shade of the wilderness. It exclaims, that while one hand is held up to reject this treaty, the other grasps a tomahawk. It summons our imagination to the scenes

that it will open. It is no great effort of the imagination to conceive that events so near are already begun. I can fancy that I listen to the yells of savage vengeance, and the shrieks of torture. Already they seem to sigh in the west wind; already they mingle with every echo from the mountain.

THE THREE WARNINGS.

MRS. THRALE.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobson's wedding-day,
Death call'd aside the jocund groom

With him into another room;

And looking grave-You must', says he,
Quit your sweet bride, and come with me.
With you? and quit my Susan's side?
With you? the hapless husband cried :
Young as I am 'tis monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared-
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding night you know.

What more he urg'd, I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;

So Death the poor delinquent spar'd,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,
His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
Neighbour, he said, farewell: no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour :
And farther, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have
Before you're summoned to the grave:
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But when I call again this way,

Well pleas'd the world will leave.
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befel,
How long he liv'd, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursu'd his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffer'd then, he bought, he sold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,

Nor thought of death as near.

His friends not false, his wife no shrew,

Many his gains, his children few,

He pass'd his hours in peace:
But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,

- Old time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,

And all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of fate
Once more before him stood.
Half kill'd with anger and surprise,

-

So soon returned? old Dobson cries.

So soon, d'ye call it? Death replies;
Surely, my friend, you're but in jest;
Since I was here before

'Tis six and thirty years at least,
And you are now four score.

So much the worse, the clown rejoin'd;
To spare the aged would be kind :
However, see your search be legal;
And your authority-is't regal;
Else you come on a fool's errand,
With but a secretary's warrant:

Besides, you promis'd me three warnings,
Which I have looked for nights and mornings;
But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages.

I know, cries Death, that at the best,
I seldom am a welcome guest;
But don't be captious, friend at least:
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable ;
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, tho' of your strength!
Hold, says the farmer, not so fast!
I have been lame these three years past.
And no great wonder, Death replies :
However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends.
Perhaps, says Dobson, so it might,
But latterly I've lost my sight.

This is a shocking story, faith;
Yet there's some comfort still, says Death;
Each strives your sadness to amuse;
I warrant you hear all the news.

There's none, cries he; and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.
Nay, then! the spectre stern rejoin'd,
These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are deaf, and lame, and blind,
You have had your three sufficient warnings,

So come along; no more we'll part,
He said, and touched him with his dart.

Z

And now old Dobson turning pale
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

ON THE AMERICAN WAR.

CHATHAM.

I cannot, my Lords, I will not join in congratulation on misfortune and disgrace. This, my Lords, is a perilous and tremendous moment: it is not a time for adulation: the smoothness of flattery cannot save us in this rugged and awful crisis. It is now time to instruct the throne in the language of Truth. We must, if possible, dispel the darkness and delusion which envelope it; and display in its full vigor and genuine colors the ruin that is brought to our doors. Can ministers still expect support in their infatuation? Can parliament be so dead to its dignity and its duty as to give their support to measures thus obtruded and forced upon them? Measures, my Lords, which have reduced this late flourishing empire to scorn and contempt. But yesterday, and England might have stood against the world-now none so poor as to do her reverence. The people we first despised as rebels, but whom we now acknowledge as enemies are abetted against us; their interests consulted and their ambassadors entertained by our most inveterate enemy;