The two Orphans.

My chaise the village Inn did gain,
Just as the setting sun's last ray
Tipped,, with refulgent gold, the vane
Of the old Church, across the way.

Across the way I silent sped,
The time till Supper to beguile,
In moralising o'er the dead,

That mouldered round the ancient Pile.

There many an humble green-grave showed
Where Want, and Pain, and Toil, did rest;
And many a flattering stone I viewed

Oe'r those who, once, had wealth possessed.

A faded Beech its shadow, brown;}
Threw o'er a Grave, where sorrow slept;
On which, though scarce with grass oe'rgrown,
Two ragged Children sat and wept.

A piece of Bread between them lay,
Which neither seemed inclined to take;
And yet they looked so much a prey
To Want, it made my heart to ake.

"My little Children let me know

Why you in such distress appear;

And why you, wasteful, from you throw
The Bread, which many a heart would cheer?"

The little Boy, in accents sweet,

Replied, whilst tears each other chased,.

"Lady! we've not enough to eat;

"And if we had we would not waste:

"But sister Mary's naughty grown,
"And will not eat, whate'er I say;
“Though sure I am the Bread's her own
"And she has tasted none today!

• Indeed!'

the wan-starved Mary said,

Till Henry eats, I'll eat no more;
For yesterday I got some Bread,

But he's had none since the day before!?

My heart did swell, my bosom heave,
I felt as though deprived of speech;
1 straight sat down upon the grave,
And pressed a clay-cold-hand of each.

With looks that told a tale of wo,
With looks that spoke a grateful heart,
The shivering Boy did nearer draw,
And thus their Tale of wo impart

"Before my Father went away,
"Enticed by bad-men o'er the sea,
"Sister and I did naught but play;
"We lived beyond yon great ash-tree:

"And then poor Mother sore did cry,
"And looked so changed, I cannot tell;
"She told us, that she soon should Die,

"And bade us love each other well:

"She said, that when the War is oe'r,
"Perhaps we might our Father see;
"But if we never saw him more,
"That God our Father then would be:

"She kissed us both, and then she Died;
"And we no more á Mother have:
"How many a day we've sat and cried
"Together, on poor mother's Grave!

"But when our Father came not here,
"I thought, if we could find the Sea,
"We should be sure to meet him there;
"And once again might happy be:

"We, hand in hand, went many a mile,
"And asked our way of all we met;
"And some did sigh, and some did smile,
And we of some did victuals get:

"But when we reached the Sea, and found " "Twas one great Water round us spread, "We thought, that Father must be Drowned, "And cried, and wished we both were Dead!

"So we returned to Mother's grave,
"And only long with Her to be;
"For Goody, when this Bread she gave,
"Said, Father died beyond the sea:

"And since no Parents we have here,
"We'll go and seek for God around
"Pray, Lady! can you tell us, where
"That God, our Father, may be found?

"He lives in Heaven, Mother said,
"And Goody says that Mother's there;
"So, if she thinks we want his aid,
"I think, perhaps, she'll send Him here."

I clasped the Prattlers to my breast,
And cried, "Come both and live with me;
I'll feed you, clothe you, give you rest,
And will a Second-mother be:

And God will be your Father still;
'Twas he, in mercy, sent me here,
To teach you to obey His Will,

Your steps to guide, your hearts to cheer."

By a Lady.

The Whistle.

A Fact.

When I was a Child, at seven years old, my friends on a holiday, filled my pockets with Coppers. I went di rectly to a shop where they sold Toys for children; but, being charmed with the sound of a Whistle, that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for it. I then came home, and went Whistling all over the house, much pleased with my Whis tle, but disturbing all the family. My brothers, and sisters, and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind what good things I might

have bought with the rest of the money; and they laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the Whistle gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the im- pression continuing on my mind; so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself Don't give too much for the Whistle! and so I saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for their Wistles.

When I saw any one too ambitious of court favors, sacrificing his time in attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself This man gives too much for his

Whistle.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect - He pays, indeed, said I, too much for his Whistle.

If I knew a Miser, who gave up very kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth-Poor man! said I, you do indeed pay too much for your Whistle.

When I met a man of pleasure, sacrificing, every laudable improvement of the mind, or of his fortune, to mere corporal sensations - Mistaken, man! said I, you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure: you give too much for your Whistle.

If I saw one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipage, all above his fortune, for which he had contracted debts, and ended his career in prison — Alas! said I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his Whistle.

When I saw a beautiful, sweet-tempered Girl married to an ill-natured brute of a Husband What a pity it is, said I, that she has paid so much for a Whistle.

In short, I conceived that great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their having given too much for their Whistles.

Notwithstanding the following Soliloquy presents more passages requiring Interpretation than any Piece in the Collection, yet I shall waive all Remarks and Translations upon it, at present; as I never met with but One gentleman who had apprehended it, as it meets my mind; and as this is not the place to enter into a formal disquisition of what Commentators and Translators have made of it, I shall reserve my Interpretations and Animadversions for some fitter occasion.

HAMLET'S Soliloquy, on Life and Death.

To be, or not to be? that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the Mind, to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take arms against a siege of troubles,
And, by opposing, end them. To Die? to sleep;
No more: and, by a Sleep, to say, we end
The heartake, and the thousand natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to
'Tis a consummation
To Die? to sleep

Devoutly to be wished!

To Sleep! perchance, to Dream-ay,' there's the Rub! For, in that Sleep of Death, what Dreams may come; When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us Pause.

That makes Calamity of so long life

There's the respect

For Who would bear the whips and scorns o' the time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,s
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin!

Who would fardels bear,

To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of Something after death
That undiscovered country from whose bourne
No traveller returns puzzles the Will;
And makes us rather bear those Ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of!
Thus, Conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus, the native hue of Resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of Thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action.

SHAKESPEARE,