"Ye black men, or white men, ye frozen, or friedYe mortals, whom I have created so small!"— With an air of paternity Jupiter cried ;
"They pretend that I govern your moveable ball: But please to remember, 'tis equally true
That, thanks to the Fates, ye have ministers too :
And of these if I do not dismiss two or three
From the gates of this place, the deuce take me," quoth he!
"Have I given you in vain, to adorn and to bless
Your moments in peace, lovely woman and wine?
What! pigmies, and under my beard, to address
As the god of your battles your maker divine!
And dare, in invoking my name, to send forth
The sword and the flambeau to ravage the earth!
If ever one cohort was marshall'd by me,
Or led to the charge, the deuce take me," quoth he!
"Say, what do these dwarfs, sitting gorgeously there,
On seats built so lofty with rivets of gold!
With foreheads anointed, and tyrannous air,
These heads of your ant-hill, the pismires, I'm told,
Declare that I bless both their rights and their race,
And that on your globe they are kings by my grace!
But, if they rule over the land and the sea
By a sanction of mine, the deuce take me," quoth he!
"I feed other dwarfs of a sable costume;
But the stink of their incense my nostrils disclaim: They make of existence a pain, and presume
To launch their anathemas forth in my name,
In sermons, consider'd and quoted as fine-
But Hebrew to poor comprehensions like mine.
If I know these fanatics' proceedings, or see
What they drive at at all, the deuce take me," quoth he!
My children, pray ask me for nought: be content, The hearts of the good evermore are my choice. Apprehend not again that a Deluge be sent
While ye love as ye live, and in loving rejoice.
Go, scorn your patricians, your pharisees scout ;-
But adieu; 'tis reported that spies are about:
If for wretches like these I turn ever a key
In the doors of the skies, the deuce take me," quoth he!
A pretty playful poem by Mr. T. WESTWOOD, one of our living poets of great promise.
THE queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known
Is a little lady of mine.
And oh! she flouts me, she flouts me,'
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me;
Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace,
And beg, and beseech, with the saddest face,
Still ever the same she doubts me.
She is seven by the kalendar
A lily's almost as tall,
But oh! this little lady's by far
The proudest lady of all.
It's her sport and pleasure to flout me,
To spurn, and scorn, and scout me;
But ah! I've a notion it 's nought but play,
And that say what she will and feign what she may,
She can't well do without me!
When she rides on her nag away,
By park, and road, and river,
In a little hat, so jaunty and gay,
Oh! then she's prouder than ever!
And oh what faces, what faces!
What petulant, pert grimaces!
Why the very pony prances and winks,
And tosses his head, and plainly thinks
He may ape her airs and graces.
But at times, like a pleasant tune,
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June,
And all her pride forsakes her.
Oh! she dances round me so fairly!
Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely!
Oh! she coaxes and nestles, and purrs and pries
In my puzzled face with her two great eyes,
And says, "I love you dearly!"
Oh! the queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known
Is this little lady of mine.
Good lack! she flouts me, she flouts me,
And spurns and scorns and scouts me;
But ah! I've a notion its nought but play,
And that say what she will, and feign what she may,
She can't well do without me!
By one of the most original poets America has produced-O. W. HOLMES.
MINE ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing arms
Have clasp'd around me even from a boy;
Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by,
Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy,
Of fever'd hopes and ill-foreboding fears,
And smiles unseen, and unrecorded tears.
And thou, my Table! though unwearied time
Hath set his signet on thine alter'd brow,
Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime,
And in my memory thou art living now;
Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things,
The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings.
Thou melancholy Mug! thy sober brown
Hath something pensive in its evening hue,
Not like the things that please the tasteless clown,
With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue;
And I must love thee, for thou art mine own,
Press'd by my lip, and press'd by mine alone.
My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved,
Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all,
Oft do I leave thee, oft again return,
I scorn the siren, but obey the call;
I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth,
But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth.
Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread
Has slowly parted with its virgin dye;
I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread,
Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye;
So flies the colour from the brightest flower,
And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour.
I love you all! there radiates from our own
A soul that lives in every shape we see ;
There is a voice, to other ears unknown,
Like echoed music answering to its key.
The dungeon'd captive hath a tale to tell
Of every insect in his lonely cell;
And these poor frailties have a simple tone
That breathes in accents sweet to me alone.
"TO STRUGGLE WHEN HOPE IS BANISHED."
From au old number of Fraser's Magazine.
To struggle, when hope is banish'd;
To live, when life's salt is gone;
To dwell in a dream that's vanished;
To endure and go calmly on;
To know and to doubt the knowledge ;
The past to undo in thought;
To study in Misery's college
The woes that can there be taught:
Oh! what but despair can finish
A task such as that for man?
His strength will each hour diminish
While press'd by so heavy a ban.
But, no! the heart steep'd in sorrow
Still points to a distant goal,
And whispers, "There comes a morrow,
With peace to the steadfast soul!"
At need, then, is help the nighest :
Where the storm is fiercest, there
The courage must still be highest,
To act-to resist to bear.
A pretty bit of sentiment is the following, which appeared anonymously in one of the newspapers:
WHAT to us were this world and its burden of woe,
But a fetter of clay, that in slavery bound us,
Were our troubles not soothed by the smiles of the fair,
And if poetry spread not its magic around us?
In the hour of our gladness, if Woman be near,
More smoothly the stream of enjoyment will flow;
And where can our grief find a balın like the tear
From the bright eyes of her who partakes of our woe?
To the Poet a power of enchantment is given
Which time cannot limit, space cannot define ;
Which can lift on its wings the rapt spirit to heaven,
And make dull mortality almost divine!
Oh! Woman and Poetry, each is a treasure,
A mine of delight that enriches life's span ;
The first is a minist'ring angel of pleasure,
While the gift of the next makes an angel of man!
MAY-DAY IN NEW ENGLAND.
Mrs. OSGOOD, an American lady, has lately published a volume of poems, some of which are exceedingly beautiful and distinguished for a striking originality in thought and treatment. One of these we select
as a very favourable specimen of her powers.
CAN this be May? Can this be May?
We have not found a flower to-day!
We roam'd the wood-we climb'd the hill-
We rested by the rushing rill--
And lest they had forgot the day,
We told them it was May, dear May!
We call'd thee sweet, wild blooms by name-
We shouted, and no answer came!
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