PUNNING SERMON.

During Cromwell's government, one Slater, a broken apothecary of Birmingham, got possession of the rectory of St. Martin's, in opposition to one Jennings, owner of Aston furnace; one Smallbroke, a wealthy inhabitant;' and Sir Thomas Holt, who wished for it.

In his first sermon he told his people, the Lord had carried him through many troubles, for he had passed, like Shadrach, Mesach, and Abednego, through the fiery furnace; and as the Lord had enabled the children of Israel to pass over the Red Sea, so he had assisted him in passing over the Small brooks, and to overcome the strong Holts of sin and Satan. J. E. H.

SELECTED POETRY.

PORTUGUESE HYMN TO THE VIRGIN MARY.

"The Star of the Sea."-By John Leyden.

Star of the wide and pathless sea,
Who lovest on mariners to shine,
Those votive garments, wet to thee
We hang, within thy holy shrine;
When o'er us flashed the surging brine,

Amid the warring waters tost,

We called no other name but thine,
And hoped when other hope was lost.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the vast and howling main,
When dark and lone is all the sky,
And mountain-waves o'er Ocean's plain,
Erect their stormy heads on high:
When virgins for their true loves sigh,
They raise their weeping eyes to thee;
The Star of Ocean heeds their cry,
And saves the foundering bark at sea.
Ave Maris Stellat

Star of the dark and stormy sea,

When wrecking tempests round us rave, Thy gentle virgin form we see

Bright rising o'er the hoary wave.

The howling storm that seems to crave Their victims, sink in music sweet;

The surging seas recede to pave

The path beneath thy glistening feet.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the desart waters wild,

Who pitying hears the seaman's cry,

The God of mercy, as a child,

On that chaste bosom loves to lie; While soft the chorus of the sky Their hymns of tender mercy sing, And angel voices name on high, The mother of the heavenly King.

Ave Maris Stella.

Star of the deep! at that blest name
The waves sleep silent round the keel,

The tempest wild their fury tame

That made the deep's foundations reel:
The soft celestial accents steal
So soothing through the realms of wo,
The newly damned a respite feel
From torture, in the depths below.

Ave Maris Stella!

Star of the mild and placid seas,
Whom rainbow rays of mercy crown,
Whose name thy faithful Portuguese,
O'er all that to the depths go down,
With hymns of grateful transport own:
When gathering clouds obscure their light,
And heaven assumes an awful frown,
The Star of Ocean glitters bright.

Ave Maria Stella!

Star of the deep! when angel lyres
To hymn thy holy name essay,
In vain a mortal harp aspires

To mingle in the mighty lay!
Mother of God! one living ray
Of hope our grateful bosoms fires,
When storms and tempests pass away,
To join the bright immortal choirs.

Ave Maris Stella!

MR OLDSCHOOL,

I send you, for publication in the Port Folio, a Persian Ode of Hafiz, translated by the late Sir WILLIAM JONES. The translator, who was as much distinguished for good taste, as he was for great learning and extensive research, observes" The wildness and simplicity of this Persian song pleased me so much, that I have attempted to translate it in verse: the reader will excuse the singularity of the measure which I have used, if he considers the difficulty of bringing so many eastern proper names into our stanzas.

I have endeavoured, as far as I was able, to give my translation the easy turn of the original; and I have, as nearly as possible, imitated the cadence and accent of the Persian measure; from which every reader, who understands music, will perceive that the Asiatic numbers are capable of as regular a melody as any are in Metastasio."

As many of your readers are not versed in Persian literature, nor familiar with all the works of our learned translator, I presume this elegant little piece will not be an unacceptable pre

sent.

A PERSIAN SONG,

Yours, &c.

J. C.

Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck infold;

That rosy check, that lily hand
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bakhára's vaunted gold,

Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon* liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
What'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Roenabad,
A bower so sweet as Mossellay.
Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.
In vain with love our bosoms glow;
Can all our tears, can all our sighs
New lustre to those charms impart?
Can cheeks where living roses blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dies,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?
Speak not of fate-ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream:
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom:
Beauty has such resistless power,
That e'en the chaste Egyptian damet
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear;
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage)
While music charms the ravished ear,
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
.Be gay; and scorn the frowns of age.

A melted ruby is a common periphrasis for wine in the Persian poetry. See Hafiz, ode 22, † Zoleikha, Potiphar's wife.

+ Joseph.

What cruel answer have I heard!
And yet, by heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?

. Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip!
Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient peals at random strung;
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say,
But, oh, far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom those notes are sung!

It is known to most of our readers that when the prize for an address on the opening of Drury-lane theatre, was awarded to lord Byron, the town was for a long time amused by the complaints of disappointed candidates, and the raillery of all the wits of London. Among the latter were two young lawyers by the name of Smith, who imagined the plan of parodying the manner of all the distinguished poets of England, in a collection of addresses supposed to have been rejected. From this merry volume, we select the following parody of Walter Scott, which is much superior to Colman's, and indeed bears more the character of Scott's style than any of the burlesque imitations of him. After an introduction in the ancient manner, and a description of the night, for which we have not room, the poet proceeds to the burning of the theatre.

THE BURNING.

As chaos which, by heavenly doom,
Had slept in everlasting gloom,
Started with terror and surprise,
When light first flash'd upon her eyes:
So London's sons in nightcap woke,

In bedgown woke her dames,

For shouts were heard mid fire and smoke,
And twice ten hundred voices spoke,

"The Playhouse is in flames."

And lo! where Catherine Street extends,
A fiery tale its lustre lends

To every window pane