You shade the poor man's evening walk With wreaths of endless green, And, when the lamp of life declines, You tend the last dread scene. Oh! then from heaven, thy holy sphere, Where, thron'd in light you dwell, Come, Resignation, sainted maid, And gild my humble cell. TO THE EDITORS OF THE RURAL MAGAZINE. The following little poem was written by JOHN BYRON, a minor English poet, who died at Manchester, in the year 1763, aged 72. In his 23d year, he wrote the beautiful pastoral of Colin and Phebe, on which his poetick reputation is principally founded. It appeared in the eighth volume of the Spectator; and many of your readers will remember, what has been so generally known and admired. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, When Phebe went with me wherever I went; Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast: Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest! &c. The subjoined extract, it is believed, is not so familiar; and for that reason, as you must doubtless wish to exclude from your poetick corner whatever is trite and common-place, whether _professedly_ original, or selected from old or distant writers, it is hoped, though a small matter, it will not prove altogether unacceptable. I. THE BEAU AND THE BEDLAMITE. A patient in Bedlam, that did pretty well, Was permitted sometimes to go out of his cell; One day, when they gave him that freedom, he spy'd A beauish young spark with a sword by his side; With a huge silver hilt, and a scabbard of steel, That swung at due length from his hip to his heel. When he saw him advance on the gallery ground, The Bedlamite ran, and survey'd him all round; While a waiter supprest the young captain's alarm, With, "You need not to fear, sir, he'll do you no harm." At the last he broke out--"Aye, a very fine show! May I ask him one question?"--"What's that?" said the beau? "Pray what is that long, dangling, cumbersome thing, That you seem to be ty'd to with riband and string?" "Why, that is my sword."--"And what is it to do?" "Kill my enemies, master, by running them through." "Kill your enemies! Kill a fool's head of your own; They'll die of themselves, if you'll let them alone." (From the London Literary Gazette, April 22.) SILENT WORSHIP. Though glorious, O God! must thy temple have been, On the day of its first dedication, When the Cherubim's wings, widely waving, were seen On high, o'er the ark's holy station. When even the chosen of Levi, though skill'd To minister, standing before Thee, Retir'd from the cloud which the temple then fill'd, And thy glory made Israel adore Thee: Though awfully grand was thy Majesty then; Yet the worship thy gospel discloses, Less splendid in pomp to the vision of men, Far surpasses the ritual of Moses.