[From Night Thoughts.] NIGHT IV. FALSE TERRORS IN VIEW OF DEATH. WHY start at death! Where is he? Death arrived, Is past; not come, or gone, he's never here. Ere hope, sensation fails; blackboding man Receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow. The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave; The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; Leve, These are the bugbears of a winter's The terrors of the living, not the dead. Imagination's fool and error's wretch, Man makes a death, which nature never made: Then on the point of his own fancy falls; queen, And feels a thousand deaths, in fear-Carousing gems, ing one. love. herself dissolved in Some weep at death, abstracted from the dead, And celebrate, like Charles, their own decease. By kind construction deemed to weep some are Because a decent veil conceals their joy. Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain, As deep in indiscretion as in woe. Passion, blind passion! impotently Then melts into the spring: soft spring, with breath Favonian, from warm chambers of the south, [fades, Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend. Emblems of man, who passes, not expires. With this minute distinction, emblems just, Nature revolves, but man advances; both Eternal; that a circle, this a line. That gravitates, this soars. The aspiring soul, Ardent and tremulous, like flame, ascends; Zeal and humility, her wings to heaven. The world of matter, with its various forms, All dies into new life. Life born from death Rolls the vast mass, and shall for ever roll. No single atom, once in being, lost. [From Night Thoughts.] NIGHT VII. AMBITION. MAN must soar: An obstinate activity within, An insuppressive spring will toss him up In spite of fortune's load. Not kings alone, Each villager has his ambition too; No sultan prouder than his fettered slave: [straw, Slaves build their little Babylons of Echo the proud Assyrian, in their hearts, And cry-"Behold the wonders of my might!" their lord, summer gay, And why? Because immortal as sial flowers, CHEERFULNESS IN MISfortune. The moist of human frame the sun NONE are unhappy: all have cause to smile, But such as to themselves that cause deny. [pains; Our faults are at the bottom of our Error, in act, or judgment, is the source Of endless sighs. We sin, or we mistake; And nature tax, when false opinion stings. Let impious grief be banished, joy indulged; exhales; Winds scatter, through the mighty void, the dry; Earth repossesses part of what she SPORTIVE, SATIRICAL, HUMOROUS, AND DIALECT POEMS. CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. YAWCOB STRAUSS. I HAF Von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to mine knee; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue, As efer you dit see. He runs, und schumps,und schmashes dings In all barts off der house; He get der measles and der mumbs, Dot vas der roughest chouse: He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der Vene'er der glim I douse, I somedimes dink I schall go wild Und wish vonce more I gould haf Und beaceful dimes enshoy; So guiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, “Dake anyding, PAT'S CRITICISM. THERE'S a story that's old, On his portal of pine And a lake where a sprite, As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine; NOTE.-Thackeray's Bouillabaisse and Trowbridge's Vagabonds, being realig pathetic poems, are placed here for convenience rather than fitness, their colloquial style adapting them to this rather than the other department. When the doctor with pride Stepped up to his side, Some beoples gife us dings to eadt, Saying, Pat, how is that for a Und say, 'You don'd got peesnis sign ?" "There's wan thing," says Pat, "Y've lift out o' that, Which, be jabers! is quite a mistake: It's trim, and it's nate: But, to make it complate, Ye should have a foin burd on the lake." "Ah! indeed! pray, then tell, What bird do you think it may lack?" FRITZ AND I. here MYNHEER, blease helb a boor oldt "Der collar?" Nein: 'tvas some man Vot gomes vrom Sharmany, Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only freund, To geep me company. I haf no geld to puy mine pread, ding else I dink it prakes mine heart. "Vot was it, den, aboudt dot tog," You ashik, "dot's not vor sale ?" I dells you what it ish, mine freund: 'Tish der vag off dot tog's dail! WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. LOVELY MARY DONNELLY. O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best! Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will, Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock, How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower, Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power. Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up, |