FAR from the busy haunts of men,

Far from the glaring eye of day; Still fancy paints, with nature's pen, Such tints as never can decay.

Hast thou not seen, at ev'ning hour, When Phoebus sunk beneath the main, Reclin'd in some sequester'd bow'r

The village maid, or shepherd swain ?

Hast thou not mark'd them cull with care
Some favor'd flow'ret from the rest,
To deck the breast, or bind the hair,
Of those they priz'd and lov'd the best?

B

And still expressive of the mind

The emblematic gift was found; Whether to mournful thought inclin'd, Or with triumphal gladness crown'd.

Near Avon's banks, a cultur'd spot,

With many a tuft of flowers adorn'd, Was once an aged shepherd's cot,

Who scenes of greater splendour scorn'd.

Three beauteous daughters bless'd his bed,
Who made the little plat their care;
And every sweet by Flora spread,
Attentive still they planted there.

Once, when still ev'ning veil'd the sky,
The sire walk'd forth, and sought the bow',

And bade the lovely maids draw nigh,

And each select some favour'd flow'r.

The first with radiant splendour charm'd,
A variegated tulip chose;

The next with love of beauty warm'd,
Preferr'd the sweetly blushing rose.

The third, who mark'd with depth of thought,
How those bright flow'rs must droop away,
An ev'ning primrose only brought,
Which opens with the closing day.

The sage awhile in silence view'd

The various choice of flow'rs displayed; And then (with wisdom's gift endu'd) Address'd each beauteous list'ning maid.

"Who chose the tulip's splendid dyes,

Shall own, too late when that decays;
That vainly proud, not greatly wise,
She only caught a short-liv'd blaze.

"The rose, though beauteous leaves and sweet
Its glorious vernal pride adorn;
Let her who chose, beware to meet
The biting sharpness of its thorn.

"But she, who, to fair daylight's train,

The ev'ning flower more just preferr'd;
Chose real worth, nor chose in vain,
The one great object of regard.

"Ambitious thou! the tulip race

In all life's varied course beware; Caught with sweet pleasure's rosy grace, Do thou its sharper thorns beware.

"Thou prudent still to virtue's lore,

Attend and mark her counsel's sage! She, like thy flow'r has sweets in store, To soothe the ev'ning of thine age.",

He ceas'd-attend the moral strain
The muse enlighten'd pours;
Nor let her pencil trace in vain,
The judgment of the flow'rs.

VERSES

BY DR. BERNARD WILSON,
In answer to a scurilous Paper.

WHOE'ER thou art that thus hath tried

To blast my reputation,

And under colour of disguise,
To spread this defamation.

WRITTEN

Appear thou in thy proper shape,
In print assert thy name;
And let the genuine voice of truth,.
Determine who's to blame.

To stab in secret with a tale
The brave will always shun,
But cowards like the moon grow pale,
And dare not face the sun.

Wynne.

Thy malice then must be in vain,
And fruitless thy design;
Because to injure is thy aim,
And to forgive is mine."