"Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gayly o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it

He clears it with a bound;

But dulness has stout legs, Tom,
And wind that's wondrous sound.

"O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet;
You heed not one nor t'other
But onwards go your beat,
While genius stops to loiter
With all that he may meet;

"And ever as he wanders,
Will have a pretext fine
For sleeping in the morning,
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.

“Your little steady eyes, Tom, Though not so bright as those That restless round about him

His flashing genius throws,

Are excellently suited

To look before your nose.

"Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers It placed before your eyes;

The stupidest are weakest,

The witty are not wise;
Oh, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!

"And though my lands are wide,
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from Nature,
My Thomas, do you hold—
A brain that's thick and heavy,
A heart that's dull and cold.

"Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress,
Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.

March on your road is open
To wealth, Tom, and success.

"Ned sinneth in extravagance,
And you in greedy lust."
("I' faith,” says Ned, "our father
Is less polite than just.")

"In you, son Tom, I've confidence,
But Ned I cannot trust.

"Wherefore my lease and copyholds,

My lands and tenements,

My parks, my farms, and orchards,
My houses and my rents,

My Dutch stock and my Spanish stock,
My five and three per cents,

"I leave to you, my Thomas "—

("What, all?" poor Edward said. "Well, well, I should have spent them, And Tom's a prudent head ")— "I leave to you, my Thomas,— To you IN TRUST for Ned."

The wrath and consternation
What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage

Come o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company,

And honest Ned's amaze!

"'Tis surely some mistake,”
Good-naturedly cries Ned;
The lawyer answered gravely,
"'Tis even as I said;
'Twas thus his glorious Majesty
Ordained on his death-bed.

"See, here the will is witness'd,
And here's his autograph."
"In truth, our father's writing,"

Says Edward, with a laugh;

"But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom,
We'll share it half and half."

"Alas! my kind young gentleman,
This sharing cannot be ;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
'I do forbid Prince Ned to give
Prince Tom a halfpenny.

"He hath a store of money,

But ne'er was known to lend it;

He never help'd his brother;
The poor he ne'er befriended;

He hath no need of property

Who knows not how to spend it.

"Poor Edward knows but how to spend,
And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then,

And Edward be the lord;

And as the honest laborer
Is worthy his reward,

"I pray Prince Ned, my second son,

And my successor dear,

To pay to his intendant

Five hundred pounds a year;

And to think of his old father,

And live and make good cheer.””

Such was old Brentford's honest treatment,
He did devise his moneys for the best,
And lies in Brentford church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made and spent;
But his good sire was wrong, it is confess'd,
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. Young Thomas lent at interest,
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.

Long time the famous reign of Ned endured
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew,
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.

And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward Was very much the richer of the two.

THE WHITE SQUALL

On deck, beneath the awning,
I dozing lay and yawning;
It was the gray of dawning,
Ere yet the sun arose;
And above the funnel's roaring,
And the fitful wind's deploring,
I heard the cabin snoring

With universal nose.

I could hear the passengers snorting--
I envied their disporting-

Vainly I was courting

The pleasure of a doze!

So I lay, and wondered why light
Came not, and watched the twilight,
And the glimmer of the skylight,
That shot across the deck;
And the binnacle pale and steady,
And the dull glimpse of the dead-eye,
And the sparks in fiery eddy

That whirled from the chimney neck.

In our jovial floating prison

There was sleep from fore to mizzen,

And never a star had risen

The hazy sky to speck.

Strange company we harbored;
We'd a hundred Jews to larboard,
Unwashed, uncombed, unbarbered-
Jews black, and brown, and gray;