The New-York Weekly Magazine, or Miscellaneous Repository Part 142

A REBUS is received, and will appear in our next.

_METEOROLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS._ _From the 5th to the 11th inst._

_Thermometor observed at 6, A.M. 3, P.M._ _Prevailing winds._ _OBSERVATIONS on the WEATHER._

deg. deg. 6. 3. 6. 3.

100 100 March 5 50 50 54 w. do. cloudy, h. wd. clear, do.

6 22 25 nw. do. clear, h. wd. do do.

7 19 28 nw. sw. clear, h. wd. cloudy sm. sn.

8 37 60 sw. do. cloudy, sm. rn. clear h. wd.

9 25 30 nw. do. clear h. wd. do. do.

10 19 32 nw. do. clear lt wd. do. do.

11 28 33 s. s. sn. lt. wd. do. sn. 6 in. deep.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

ON A LADY WHO DIED AT BRISTOL WELLS:

By Her Husband.

Who e'er like me, with trembling anguish brings, His hearts whole treasure to fair Bristol's springs; Whoe'er like me, to soothe disease and pain, Shall prove those salutary springs in vain: Condemn'd like me, to hear the faint reply, To view the trembling look, the aching eye; From the faint brow to wipe the damps of death, And watch, in dumb despair, the parting breath.

If chance directs him to this artless line, Let the sad mourner know his pangs were mine: Ordain'd to lose the partner of my breast, Whose virtues charm'd me, and whose beauties blest; Form'd every tie, which binds the soul to prove Her only friendship, and her friendship love.

Yet still rememb'ring that the parting sigh, Appoints the just to slumber, not to die!

The starting tear I check'd, I kiss'd the rod, And not to earth consign'd her--but to G.o.d.

LIFE. A POEM.

While through life's th.o.r.n.y road I go, I will not want companions too: A dreary journey, and alone, Would be, alas! too troublesome.

But company that's choice and good, Makes trouble hardly understood: For toil, divided, seems to be No toil, but a felicity.

Therefore will I companions take, As well for ease as safety's sake.

Fair truth shall serve me for a guide, Justice shall never leave my side: Integrity, my trusty guard!

Nor shall I Caution quite discard: Experience shall my tutor be, Nor will I wiser seem than he: Discretion all my thoughts shall weigh, And Modesty my words convey: Soft Innocence protect my sleep, And Charity my purse shall keep.

Thus thro' this wilderness I'll stray, Nor ever fear to lose my way: The Sages I sometimes will see, Be sometimes with the Muses free.

With guiltless Mirth an hour beguile, Or with free-spoken Satire smile.

With Meditation often walk, Or with sweet Melancholy talk With these companion's dear I'll sport, Nor heed the journey, long or short.

So Health supply the Doctor's place, And, for a Chaplain, send me Grace.

_For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._

+SONG.--By Mrs. G------ C----.+

Fortune, all thy gifts are vain, All thy joys but transient shew; Can you free this heart from pain?

Can you ought of bliss bestow?

No, this wretched heart can tell, All your boasted joys are poor; Stings there are, you can't repel, Blessings lost, you cant restore.

Cease, Enchantress, to deceive, Cheat not thus, mankind to woo; Lure not votaries to believe, Happiness depends on you:

For this wretched heart can tell, All thy boasted joys are poor: Stings there are, you can't repel, Blessings lost, you can't restore!

THE FIRE SIDE.

Now around the blazing fire, Social seated, raptures steal; Dame and daughter, son and sire, Each relate by turns the tale.

Laugh, and sprightly song go round, Prattling children speak their fears; Now ghosts stalking forth profound, Wrought by fancy pale appears.

But from fictious stories free, Free from such opinions vain, No wan spectre sire can see, Thus he breaks their idle strain.

"No, my children, conscious guile, Only can make these arise; The abandon'd and the vile, Well may dread--but not the wise.

Tread my youthful children dear, In those paths mark'd by our Lord; So shall phantoms ne'er give fear-- G.o.d's your guardian, ye his ward."

+To Miss S---- T------.+

When morn returns with blushing pride, I long to range the mountains side, To hail with joy returning day, And catch the woodlark's melting lay.

When Eve descends with balmy breath, And whispering breezes fan the heath, I fly to hear, on yonder plain, The bird of Evening's dulcet strain: Thy notes, dear S------, to mine ear, Are sweeter, than the woodlark's air.

And the FIRST SONGSTRESS of the choir, Is discord to thy melting lyre.

NEW-YORK: _+Printed by THOMAS BURLING, Jun. & Co. No. 115, Cherry-street.+-- +Subscriptions+ for this +Magazine+ (at 6s. per quarter) are taken in at the Printing-Office, and at the Circulating Library of Mr. J. FELLOWS, No. 60, +Wall-Street+._