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Ah! stern thy fate—in vain a Cochran's care,
Who nobly strove to shield thee from that hour

Which spoiled what spoiling Hertford deigned to spare,
Despite the mandate of imperial power.

Where now thy altars rich in regal state,

Where knelt in homage Scotia's lovely Queen,

Encircled by the brave, the good, and great,
And heroes panoplied in warlike sheen?

Demolished quite by that ignoble band,
No vestige marks their consecrated place;

The holy Twelve no more like seraphs stand
'Midst pillared grandeur of unrivalled grace.

Yes 1 dim and desolate thy courts appear,

Where, slumbering, rest the brave untrophied dead,

Whose viewless shades in dreadful concert here
Flit through thy gloomy aisles with noiseless tread.

Thy priests and people time hath swept away,

The prince, the hero patriot of yore;
The plain, the polished, and the grave and gay,

In wonted worship mingle here no more.

To imaged saints the knee hath ceased to bow—

Here matin orisons no more ascend In sacred homage to the Virgin now,

Nor pealing vespers in devotion blend.

Within thy rueful cells and shades profound,
Where the grim monk, in sacerdotal weeds,

By guilt, and crime, and terror circled round,
And Penance, pouring forth her ruthless deeds.

No tearless anguish lifts the wailing eye
To holy fraud, and breathes the tale sincere—

No bleeding hearts for absolution sigh,

Nor fresh indulgence asked nor granted here.

The curtain's dropped—the theatre stands alone—
Scenes, acts, and actors in oblivion laid;

Here all is o'er, for ever past and gone,
Fled like the baseless fabric of a shade.

Though now with deep reluctance and regret,
Thy humid cells and courts I bid adieu—

Their grave instructions can the heart forget,
If once it but their power and pathos knew?

How vain are volumes here the Muse to teach,
To lure to virtue and inspire her lays,

Compared with these dumb monitors, that preach
Their sober homilies a thousand ways!

Heaven! while I wander through life's thorny
waste,
Where care, and vanity, and vice ensnare,
Grant from the soul their truths be ne'er effaced,
But treasured up as precious jewels there.
I

Then fare thee well, to me thrice hallowed fane!

Adieu, ye flowery glens and sylvan shades, Eve's dusky mantle now enrobes the plain,

And on the view the classic landscape fades.

THE WANDERING POOR

'ODhelp thepoor ! protect them by the way,
While through life's weary wilderness they stray;
What storms, what tempests, in perpetual strife,
From day to day o'ercast their sky of life—
God help the poor!

What bitter sorrow, hardship, and distress
In endless forms upon the helpless press,
Forlorn and destitute, without a home,
Defenceless, friendless, thus they wretched roam
God help the poor!

From house to house, soliciting in sighs
The stinted morsel with imploring eyes,
Oft sneeringly bestowed in cold disdain,
Only to wound the wounded heart again—
God help the poor!

Here from the gate chased by the mastiff's growl,
There from the dwelling spurned with fiendish howl,
Eepulsed with insult, infamy, and scorn,
By haughty menials galling to be borne—
God help the poor!

Wandering o'er mountains, through the lonely glen,
Unheeded by the callous sons of men,
While fertile plains and Nature's barren wild
Are scoured in suffering by misfortune's child—
God help the poor!

Exposed to scorching ray's of summer's sun
And winter's blast, life's cheerless race they run;
Through moor and marsh, in hunger and in pain,
Blanched by the snow, and battered by the rain—
God help the poor!

With tattered garments into fragments torn,
Oft with their hapless progeny forlorn,
They haunt the rock, for shelter seek the glade,
And oft the hay ruck is their only shade—
God help the poor!

ON THE WRECK OF THE PEGASUS,

A Hull and Leith Steamer, which happened about the
end of July 1843.

OW thrice enchanting shone that fatal eve!

, What pen or pencil can its sweets portray! When Pegasus lay loading, Leith to leave,

Decked as a Nymph fair on her nuptial day,

To plough the trackless deep, old Hull to pay Her wonted visit, as for many a year,

Fraught with a cargo of the grave and gay!
The brave and timid in the group appear—
The sons of Truth, with those who at her sneer.

»
And, lo ! amid the circling fairy throng,

The reverend father and the laurelled sage; There buoyant youth chants o'er the am'rous song,

And wave the locks dipt in the snows of age;

And there the lovers in fresh vows engage, With burning words and dream of nuptial joys;

The sportive boy and prattling girl, too, wage Their juvenile disputes o'er games and toys— All seemed to pluck the fruit that never cloys.

Bright shone the Sun, to bless them with his smile, To gild creation and the slumbering wave;

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