Obrazy na stronie

Nine times out of ten, if his title be good,

His matter within of small consequence is ;-
Let him only write fine, and, if not understood,

Why,—that's the concern of the reader, not his
N.B.-A learned Essay, now printing, to show

That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
Was for taxing the Fundbolders, ages ago,

When he wrote thus—Quodcunque in Pund is, assess it."?


With a laughtereven more fierce and wild

Than their funeral howling, answered I HEARD, as I lay, a wailing sound,

• No.' He is dead - he is dead, the rumour flew;

But the cry still pierced my prison gate, And I raised my chain, and turned me

And again I asked, “What scourge is round,

gone? And asked, through the dungeon. Is it he-that Chief, so coldly great,

Whom window, Who?

Fame unwillingly shines

uponI saw my livid tormentors pass, • Whose name is one of the ill-omened Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see !

words For never came joy to them, alas,

They link with hate on his native That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

plains ; Eager I looked through the mist of And why?—they lent him hearts and night,

swords, And asked, “What foe of my race

And he gave, in return, scoffs and hath died ?

chains Is it he—that Doubter of law and right, Is he? is it he?' I loud inquired, Whom nothing but wrong could e'er

Wheu, hark--there sounded a royal decide

knell ;

And I knew what spirit had just expired, “W210, long as he sees but wealth to win,

And, slave as I was, my triumph fell. Hath never yet felt a qualm of doubt What suitors for justice he'd keep in, He had pledged a hate unto me and Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut mine, out

He had left to the future nor hope

nor choice, •Who, a clog for ever on Truth's ad. But sealed that hate with a name di. vance,

vine, Stitles her (like the Old Man of the

And he now was dead, and I couldn't Sea

rejoice! Round Sinbad's neck“), nor leaves a chance

Hehad fanned afresh the burning brands Of shaking him off-is't he? is't he?' Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;

He had armed anew my torturers' Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, hands, And thrusting me back to my den of And them did I curse—but sighed for woe,

him. 1 According to the common reading, 'Quod Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever cunque infundis, acercit,'

escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. ; ''You fell,' said they,' into the hands of the Story of Sinbad.


For his was the error of head, not | A prince without pride, a man without heart,

guile, And-oh, how beyond the ambushed To the last unchanging, warm, sin

foe, Who to enmity adds the traitor's For worth he had ever a hand and part,

smile, And-carries a smile, with a curse be- And for misery ever his purse and

low! If ever a heart made bright amends Touched to the heart by that solemn For the fatal fault of an erring toll, head

I calmly sunk in my chains again ; Go, learn his fame from the lips of While, still as I said," Heaven rest his friends,

soul !' In the orphan's tear be his glory My mates of the dungeon sighed, read.

Amen !'


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*COME, come,' said Tom's father, 'at your time of life,

There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake
It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.'

• Why so it is, father,—whose wife shall I take ?!


LIKE a snuffers this loving old dame,

By a destiny grievous enough,
Though so oft she has snapped at the flame,

Hath never caught more than the snuff.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,

The best that I know, for a lover of pelf,
Is to buy

up, at the price he is worth,
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself,

FROM THE FRENCH. Of all the men one meets about

There's none like Jack, he's everywhere, At church-park-auction-dinner-rout,

Go where and when you will he's there. Try the world's end; he's at your back,

Meets you, like Eurus, in the east: You're called upon for—'How do, Jack?'

One hundred times a day at least. A friend of his, one evening, said,

As home he took his pensive way• Upon my soul, I fear Jack’s dead,

I've seen him but three times to-day!'

ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE. If ever you've seen a gay party

Relieved from the presence of NedHow instantly joyous and hearty

They've grown when the damper was fledYou may guess what a gay piece of work,

What delight to champagne it must be To get rid of its bore of a cork,

And come sparkling to you, love, and we



It never, never can

So wild a flame approva
The brilliant black eye

All its joys and pains
May in triumph let fly

To others I resign;
All its darts, without caring who feels But be the vacant heart,

The careless bosom mine.
But the soft eye of blue,

Then cease, oh cease to tempt
Though it scatter wounds too,

My tender heart to love !
Is much better pleased when it heals

It never, never can 'em.

So wild a flame approve.
Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny !
The soft eye of blue,

Say, oh say no more Though it scatter wounds too, That lovers' pains are sweet ! (8 much better pleased when it heals

I never, never can 'em, dear Fanny !

Believe the fond deceit.

Weeping day and night,
The black eye may say,

Consuming life in sighs, – • Come and worship my ray,– This is the lover's lot, By adoring, perhaps you may move And this I ne'er could prize. me!'

Then say, oh say no more
But the blue eye, half hid,

That lovers' pains are sweet!
Says, from under its lid,

I never, never can
*I love, and I'm yours if you love me!' Believe the fond deceit.

Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny !
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

DEAR FANNY. • I love, and am yours if you love me! She has beauty, but still you must keep dear Fanny !

your heart cool; Then tell me, oh! why,

She has wit, but you must not be In that lovely eye,

caught so; Not a charm of its tint I discover ;

Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a Or why should you wear

fool, The only blue pair

And 'tis not the first time I have That ever said 'No' to a lover?

thought so,
Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny !

Dear Fanny.
Oh! why should you wear ‘She is lovely! Then love her, nor let
The only blue pair

the bliss fly; That ever said 'No' to a lover, dear 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing Fanny !

season : Thus love has advised me, and who


That Love reasons much better than
CEASE, oh cease to tempt

My tender heart to love !

Dear Fanny ?

Viver en Cadenas.

Spring may bloom, but she we loved

Ne'er shall feel its sweetness !

Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.

Years were days, when here she strayed, FROM life without freedom, oh! who

Days were moments near her; would not fly?

Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, For one day of freedom, oh! who would

Nor Pity wept a dearer! not die ?

Here's the bower she loved so much, Hark !-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the

And the tree she planted ; call of the brave,

Here's the harp she used to touchThe death-song of tyrants and dirge of

Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to

her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP.

that invade. From life without freedom, oh! who Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep, would not fly ?

From the dreams of terror free; For one day of freedom, oh! who would And may all, who wake to weep, not die ?

Rest to-night as sweet as he !

Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell! In death's kindly bosom our last hope No, no-it is my loved Pilgrim's remains

prayer: The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has No, no-'twas but the convent bell, no chains !

That tolls upon the midnight air. On, on to the combat ! the heroes that

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep ! bleed

Now, now again the voice I hear ; For virtue and mankind are heroes in

Some holy man is wandering near. deed. And oh! even if Freedom from this O Pilgrim! where bast thou been roamworld be driven,

ing? Despair not-at least we shall find ber Dark is the way, and midnight's coming. in heaven.

Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mounIn death's kindly bosom our last hope tain, remains

To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain, The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going? no chains.

Dark is the way, the winds are blowing.
Weary with wandering, weak, I falter,

To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
HERE'S THE BOWER. Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of

rushes ; HERE's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted;

Here he shall rest till morning blushes. Here's the harp she used to touch- Peace to them whose days are done, Oh! how that touch enchanted !

Death their eyelids closing ; Roses now unheeded sigh ;

Hark! the burial-rite's begunWhere's the hand to wreathe them?

'Tis time for our reposing. Songs around neglected lie,

Where's the lip to breathe them! Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er ! Here's the bower she loved so much, 'Tis my master! 'tis my master: And the tree she planted ;

Welcome bere once more; Here's the harp sbe used to touch- Come to our shed-all toil is over;

Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.


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