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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 Fundholders, ages ago,

When he wrote thus- Quodcunque in Fund is, assess it."


I HEARD, as I lay, a wailing sound,
'He is dead--he is dead,' the rumour
flew ;

And I raised my chain, and turned me

And asked, through the dungeonwindow, 'Who?"

I saw my livid tormentors pass,

Their grief 'twas bliss to hear and see! For never came joy to them, alas,

That didn't bring deadly bane to me.

Eager I looked through the mist of night,

And asked, 'What foe of my race hath died?

Is it he that Doubter of law and right,' Whom nothing but wrong could e'er decide

'Who, long as he sees but wealth to win,

Hath never yet felt a qualm of doubt What suitors for justice he'd keep in,

Or what suitors for freedom he'd shut out

'Who, a clog for ever on Truth's ad

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With a laughter even more fierce and wild
Than their funeral howling, answered

But the cry
still pierced my prison gate,
And again I asked, 'What scourge is


it he-that Chief, so coldly great, Whom Fame unwillingly shines


'Whose name is one of the ill-omened words

They link with hate on his native plains ;

And why?-they lent him hearts and swords,

And he gave, in return, scoffs and chains!

Is it he? is it he?' I loud inquired, When, hark-there sounded a royal knell ;

And I knew what spirit had just expired,

And, slave as I was, my triumph fell.

He had pledged a hate unto me and mine,

He had left to the future nor hope nor choice,

But sealed that hate with a name divine,

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

He had fanned afresh the burning brands
Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim;
He had armed anew my torturers'

And them did I curse-but sighed for

Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. Story of Sinbad.

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

And-oh, how beyond the ambushed


Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,

And-carries a smile, with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends For the fatal fault of an erring head

Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,

In the orphan's tear be his glory read.


To the last unchanging, warm, sin

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'I NEVER give a kiss,' says Prue,

'To naughty man, for I abhor it.'

She will not give a kiss 'tis true,

She'll take one though, and thank you for it.


To no one Muse does she her glance incline,
But has an eye at once to all the nine.


'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.


Or 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.

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THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts, without caring who feels 'em;

But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals


Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!
The soft eye of blue,

Though it scatter wounds too,

Es much better pleased when it heals 'em, dear Fanny!

The black eye may say,
'Come and worship my ray,—

By adoring, perhaps you may move me!'

But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

"I love, and I'm yours if you love me!'
Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

I love, and am yours if you love me!' dear Fanny!

Then tell me, oh! why,

In that lovely eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover;

Or why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said 'No' to a lover?

Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!
Oh! why should you wear
The only blue pair

That ever said 'No' to a lover, dear
Fanny ?


CEASE, oh cease to tempt
My tender heart to love!

It never, never can
So wild a flame approve.
All its joys and pains
To others I resign;
But be the vacant heart,

The careless bosom mine.
Then cease, oh cease to tempt
My tender heart to love!
It never, never can

So wild a flame approve.

Say, oh say no more

That lovers' pains are sweet! I never, never can

Believe the fond deceit. Weeping day and night, Consuming life in sighs,This is the lover's lot,

And this I ne'er could prize. Then say, oh say no more

That lovers' pains are sweet! I never, never can

Believe the fond deceit.

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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, Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touchOh! how that touch enchanted!


HOLY be the Pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free; And may all, who wake to weep,

Rest to-night as sweet as he! Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell! No, no-it is my lovèd Pilgrim's prayer:

No, no-'twas but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again the voice I hear;
Some holy man is wandering near.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming?

Dark is the way, and midnight's coming. Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,

To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain, And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going? Dark is the way, the winds are blowing. Weary with wandering, weak, I falter, To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar. Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;

Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark! the burial-rite's begun—
'Tis time for our reposing.

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er! 'Tis my master! 'tis my master:

Welcome here once more;

Come to our shed-all toil is over;
Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

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