THE PLAID, OR JUPITER'S REPLY TO SCOTIA'S REQUEST.
For the Bee.

THUS spake great Jove, when he survey'd our isle ;
"Let England's plains with gold in plenty smile;
Rich be her sons, her daughters kind, and fair,
Free as their thoughts, these unconfin'd as air!'
Here will I plant my ever sacred tree *,

Firm as the hearts of men, who know they're free ;
Sacred to mystic rites, its fhade shall spread
A leafy cov'ring o'er the druid's head;

Or scudding o'er the deep, fhall commerce guide;
Or by her Thunder, humble France's pride:
Her thunder, which the cruel foe fhall fear.-
Yet for a breastplate, the fhall mercy wear!
The naked Indian, while he homage pays,
Shall with his tribute, bring the song of praise;
Her kindness shall inflame his heart so rude;
They conquer twice, who conquer to do good."
A lovely female, clad in mean attire,
Low on the earth, bespake the mighty Sire;

Father of men! whose love enslaves the mind,
Thou know'st the weakness of all human kind;
A mother for her sons, that love would crave.-
Bleak are our hills, Oh! make my children brave!
Shield them, but, Ah! beneath my Maker's eye,
Poor Scotia feels that all who live must die.
A mother's heart lies open,-thou can't tell
What passes there, for thou dost know it well.'
His hand he wav'd; ten thousand colours shed
A radiant lustre round the Thund'rer's head.
Woman! thy pray'r is heard, thy thoughts are known,
And by that signal, I thy children own,

Afsu me this garb, with varied fhades adorn'd,

(For fancy play'd, when the the rainbow form'd ;)
My signal fhewn, the heav'ns dissolve in tears,
Thy signal given, fhall wake unheard-of fears;
And Scotia, midst the dying on the plain,
Shall weep the foreign herogs fhe has slain.
Thy virgins, lovely, too, fhall help mates prove,
And wake in good or ill, the soul to love.
As clings the ivy round the stately tree,
Thus constant fhall the Scottish females be;
A hufband must admire the gen'rous bride,
Who weds his virtues, and his faults would hide,
I give a boon, which neither place, nor time,
Nor Afric's heat nor Zembla's frozen clime,

• Oak,

Their hearts fhall feel,

Shall e'er wrest from your sons.
(True as their maidens, polifh'd as their steel,)
A gen'rous pafsion,-something more than name,
A Scotsman's friendship is a noble flame :

Tho' for each other's woe their hearts fhall melt,
Too proud to think that for themselves they felt.
Then far in Fate's dark womb to human ken,
Though as to-morrow, to the God of men,
He hail'd the day, when under legs sway,
These firm united, long fhould both one law obey."

Anna's

Q. D. C.

A SONG.

WHEN clouds that angel face deform,
Anxious view the growing storm;
When

hers angry lightnings arm thine eye, And tell the gath'ring tempest's nigh, I curse the sex, and bid adieu

To female friendship, love, and you.

But when soft pafsions rule your breast,
And each kind look some Love has drest ;
When cloudless smiles around you play,
And give the world a holiday,

I blest the hour when first I knew
Dear female friendship, love, and you.

GLEANINGS OF ANCIENT POETRY.

TO THE SPRING, BY DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORnden.

SWEET spring, thou turn'st with all thy goodlie traine,
Thy head with flames, thy mantle bright with flow'rs;
The zephyres curle the greene lockes of the plaine,
The cloudes for joy in pearles weepe down their fhow'rs.
Thou turn'st, (sweet youth!) but Ah my pleasant howres,
And happie days, with thee come not againe;

The sad memorialls only of my paine

Doe with thee turne, which turne my sweets in sow'rs.
Thou art the same, which still thou was before,
Delicious, wanton, amiable, faire,

But fhee, whose breath embaulmed thy wholesome aire,
Is gone: nor gold, nor gemmes her can restore.

Neglected vertue, seasons goe and come,

While thine forgot lie closed in a tombe.

NORTHERN FISHERMAN, A TALE.

For the Bee.

"Wouldst thou, my prince, inform thyself of the situation of thy people, that thou mayest redrefs their grievances, and promote their wella e, consult not the wealthy merchants of Damascus, nor the proud lords of landed inheritance; but turn thine eyes into the shop of the humble mechanic, the cottage of the industrious peasant, and the village of the laborious fisherman.

CONTES ARABES.

WILLIAM was a young fisherman, in a small sea port town on the frith of Forth in Scotland ;-he had been brought up from his infancy by his industrious parents, in the constant exercise of his laborious profefsion; and, while a boy, if any intermifsion took place in the fishing through the rigour of the season, the opportunity was embraced by the anxious old man, in sending William to school, that he might be instructed in the useful sciences of writing and arithmetic, and in the duties of Christianity. When William grew up, his personal accomplishments surpassed those of almost all the young men in the village. He was handsome and robust, and possessed a vigorous understanding; he was always foremost in every interprize wherein the exertions of strength and activity were called forth in the prosecution of the fishery. When a ship should happen to be in distress in the neighbourhood, on which occasions the honest fishers were always wont to risk their lives, and their little property, in the relief of the unfortunate crew, William was usually the first in launching out his little boat, and prompting his fellow watermen to venture upon the waves, and carry the necefsary afsistance to the worn, out sailors. Thus was he belqved by all the inhabitants of the village,

and by his well directed industry relieved his old parents from a great part of the toils by which they had gained their livelihood, and educated this promising youth.

Whilst William was living in this happy and contentful situation, he married, at the age of twenty-two, Betsy, a young villager, who had been his intimate friend from her infancy, and who fhone no less than him in her beauty of person, and excellence of character. They loved each other passionately, and knew each other so well before their union, that that circumstance made no change on their affections, but rendered their happiness still more complete than before.

The young couple had been blefsed in the possession of each other four months, when one day William was engaged to pilot a fhip down to the island of May. The day was kne, and the wind was fair. Betsy had, with her usual attention, a refreshing supper prepared for her husband, whom she expected to arrive in the evening, fatigued with the labours of the day; and to be as usual cheered with her kindness, and her simple song. She went at eight to the green on the shore of the sea; and whilst fhe sat knitting a stocking, fatigued her eyes with incefsant gazing towards the eastward. Every speck fhe saw on the distant waters, fhe fondly imagined to be the little sail of William's boat; fhe anxiously watched every fhip that cast anchor in the road, in expectation of seeing the slender bark launched from it, and row towards her. Thus did Betsy sit, musing, and watching till the sun had almost withdrawn his kindly rays.-Her uneasinefs began to be inexpressible. She arose, and went home, hoping that her wifhed-for mate might have come over-land, and be waiting for her in her little cabin; but in vain; there was no William there. In sad uneasiness the spent the few hours of a summer night, now this king of one thing

that might have retarded his return, now of another; hoping for the best, and fearing for the worst; when at the early dawn, fhe was terrified by the hoarse bawlings of sailors, the flashing of oars in the smooth harbour, and most terrible of all, the screamings of her female acquainShe started from her lonely chair, (for in bed fhe had not been,) ran to the street, and there the first object that met her anxious eyes, was Jack, her husband's most intimate friend, dragged along by two armed ruffians. "Almighty heaven! (exclaimed fhe,) what are you doing? What has Jack been guilty of? where do you drag him?"

tance.

To serve the king, and be damned to you!' was the

sullen answer; and the forlorn Betsy saw, while the unavailing tears burst heavily from her eyes, her husband's partner bound, beat, thrown into the boat, and borne away. Sadly then did Betsy sigh, sadly did the weep, and bitterly did fhe lament the cruel fate that tore her William from her, and threw him into bondage; but unavailing were her sighs, and unheard were her complaints, and those of many a widowed wife, helpless child, and comfortless parent in that thriving village. The prime of the place, the noble youths were all borne away,-perhaps

never to return.

A sad reverse of fortune, now rent the heart of poor Betsy. The little money fhe had, could but for a fhort time support her gray haired father-in-law, and herself; and the means of her former fruitful industry were now taken away, when the aid of her dear William was no more; but he and fhe were so much loved by many people in the neighbouring city, that she received afsistance from them; and her misery was not so great as that of many of the other village wives, who had no such resource. But nothing could console her for the lofs of William; and often, for some days, with forced