The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1835-03-17 00:00:00

ODE TO THE'SKY-LARK.

The author of the following stanzas is Thomas Miller, a
young man who follows the humble occupation of a journey-
man basket-maker, at Nottingham, of which place he is a na-
tive. He hitely made an attempt to turn his talents, as an au-
thor, to some account in London, but, finding that although
flattered by many, he was assisted only by the few : he has re-
turned tia the country to resume his old employment.
Whither away! Companion of the Sun,
So high-this laughing. morn ? are those soft clouds
Of floating silver, that appear to shun
Day's gotdep•eye thy home ? or why mid' shrouds
Of loosened light dost thou pour forth thy song?
Descend, sun-living bird, nor try thy strength so long.
Etherial songster ! soaring merrily,
Thy wings keep time to thy rich music's flow,
Rolling alyng the sky celestially,
And echoing o'er the hills oak waving brow,
Along the flood that back reflects the sky
And thee—Thou warbling speck, deep mirror'd from on high.
Now thou hast vanished, singing, from my sight,
So must this earth be lost to eyes of thine,
Around thee is illimitable ligh4
Thou lookest down and all appears to shine
Bright as above—thine is a glorious way,
Pavilioned high and low in orient:spreading day.
The broad unbounded sky is all thine own,
The silvery sheeted heaven is thY:tfornaini
No landmark there—no hand to bring thee down,

. Sole songster of the blue eternal plain, -
To thee is airy space far-stretching given,
The vast unmeasured floor of cherubim-trod heaven.
And thou bast gone Perchance to catch the sound
Of inget voices heard far up the sky;
And wilt return harmonious to the ground,
Then with new music taught by-those on high
Ascend af.rain, and carol o'er the bowers
Of woodbines waving sweet and wild-bee-bended flowers.
Poet of Heaven ! the happiest lot is thine,
The-bards on earth are doomed to sing in pain,
I would not joyous bird thy fate were mine;
The vulture pang, the tire that burns the brain,
The sleepless night, the morning's heated beam,
,The sickly Tay of hope, the shot delusive dream !

I hear thrvoice! now thou art nearing earth,
Like quivering aspen, moves each fluttering wing.
Rising in glee, thou comest down iii mirth,
Hast heard the seraphs to their maker sing
Their morning hymn, contest to teach thy mate
The anthem thou hast brought from Heaven's gold lighted gate.
Lute of the sky farewell, 'till fagain
Climb these cloud gazing hills, thou must not come
To 'where I dwell, nor pour thy thrilling stain
Above the drifting of my smoky 'home ;
Others may see thee, hear thee, vet not steal
.That joy from thy rich song which it is mine to feeL

•
DINNER HUNTING.--It if in contemplation we are told to give
Lord John Russell a public dinner.— Ghibe. When ? Where !
How ? A paragraph similar to the above has been going the
round of the whig journals for some days, but without any suc-
cess for the object. The radicals and Whigs have no stomachs at
present for the feed.
Lord Howiat, when under secretary of state, intimated in the
last parlirment his intention of bringing in a bill to enlarge the
powers of the magistrates of police to suppress common gam-
bling houses, as their powers under the existing law are not
clearly nor satisfactorily defined; but nothing furiber has been
done iu the business by his lordship.