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 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 vance, Stifles her (like the Old Man of the Round Sinbad's neck), nor leaves a chance Of shaking him off-is't he? is't he?' Ghastly my grim tormentors smiled, And thrusting me back to my den of woe, 1 According to the common reading, Quodcunque infundis, acescit.' You fell,' said they, into the hands of the '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 rejoice! He had fanned afresh the burning brands Of a bigotry waxing cold and dim; He had armed anew my torturers' hands, And them did I curse-but sighed for him. Old Man of the Sea, and are the first who ever escaped strangling by his malicious tricks. Story of Sinbad. '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.' 6 Why so it is, father,-whose wife shall I take? ON LIKE a snuffers this loving old dame, Though so oft she has snapped at the flame, A SPECULATION. Of all speculations the market holds forth, Is to buy up, at the price he is worth, And then sell him at that which he sets on himself. BALLADS AND SONGS. me!' But the blue eye, half hid, 'I love, and I'm yours if you love me!' 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; The only blue pair That ever said 'No' to a lover? That ever said 'No' to a lover, dear CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT. CEASE, oh cease to tempt 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. Viver en Cadenas. FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. FROM life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark-hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave, The death-song of tyrants and dirge of the slave. Our country lies bleeding-oh! fly to her aid; One arm that defends is worth hosts that invade. From life without freedom, oh! who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains! On, on to the combat! the heroes that bleed For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. And oh! even if Freedom from this world be driven, Despair not at least we shall find her in heaven. In death's kindly bosom our last hope remains The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no chains. HERE'S THE BOWER. 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! Roses now unheeded sigh; Where's the hand to wreathe them? Songs around neglected lie, Where's the lip to breathe them! 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! 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, HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP. 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, 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, 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; |