With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems a dauncing as he walks,

His story soon took wind.;
And beautcous Edith sees the youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,

Without a bunch behind.

The story told, Sir Topaz mov’d,
The youth of EDITH erst approv'd,

To see the revel scene :

At close of eve he leaves his home,

And wends to find the ruin'd dome

All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befell,
The wind came rustling down a dell,

A shaking seiz'd the wall;
Up spring the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,

And music fills the hall.

But certes sorely sunk with woe
Sir TOPAZ sees the Elphin show,

His spirits in him dye: When OBERON cries, “ A man is near, “ A mortal passion, cleeped fear,

“ Hangs flagging in the sky.”

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth !
In accents faultering, ay for ruth,

Intreats them pity graunt;
For als he been a mister wight
Betray'd by wand'ring in the night

To tread the circled haunt;

“ Ah losell vile, at once they roar : “ And little skill'd of fairie lore,

“ Thy cause to come, we know : “ Now has thy kestrell courage felt ; “ And fairies, since a lye you tell,

“ Are free to work thee woe.”

Then WILL, who bears the wispy fire To trail the swains amongst the mire,

The caitiff upward flung; There, like a tortoise in a shop, lle dangled from the chamber-top,

Where whilome Edwin hung.

The revel now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o’er the place,

They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir TOPAZ hangs the while,

Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,

And down y-drops the knight:
For never spell by fairie laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade

Beyond the length of night.

G

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till
up

the welkin rose the day, Then deem'd the dole was o'er :

But wot ye well his harder lot ?
His seely back the bunch had got

Which EDWIN lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ;
She softly stroak'd my youngling head;

And when the tale was done, “ Thus some are born, my son,” she cries, “ With base impediments to rise,

“ And some are born with none.

" But Virtue can itself advance

By

“ To what the fay’rite fools of Chance

Fortune seem design’d; “ Virtue can gain the odds of Fate, “ And from itself shake off the weight

Upon th’unworthy mind.”

On THROWING BY an OLD BLACK COAT.

BY T. COOMBE, D. D.

OLD friend, farewell, with whom full many

a day,
In varied mirth and grief, hath roll'd away.
No more thy form retains its sable dye,
But, like grey beauty, palls upon the eye:
Yet shall the grateful Muse her off'ring pay,
Torn tho' thou art, and hast ning to decay.
'Tis her's the old coat's sneering foes to face,
Recall its worth, and dignify disgrace.

Health to the man, unmov'd by vulgar ends, Who, rais'd himself, forgets not ancient friends. Such, PAUL, wert thou, who, midst a venal age, Plac'd high thy cloke in truth's immortal page;