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Nine times out of ten, if his title be good,
His matter within of small consequence is ;-
Why,—that's the concern of the reader, not his
That Horace (as clearly as words could express it)
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
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, window, Who?
Whom 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 When, hark-there sounded a royal decide
And I knew what spirit had just expired, "Who, 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 necko), nor leaves a chance
He had 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.' 1 '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, sinfoe,
cere, 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!
tear. 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.
'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.
ON A SQUINTING POETESS.
A JOKE VERSIFIED.
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-
• Why so it is, father,—whose wife shall I take ?'
By a destiny grievous enough,
Hath never caught more than the snuff.
The best that I know, for a lover of pelf,
up, at the price he is worth,
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 Ned How 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 me
BALLADS AND SONGS.
BLACK AND BLUE EYES.
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 'em.
So wild a flame approve.
Say, oh say no more
I never, never can [8 much better pleased when it heals
Believe the fond deceit. 'em, dear Fanny !
Weeping day and night,
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
That lovers' pains are sweet !
I never, never can
Dear Fanny ! dear Fanny !
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 ?
the bliss fly; That ever said 'No' to a lover, dear 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing Fanny ?
Thus love has advised me, and who
will deny CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT.
That Love reasons much better than
Dear Fanny ?
Viver en Cadenas.
Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Neer 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 would not fly?
Days were moments near her ;
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,
And the tree she planted ;
Here's the harp she used to touch
Ob ! how that touch enchanted ! the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to
her aid ;
From the dreams of terror free; For one day of freedom, oh! who would Aud may all, who wake to weep, nut 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 lovèd 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.
To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar.
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.
Where's the lip to breathe them! Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er !
Welcome here once more;
Oh ! how that touch enchanted ! Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.