ed to be in York at the time of the assizes. Dining one day in a tavern with some gentlemen of that city and its neighbourhood, we were violently disturbed by the noise of somebody below, who hooted and halloo'd, smacked his whip, and made his servants sound their French horns ; in short, rehearsed, during the whole time of our dinner, all the glorious

tumult of the chace.' Some of the company, after several ineffectual messages by the waiter, began to be angry, and to think of a very serious remonstrance with the sportsman below. But an elderly person, who sat opposite to me, pacified their resentment: I know the gentleman who disturbs you,' said

« his head-piece was never one of the best ; .but now, poor man! I believe we must let him • alone-Since he is past running down the fox • in the field, he must e'en be allowed to hunt him & in the parlour.'


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N° 85. TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1780.

Possum oblivisci qui fuerim? Non sentire qui sim ? Quo caream bonore ? Quæ gloriâ ? Quibus liberis? Quibus fortunis?

Cic. ad Att. A PERIODICAL publication, such as the MIRROR, is, from its nature, confined chiefly to prose compositions. My illustrious predecessor, the SPECTATOR, has, however, sometimes inserted a little poem among his other essays; and his example has been imitated by most of his successors. Perhaps it may

be from this cause,

that among the variety of communications I have lately received, many of them consist of poetical compositions. I must observe in general to these Correspondents, that, though the insertion of a poem row and then may not be altogether improper for a work of this kind, yet it is not every poetical composition that is fit for it. A poem may be possessed of very considerable merit, and may be entitled to applause, when published in a poetical collection, though, from its subject, its length, or the manner in which it is written, it may not be suited to the Mirror. I hope my poetical Correspondents, therefore, will receive this as an apology for their poems not being inserted, and will by no means consider their exclusion as proceeding from their being thought destitute of merit.

Among the poetical presents I have received, there is, however, one, which seems very well suited to a work of this kind. The gentleman from whom I received it, says, he has been informed that it was founded on the following inscription (probably writ. ten from real feeling) on the window of an inn, situated in the Highlands of Scotland.

Of all the ills unhappy mortals know, • A life of wandering is the greatest woe; « On all their weary ways wait Care and Pain, • And Pine and Penury, a meagre train • A wretched Exile to his country send, • Long worn with griefs, and long without a friend.'

This poem contains a description of the situation of a Scoich gentleman who had been obliged to leave his country for rebellion against our present happy government. It points out the fatal consequences of such treasonable attempts, and represents the disa tress of the person described, in a very interesting and pathetic manner.


Where, 'midst the ruins of a fallen state,

The once-fam’d Tiber rolls his scanty wave, Where half a column now derides the great,

Where half a statue yet records the brave:

With trembling steps an Exile wander'd near,

In Scottish weeds his shrivellid limbs array’d; His furrow'd cheek was cross'd with many a tear,

And frequent sighs his wounded soul betray'd.

Oh! wretch ! he cry'd, that like some troubled ghost

Art doom'd to wander round this world of woe, While memory speaks of joy for ever lost,

Of peace! of comfort ! thou hast ceas’d to know!

These are the scenes, with fancy'd charms endow'd,

Where happier Britons, casting pearls away, The fools of sound, of empty trifles proud,

Far from the land of bliss and freedom stray.

Wou'd that, for yonder dome, these eyes could see

The wither'd oak that crowns my native hill ! These urns let ruin waste ; but give to me

The tuft that trembles o'er its lonely rill

O sacred haunts! and is the hillock green

That saw our infant-sports beguile the day?
Still are our seats of fairy fashion seen?
Or is

little throne of moss away


Had but Ambition, in this tortur'd breast,

Ne'er sought to rule beyond the humble plain, Where mild Dependence holds the vassal blest,

Where faith and friendship fix the chieftain's reign : Thns had I liv'd the life my fathers led;

Their name, their family had not ceas'd to be; And thou, Monimia ! on thy earthly bed !

My name, my family, what were these to thee!

Three little moons had seen our growing love,

Since first Monimia join'd her hand to mine; Three little moons had seen us blest above

All that enthusiast hope could e'er divine.

Urgʻd by the brave, by fancy'd glory warm’d,

In treason honest, if 'twas treason here; For rights suppos'd, my native band I armid,

And join'd the standard Charles had dar'd to rear.

Fated we fought, my gallant vassals fell,

But sav'd their master in the bloody strife ; Their coward master, who cou'd live to tell

He saw them fall, yet tamely suffer'd life.

Let me not think ;-but, ah ! the thought will rise,

Still in my whirling brain its horrors dwell, When pale and trembling, with uplifted eyes,

Monimia faintly breath’d—a last farewell !

• They come,' she said ; • Ay, Ay these ruthless foes,

· And save a life, in which Monimia lives; • Believe me, Henry, light are all her woes,

Except what Henry's dreaded purpose gives!

• And wouldst thou die, and leave me thus forlorn,

And blast a life the most inhuman spare ? • Oh! live in pity to the babe unborn

« That stirs within me to assist my prayer !!

What could I do! Contending passions strove,

And press'd my bosom with alternate weight, Unyielding honour, soft persuasive love

I fled and left her-left her to her fate!

Fast came the ruffian band; no melting charm,

That e'er to suffering beauty Nature gave,

The ruthless rage of party can disarm;

Thy tears, Monimia, wanted power to save!

She, and the remnant of her weeping train,

Whose faithful love still link'd them to her side, Torn from their dwelling, trode the desert plain,

No hut to shelter, and no hand to guide.

Thick drove its snow before the wintry wind,

And midnight darkness wrapp'd the heath they past, Save one sad gleam, that, blazing far behind,

The ancient mansion of my father's cast.

Calmly she saw the smouldering ruins glare;

• "Tis past, all-righteous God! 'tis past !' she cry'd; • But for my Henry hear my latest prayer!

Big was her bursting heart ;-she groan'd and died! Still, in my dreams, I see her form confess'd,

Sailing, in robes of light, the troubled sky ! And soon she whispers, shall my Henry rest

And, dimly smiling, points my place to die! I hear that voice, I see that pale hand wave;

I come once more to view my native shores Stretch'd on Monimia's long-neglected grave

To clasp the sod, and feel my woes no more!


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