THE NATURALIST'S SUMMER EVENING'S WALK. BY THE REV. MR. WHITE. WHEN day declining sheds a milder gleam, What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream; When the still owl skims round the glassy mead,' What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed: Then be the time to steal adown the vale, And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale: To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate, Or the soft quail his tender pain relate. To see the swallow sweep the dark'ning plain, Belated, to support her infant train: To mark the swift, in rapid giddy ring, Dash round the steeple, unsubdu'd of wing. Amusive birds!-Say, where your hid retreat, When the frost rages, and the tempests beat? Whence your return by such nice instinct led, When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head? Such baffled searches mocks man's prying pride, The God of Nature is your secret guide. While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day, To yonder bench, leaf-shelter'd, let us stray; Till blended objects fail the swimming sight, And all the fading landscape sinks in night; THE TEAR OF SYMPATHY. To Maria, on reading to her Sterne's beautiful Story of that Name. As Sterne's pathetic tale you hear, Tears which lament another's woe, Does not yon crimson-tinted rose, Whose op'ning blush delights the view, More splendid colouring disclose, When brightly gemm'd with morning dew? So shall Maria's beauteous face, Drest in more pleasing charms appear; When aided by the matchless grace THE NATURALIST'S SUMMER EVENING'S WALK. BY THE REV. MR. WHITE. WHEN day declining sheds a milder gleam, What time the may-fly haunts the pool or stream; When the still owl skims round the glassy mead, What time the timorous hare limps forth to feed: Then be the time to steal adown the vale, And listen to the vagrant cuckoo's tale: To hear the clamorous curlew call his mate, Or the soft quail his tender pain relate. To see the swallow sweep the dark'ning plain, Belated, to support her infant train: To mark the swift, in rapid giddy ring, Dash round the steeple, unsubdu'd of wing. Amusive birds!-Say, where your hid retreat, When the frost rages, and the tempests beat? Whence your return by such nice instinct led, When spring, soft season, lifts her bloomy head? Such baffled searches mocks man's prying pride, The God of Nature is your secret guide. While deep'ning shades obscure the face of day, To yonder bench, leaf-shelter'd, let us stray; Till blended objects fail the swimming sight, And all the fading landscape sinks in night; To hear the drowsy dor come rushing by As fancy warms, a pleasing kind of pain Steals o'er the cheek, and thrills the creeping vein í Leander hasten'd to his Hero's bed. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CHILD. BY THE REV. J. MOIR. AH! whither hast thou flown, delightful boy, |