As the shades of ev'ning close,
Beck'ning thee to long repose;
As life itself becomes disease,
Seek the chimney-nook of ease.
There ruminate with sober thought,

On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought;
And teach the sportive younkers round,
Saws of experience, sage and sound.
Say, Man's true, genuine estimate,
The grand criterion of his fate,
Is not, Art thou high or low ?
Did thy fortune ebb or flow?
Did many talents gild thy span ?
Or frugal nature grudge thee one?
Tell them, and press it on their mind,
As thou thyself must shortly find,
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n,
To virtue or to vice is giv'n.
Say, To be just, and kind, and wise,
There solid self-enjoyment lies;
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways,
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base.

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep
To the bed of lasting sleep;

Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake,
Night, where dawn shall never break,
Till future life, future no more,
To light and joy the good restore,
To light and joy unknown before.

Stranger, go! Heav'n be thy guide! Quod the beadsman of Nithside.

LINES LEFT AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S

HOUSE.

O THOU dread Pow'r, who reign'st above!
I know thou wilt me hear;

When, for this scene of peace and love,
I make my pray'r sincere.

The hoary sire-the mortal stroke,
Long, long be pleased to spare!
To bless his little filial flock,
And show what good men are.

She, who her lovely offspring eyes
With tender hopes and fears,
O, bless her with a mother's joys,
But spare a mother's tears!

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth,
In manhood's dawning blush;

Bless him, thou God of love and truth,
Up to a parent's wish!

The beauteous, seraph.sister band,

With earnest tears I pray,

Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hand,
Guide thou their steps alway!

When soon or late they reach that coast

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n,

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost,

A family in Heav'n!

JOHN BOWDLER.

BORN 1783-DIED 1819.

THIS gentleman studied law, and was called to the bar; but fell into delicate health, and went abroad for its recovery. After illusive hopes of being restored to health, he relapsed, and died at the age of thirty-six. Bowdler possessed considerable natural abilities, a cultivated mind, and sincere piety. His select pieces in prose and verse are published in two volumes, and do great credit to his attainments, and to his memory. A memoir of his life is prefixed to these volumes, of which the principal attraction is, that it is written by an aged and bereaved father dwelling with fondness on the virtues of an early-lost son. Many of Bowdler's prose essays are of great merit, and his verses are all pleasing; but the example of his life is the best lesson that John Bowdler has left.

TO A LADY.

THINK not, because thy quiet day
In silent goodness steals away,
Think not, because to me alone
Thy deeds of cheerful love are known,
That, in the grave's dark chamber laid,
With thee those gentle acts shall fade.
From the low turf where virtue lies
Shall
many a bloodless trophy rise,
Whose everlasting bloom shall shame
The laurell'd conqueror's proudest name;
For there the hoary sire shall come,
And lead his babes to kiss thy tomb,
Whose manlier steps shall oft repair
To bless a Parent buried there.

S

The youth, whose grateful thought reveres
The hand that ruled his wayward years;
The tender maid, whose throbbing breast
Thy gentle wisdom sooth'd to rest,
And he who well thy virtues knew,
When Fortune fail'd and Friends were few;
All who thy blameless course approved,
Who felt thy goodness, or who loved,
Shall crowd around thy honour'd shrine,
And weep and wish an end like thine.

CANZONETTE.

'Tis sweet, when in the glowing west

The sun's bright wheels their course are leaving, Upon the azure ocean's breast

To watch the dark wave slowly heaving.

And oh! at glimpse of early morn,

When holy monks their beads are telling,

'Tis sweet to hear the hunter's horn

From glen to mountain wildly swelling.

And it is sweet, at mid-day hour,
Beneath the forest oak reclining,
To hear the driving tempests pour,
Each sense to fairy dreams resigning.

And sweeter yet the genuine glow

Of youthful friendship's high devotion, Responsive to the voice of wo,

When heaves the heart with strong emotion.

And youth is sweet with many a joy,
That frolics by in artless measure,
And age is sweet, with less alloy,

In tranquil thought and silent pleasure.

For He who gave the life we share,
With every charm His gift adorning,
Bade eve her pearly dewdrops wear,
And drest in smiles the blush of morning.

VERSES.

"For ye are not come unto the mount that might be touched," &c. &c.-Heb. xii. 18.

CHILDREN of God, who, pacing slow
Your pilgrim-path pursue,

In strength and weakness, joy and wo,
To God's high calling true.

Why move ye thus with lingering tread
A doubtful mournful band?

Why faintly hangs the dropping head?
Why fails the feeble hand?

Oh! weak to know a Saviour's power,
To feel a Father's care;
A moment's toil, a passing shower,
Is all the grief we share.

The Lord of light, though veil'd a while,
He hide his noontide ray,