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. John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise ; For if you do but taste his blood, Then let us toast John Barleycorn, TO MISS HICKMAN PLAYING ON THE SPINNET. 66 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. Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ROBERT LEVET. A PRACTISER IN PHYSIC. CONDI ONDEMNED to Hope's delusive mine, By sudden blasts, or slow decline, Well tried through many a varying year, Of every friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection's eye, When fainting nature called for aid, The power of art without the show. In Misery's darkest cavern known, Where hopeless Anguish poured his groan, No summons mocked by chill delay, No petty gain disdained by pride, His virtues walked their narrow round, The busy day-the peaceful night, His frame was firm, his powers were bright, Then with no fiery throbbing pain, Death broke at once the vital chain, 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 ; NCE on a time a paper kite ONCE Was mounted to a wondrous height, Where, giddy with its elevation, It thus expressed self-admiration : "See how yon crowd of gazing people |