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the last year.

for the last two years, is in the number reason to believe that no one has been admitof meteors (some of them of a large its social and political machinery, as Lady

ted so uoreservedly to inspect the interior of size): of 121, no less than 95 appear- Morgan; her amusing deliveations of France ed in the evenings of July, August, and having procured for her a inore complete in

timacy and confidence abroad, than have September, the three bottest months in been enjoyed by other Travellers. It is

It may, therefore, be therefore'with much satisfaction that we noinferred, that they are generated by will contain the observations collected by

tice the announcement of a work, which heat in an atmosphere highly charged this distinguished Lady during her two years with electric matter.

absence from England. NAUTICAL IMPROVEMENT.

TO DESTROY CATERPILLARS. We congratulate the public on the A gardener at Glasgow practise a application of a simple mecbanical ap- mode of destroying caterpillars, which paratus to impel boats, instead of oars. he discovered by accident. A piece of It consists of the machinery of steam- woollen rag had been blown by the vessels, but the moving power is the wind into a current bush, and when tahand applied to a windlass. Boats ken out was found covered by these were first used on this principle with leaf-devouring insects. He immediate

Whit. Monday, between ly placed peices of woollen cloth in erLondoo and Greenwich. The labour ery bush in his garden, and found next is much less than that of oars, and the day that the caterpillars had universalimpulse of the boat through the water ly taken to them for shelter. In this much increased in swiftness.

way he destroys many thousands every LADY MORGAN.

morning. Among the numerous Travellers who have visited Italy since the restoratiou, we have

Success

on

POETRY

A SONNET,
From the Third Chapter of Habakkuk.
FROM Teman's height the Lord the right'ous came:
From Param's mount appear'd the vision dread:
His beaming glories o'er the Heav'n were spread,
And Earth was fill'd with high Jehovah's fame.
His brightness dazzled as the lightning-fiame,
While burning coals beneath his feet were shed ;
He gaz’d, and lo! the parting nations fled :
He stood, and measurd Earth's affrighted frame.
The mountains saw, and trembled at thy pod ;
The deep receded from th' appalling siglat:
At thy superior blaze, thy fearful God;
The sun, the moon, withdrew their faint ing light :
O’er paths of fire thy flaming arrows trod,
And, as the morning, beam'd thy falchion bright !

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may

find
Thee sittiog careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers ;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

Thou watı hest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosey bue;
Then in a wai!ful choir the small goats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies :
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ;

Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft;

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies

TO ÁUTUMN.

By John Keats. SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;

To swell the goord, and plump the hazel shelis
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bers,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clarins

cells.

THE KITTEN.

By Joanna Baillie,
WANTON drole, whose harmless play
Beguiles the rustie's elosing day,
When drawn the evening fire about,
Sit aged Crone and thoughtless Lout,
And child upon his three-foot stool,
Waiting till bis supper cool;
And Maid whose check outblooms the rose
As bright the blazing faggot glows,

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Who, bending to the friendly light,
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive graces,
Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd and crouching low,
With glaring eye-balls watch thy foe,
The housewife's spindle whirling round,
Or thread, or straw, that on the ground
Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye ;
Then, onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faith less thing,
Now, wheeling round with bootless skill,
Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide ;
Till from thy centre starting far,
Thou sidelong rear'st with rump in air,
Erected stiff, and gait awry,
Like Madam in her tantrums high :
Though ne'er a Madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle gweeps the hall,
More varied trick and whimn displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's gaze.

Doth power in measured verses dwell, All thy vagaries wild to tell? Ah no! the start, the jet, the bound, The giddy scamper round and round, With leap, and jerk, and high curvel, And many a whirling somerset, (Permitted by the modern Muse Expression technical to use,) These mock the deftest rhymester's skill, But poor in art, though rich in will.

The featest tumbler, stage-bedight, To thee is but a clumsy wight, Who every limband sinew strains To do what costs thee little pains, For which, I trow, the gaping crowd Requites him oft with plaudits loud; But, stopped the while thy wanton play, Applauses, too, thy feats repay ; For then beneath some urchin's hand, With modest pride thou tak'st thy stand, While many a stroke of fundness glides Along thy back and tabby sides. Dilated swells thy glossy fur, And loudly sings thy busy pur; As timing well the equal sound, 'Thy clutching feet bepat the ground, And all their harmless claws disclose, Like prickles of an early rose : While softly from thy whiskered cheek Thy half-closed eyes peer mild and meek.

But, not alone by cottage fire Do rustics rude thy feats admire ; The learned sage, whose thoughts explore The widest range of human lore, Or, with unfettered fancy, Ay Through airy heights of poesy, Pausing, smiles with altered air To see thee clinb his elbow chair, Or, strugling on the mat below, Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe. The widow'd dame, or lonely maid, Who in the still but cheerless shade of home unsocial, spends her age, And rarely turns a lettered page; son bare hearth for thee lets fall

inded cork or paper ball,

Nor ehides thee on thy wieked watch
The ends of ravelled skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.
Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent,
In lonely tower or prison pent,
Reviews the wit of former days,
And loaths the world and all its ways ;
What time the lamp's unsteady gleam
Doth rouse him froin his moody dream,
Feels as thou gambol'st round his seat,
His heart with pride less fiercely beat,
And smiles, a link in thee to find
That joins him still to living kind.

Whence hast thou then, thou witless puss,
The magic power to charm us thus ?
Is it, that in thy glaring eye,
And rapid movements, we descry,
While we at ease secure from ill,
The chimney corner snugly fill,
A lion, darting on the prey,
A siger, at his ruthless play?
Or, is it that in thee we trace,
With all thy varied wanton grace,
An emblem vjewid with kindred eye,
of tricksy, restless infancy?
Ah! many a lighuiyesportive child,
Who hath, like tht , our wits beguild,
To dull and sober manhood grown).
With strange recoil our hearts disown.
Even so, poor Kit! must thou endure,
When thou becom'st a eat demure,
Fall many a cuffandangry word,
Chid roughly from the tempting board.
And yet, for that thou hast, I ween,
So oft our favoured playmate been,
Soft be the change which thou shalt prores
When time hath spoild thee of our lore;
Still be thou deemn d by housewife fat,
A comely, careful, mousing cat;
Whose dish is for the public good,
Replenish'd oft with sav'ry food.

Nor when thy span of life is past,
Be thou to pond or dunghill cast,
But gently borne on good man's spade,
Beneath the decent sod be laid,
And children show, with glist'ning eyes,
The place where poor old Pussy lics.

SPANISH AIR.

By Thomas Meere, Esq. • A temple to Friendship,' said Laura, enchanted,

• I'll build in this garden, the thought is divine !" Her temple was built, and she only now wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor who set down before her,

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull that the youthful adorer

Saw plainly this was not the Friendship she meant O never!' she cried, 'could I think of enshrining

An image whose looks are so joyless and dim; But yon little god upon roses reclining,

We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.' So the bargain was struck, with the little God laden

She joyfully flew to ber shrine in the grove. *Farewel, said the sculptor, you're pot the first inaiden

Why came but for Friendship and took away Lore!' * From Popular National Airs, just published.

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