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SIR,

HAVING accidentally met with the following lines, that I believe neyou, hoping you will find them not By inserting them soon, you will AN ADMIRER OF NATURE.

ver were published, I send them to unworthy of a place in your Bee. oblige

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SUCH are the thoughts that shoot athwart the minds.

Of guardian angels, as they hover o'er

Their infant charge, when in the peaceful robe
Of holy innocence they rest secure :

Altho', 'tis said, the sympathetic tear
Of melting pity, sometimes steals adown
Their heav'nly cheeks, when they.the many illa
That but too sure await man's riper years
Anticipate.-

Sleep on, sweet babe! they say,---and may the time
"When conscious guilt fhall banish rest, ne'er come:
"Nor when, bereft of those in whom thy soul
"Delighted, thou fhalt still, thro' troubled sleep,
"In vain pursue the object of thy love,
"Which now, alas! is gone,---to thee is gone,
"And never, never, never can return.'

TO THE SNOW DROP.

THOU! who to heav'n lifting thy golden brow,
Ey'st unabash'd the glorious orb of day,

I praise thee not;---I hate th' unblushing front.
But ever let me tell thy humbler worth,

*The Editor has seen these lines before. As the copy sent was im perfect, the errors have been corrected from an authenticated copy of the

poems.

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Ye simple snow drops! firstlings of the year!
Fairest of flow'rs! sweet harbinger of spring!
How meekly do ye hang your silv'ry heads!
Like maidens,---coyly stealing from the view.
Ev'n so, upon the ground, her modest eye
That fears to meet th' irrev'rent gaze
of man,
Beauty! unconscious bends; and so, more pure
Than are your snow-white forms, Sophia strives
To hide those charms, how matchlefs! from the world.

P. H.

AN IRREGULAR ODE, BY MATTHEW BRAMBLE.

To the Editor of the Bee.

QUEER PETER * since that thou art still
In this vile world, not gone to heaven,
Come brandish freely thy goose quill,
Since wit to thee in store has given
So many merry jests and harmless jokes.
Poor Matthew † now is laid
Within his little box,
Beneath the yew-tree's shade,
As dead as any fox

As e'er on G-------'s grounds
Was kill'd by F----'s hounds.

Long rest and peace unto his gentle fhade!

For he wrote many an entertaining ode;
And oft the matron grave, and coy maid,

Would read them o'er and call them strange and odd.
Ev'n bachelors, and the spruce Temple beau,
His odes to actors often did admire;

His wit and humour made each bosom glow,
So manfully he strung the comic lyre,
That surly critics gnaw'd their rotten grinders,
And swore they were as droll as queer queer Pindar's.

Dear Matthew I am bold to take thy name,

But if it's in my pow'r I will well use it,
Tho' here I must confefs, altho' with fhame,
I fear I really sometimes will abuse it;
But Mat, I trust thy friends will now excuse it

Queer Peter, Peter Pindar.

Poor Matthew, the late ingenious Mr Andrew M'Donald, author of Vimonda, the Independent, &c. who wrote many an entertaining ode under the signature of Matthew Bramble, in the London prints and Edinburgh Magazine,

To whom fhall I addrefs this?---my first scroll!
Why, says the muse, if you'll be rul'd by me,
Audier, it to that honest hum-drum soul,
The Editor of our new weekly BEE.

I will! I will!---do, pray, kind sir, accept it.
But should you throw it by, and then neglect it,
You'll put me in a mighty raging pafsion.

What then?---Why, sir, you know it is the fashion Still to this day, as 'twas in former times,

To d---mn the man who wont insert our rhymes. This, sir, is done by many a scribbling elf; You he cannot d--mn, but well may d--mn himself.

Kind Mr Editor 'tis my intention

To write some other things as well as odes,
In humble hopes that my poor, weak invention
Will be made strong by muses' aid, and g-ds;
I mean the gods, so do not call me bold,
That poets made their own in days of old.

Now, sir, with glee I'll say a few words more,
And tho' I am unfit thee to advise,

I'll tell you, sir, what you must know before,
One word is all-sufficient to the wise.
And what is this one word to be,

You certainly will afk the soaring poet;
Why then, sir, since you're curious for to know it,
It is to print this in your weekly BEE.

THE COMPLAINT, BY A LADY.
ALAS! how hard is woman's lot!

To prize, to love, yet be forgot!
Our hearts for one with fontais glow,
Whose charms we feel, whose worth we know;

Who fills alone by day, our breast,

And robs, by night, our eyes of rest:

While he, perhaps, whom thus we prize,
Seeks distant lands, and diff'rent fkies;
Around the world can lightly rove,
'Scape thought and all the cares of love;
Seek pleasure in her varied form,
And thus difsolve the tyrant's charm.
But we, by iron cusion's doom,
Must live, and think, and sigh at home;
Forbid to wander as we please,
Mix with the gay, consult our ease;
Deny'd th' amusements of the day,
To chace our irksome thoughts away,
We o'er our cares are left to brood,
In silence and in solitude.

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PETER, A GERMAN TALE.

"My dearest children, be always good, and you'll be always happy. Sixty long years have your mother and I enjoyed a happy tranquillity. God grant that none of you may ever purchase it so dearly!" Such were the words of Peter, a husbandman in a village of Bareith in Franconia, addressing himself to his grand-children one clear evening of autumn.

With these words a tear stood in the old man's eye. Louisa, one of his grand-daughters, about ten years old, ran and threw herself in his arms. "My dear grand-papa!" said fhe," you know how well pleased we all are, when of an evening you tell us some pretty story; how much more delighted should we all be if you would tell us your own! It is not late-the evening is mild-and none of us are much inclined to sleep." The whole family of Peter seconded the request, and formed themselves in a semicircle before him. Louisa sat at his feet, and recommended silence. Every mother took on her knee the child whose cries might distract attention: Every one was already listening; and the good old man, stroaking Louisa's head with one hand, and the other locked in the hands of Theresa, thus began his history:

"It is a long time ago, my children, since I was eighteen years of age, and Theresa sixteen. She was the only daughter of Aimar, the richest farmer in the country, I was the poorest cottager in the village; but never attended to my wants, until I fell in love with Theresa. I did all I could to smother a pafsion which I knew must one day or other have made a wretch of me. I was very certain that the little pittance fortune had given me, would VOL. vii.

PP

be an eternal bar in the way to my love; and that I must either renounce her for ever, or think of some means of becoming richer. But, to grow richer, I must have left the village where my Theresa lived; that effort was above me; and I offered myself as a servant to Theresa's father.

66 I was received. You may guefs with what courage I worked. I soon acquired Aimar's friendship and Theresa's love. All of you, my children, who know what it is to marry from love, know too the heart-felt pleasure of reciprocity in every interview, every look, every action. Theresa loved me as much as the herself was loved. I thought of nothing but Theresa; I worked for her; I lived for her; and I fondly imagined that happiness was then eternally mine.

"I was soon undeceived. A neighbouring cottager afked Theresa in marriage from her father. Aimar went and examined how many acres of ground his intended sonin-law could bring his daughter, and found that he was the very husband that suited her. The day was fixed for the fatal union.

"In vain we wept; our tears were of no service to us. The inflexible Aimar gave Theresa to understand that her grief was highly displeasing to him; so that restraint added to our mutual wretchedness.

"The terrible day was near. We were without one glimmering of hope. Theresa was about to become the wife of a man fhe detested. She was certain that death

must be the inevitable consequence. I was sure I could not survive her; we made up our minds to the only way that was left, we both ran off, and-heaven punished us.

"In the middle of the night we left the village. I placed Theresa on a little horse that one of her uncles had made her a present of: It was my decision that there was no harm in taking it away, since it did not belong to

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