instantly let down the fore-glass to hear them more distinctly. ""Tis Maria," said the postilion, observing I was listening-" Poor Maria," continued he, leaning his body on one side to let me see her, (for he was in a line between us) "is sitting upon a bank playing her vespers upon a pipe, with her little goat beside her." The young fellow uttered this with an accent and a look so perfectly in tune to a feeling heart, that I instantly made a vow, I would give him a four-and-twenty sous piece when I got to Moulines.

"And who is poor Maria?" said I.

"The love and pity of all the villages around us," said the postilion:-"it is but three years ago, that the sun did not shine upon so fair, so quick-witted, and amiable a maid; and better fate did Maria deserve, than to have her banns forbid by the intrigues of the curate of the parish who published them-"

He was going on, when Maria, who had made a short pause, put the pipe to her mouth, and began the air again—they were the same notes - yet were ten times sweeter: "It is the evening service to the Virgin," said the young man-"but who has taught her to play it-or how she came by her pipe, no one knows: we think that Heaven has assisted her in both; for ever since she has been unsettled in her mind, it seems her only consolation-she has never once had the pipe out of her hand, but plays that service upon it almost night and day."

The postilion delivered this with so much discretion and natural eloquence, that I could not help deciphering something in his face above his condition, and should have sifted out his history had not poor Maria taken such full possession of me.

We had got up by this time almost to the bank where Maria was sitting: she was in a thin white jacket, with her hair, all but two tresses, drawn up in a silk net, with a few olive leaves twisted a little fantastically on one side-she was beautiful; and if ever I felt the full force of an honest heartache, it was the moment I saw her

"God help her! poor damsel! above a hundred masses," said the postilion, "have been said in the several parish churches and convents around for her-but without effect: we have still hopes, as she is sensible for short intervals, that the Virgin at last will restore her to herself; but her parents, who know her