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They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

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John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,
"Twill make your courage rise.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

TO MISS HICKMAN PLAYING ON THE SPINNET.

DR. SAMUEL JOHNSON.-1709-84.

[ALTHOUGH nothing of Dr. Johnson's can be designated accurately as a "Favourite Poem," yet the author of "Rasselas" (1759), and “Lives of the Poets" (1779), can hardly be omitted from our work. We give the following verses therefore as specimens of the author rather than as being in themselves favourite. The first is addressed to the well-known "Stella' of Johnson's Biography; the latter to Robert Levet, a dependent and humble friend, who resided with Dr. Johnson for twenty years.]

BRIGHT Stella, formed for universal reign,

Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;

When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquered hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotic sway:
But when your music soothes the raging pain
We bid propitious Heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.

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Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire;
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resigned his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET.

A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC.

COND

ONDEMNED to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,

By sudden blasts, or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, lettered Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting nature called for aid,
And hovering death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy displayed

The power of art without the show.

In Misery's darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan,
And lonely Want retired to die.

No summons mocked by chill delay,
No petty gain disdained by pride,
The modest wants of every day
The toil of every day supplied.

His virtues walked their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employed.

The busy day--the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,

Death broke at once the vital chain,
And freed his soul the nearest way.

THE KITE; OR, PRIDE MUST HAVE A FALL.

JOHN NEWTON.-1725-1807.

[THE "Olney Hymns" establish the reputation of their authors as favourite poets: these were the conjoint production of the Rev. John Newton and his friend William Cowper, and were first published in 1779. Appended to the volume is the following admirable little poem, which is selected as more strictly within the scope of our work than hymns, and, at the same time, as fairly representing the native humour and wit of the poet. The second is also an exquisite little piece.]

MY waking dreams are best concealed;
Much folly, little good, they yield;
But now and then I gain, when sleeping,
A friendly hint that's worth the keeping.
Lately I dreamed of one who cried,
"Beware of self, beware of pride;
When you are prone to build a Babel,
Recal to mind a little fable."

NCE on a time a paper kite

ONG

Was mounted to a wondrous height,

Where, giddy with its elevation,

It thus expressed self-admiration :
"See how yon crowd of gazing people
Admire my flight above the steeple ;
How would they wonder if they knew
All that a kite like me can do?

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