ON A DELIGHTFUL DRAWING IN MY ALBUM,

By my friend, T. WOODWARD, ESQ., of a Group, consisting of a
Donkey, a Boy, and a Dog.

Welcome, my pretty Neddy—­welcome too
Thy merry Rider with his apron blue;
And thou, poor Dog, most patient thing of all,
Begging for morsels that may never fall! 
Oh! ’tis a faithful group—­and it might shame
Painters of bold pretence, and greater name—­
To see how nature triumphs, and how rare
Such matchless proofs of Nature’s triumphs are—­
The smallest particle of sand may tell
With what rich ore Pactolus’ tide may swell: 
And Woodward! this ingenious, chaste design,
Proclaims what treasures lie within the mine—­
Pupil of Cooper—­Nature’s favorite son—­
Whom, but to name, and to admire, is one!

STANZAS.

Say, why is the stern eye averted with scorn
  Of the stoic who passes along? 
And why frowns the maid, else as mild as the morn. 
  On the victim of falsehood and wrong?

For the wretch sunk in sorrow, repentance, and shame,
  The tear of compassion is won: 
And alone must she forfeit the wretch’s sad claim,
  Because she’s deceived and undone?

Oh! recal the stern look, ere it reaches her heart,
  To bid its wounds rankle anew;
Oh! smile, or embalm with a tear the sad smart,
  And angels will smile upon you.

Time was, when she knew nor opprobrium nor pain,
  And youth could its pleasures impart,
Till some serpent distill’d through her bosom the stain,
  As he wound round the strings of her heart.

Poor girl! let thy tears through thy blandishments break,
  Nor strive to retrace them within;
For mine would I mingle with those on thy cheek,
  Nor think that such sorrow were sin.

When the low-trampled reed, and the pine in its pride,
  Shall alike feel the hand of decay,
May thy God grant that mercy the world has denied,
  And wipe all your sorrows away!

SHAKSPEARE.

Respectfully inscribed, with permission, to the Committee (of which His Majesty is the Patron) for the proposed Monuments to SHAKSPEARE at Stratford and in London.  Intended to be spoken at one of the Theatres.

While o’er this pageant of sublunar things
Oblivion spreads her unrelenting wings,
And sweeps adown her dark unebbing tide
Man, and his mightiest monuments of pride—­
Alone, aloft, immutable, sublime,
Star-like, ensphered above the track of time,
Great SHAKSPEARE beams with undiminish’d ray. 
His bright creations sacred from decay,
Like Nature’s self, whose living form he drew,
Though still the same, still beautiful and new.