Here, Judith, haste and run up stairs, my dear,
'Tis in the drawer, be quick and bring it here,
The girl return'd with Bible in a minute,
Not dreaming for a moment what was in it:
When, lo! on opening it at parlour door,
Down fell her spectacles upon the floor.
Amaz'd she star'd, was for a moment dumb,
But quick exclaim'd, "Oh! sir, I'm glad you're
'Tis six years since these glasses first were lost,
And I have miss'd 'em to my poor eyes cost."
Then as the glasses to her nose she rais'd,
She clos'd the Bible, saying—“ God be prais'd.”
Not to be captious, nor unjustly fight;
'Tis to confess what's wrong, and do what's right.
On reading the description of the Tomb erected to the memory of the Marquis of Anglesey's Leg, at Waterloo.
He now in England, just as gay,
As in the battle brave,
Goes to the rout, review, or play,
With one foot in the grave.
Fortune indulg'd a harmless whim;
Since he could walk with one,
She saw two legs were lost on him,
Who never deigns to run.
From Lord Byron's Poem, entitled “The Age of Bronze.”
But where is he, the modern, mightier far,
Who, born no king, made monarchs draw his car;
The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings,
Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings,
And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late,
Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state?
Yes! where is he, the Champion and the Child
Of all that's great or little, wise or wild?
Whose game was empires and whose stakes were
Whose table, earth-whose dice were human bones?
Behold the grand result in yon lone isle,
And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile.
Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage
Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage;
Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations
Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ;
Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines,
O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines ;
O'er petty quarrels upon petty things-
Is this the man who scourg'd or feasted kings?
Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs,
A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues!
A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake
The sleep of him who kept the world awake."
"The half barbaric Moscow's minarets Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets!
Moscow thou limit of his long career,
For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear
To see in vain-he saw thee-how with spire
And palace fuel to one common fire.
To this the soldier lent his kindling match,
To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch,
To this the merchant flung his hoarded store,
The prince his hall-and Moscow was no more!
Sublimest of volcanos! Etna's flame
Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame;
Vesuvius shews his blaze, an usual sight
For gaping tourists, from his hacknied height:
Thou stand'st alone unrivalled, till the fire
To come, in which all empires shall expire."
"But where's the Monarch? hath he dined? or yet Groans beneath indigestions heavy debt?
Have revolutionary patès risen,
And turned the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirred the troops?
Or have no movements followed traitrous soups?
Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonado'd
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks
I read all France's treason in her cooks!
Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the Desiré ?'
"Enough of this—a sight more mournful woos The averted eye of the reluctant Muse,
The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;
The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;
The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen
That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave."
A Pat, an odd joker and Yankee more sly,
Once riding together, a gallows passed by.
Said the Yankee to Pat, "If I don't make too free,
Give the gallows its due, and pray where would
you be?"
Why, honey," says Pat, "faith that's easily known,
I'd be riding to town by myself all alone."
The sun-beams greet the op'ning day,
And streak with light the murky sky:
The sky-lark cheers dull night away,
On dauntless pinions soaring high.
No more 'midst tangled woods and lawns
Night-soothing Philomela strays;
With artless notes some grove adorns,
Or plaintive chaunts her love-fraught lays.
Dark Night no more o'er Earth presides;
With ebon vest o'erveils the land;
And 'mid the encircling shadows hides
The savage murd'rer's blood-stain'd hand.
Thus low'ring storms and Fortune's frown
Oppress us with a night of sorrow;
But in life's torrent swift flow down,
And Phoebus brings a happier morrow.
Tom cries (enchanted with her face), "Dear creature, what a bird of grace!" "True, Tom," says Charles, " and I can say, Dear creature, she's a bird of prey !"
The gay and gallant Colonel G.
Sat toasting, yes, his bread for tea;
The place a tent, his fork a sword;
The best such places oft afford;
When who like Hebe should walk in
(With beauty that might stoics win)!
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