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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!"

Because immortal as their lord,

summer gay,

And

why?

sial flowers,

Droops into pallid autumn: winter

And

souls immortal must for ever heave

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something great; the glitter, or the gold;

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praise of mortals, or the praise of Heaven.

Nor absolutely vain is human praise,

When human is supported by divine.

As love of pleasure is ordained to guard

And feed our bodies, and extend our race; [tect, The love of praise is planted to proAnd propagate the glories of the mind.

[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT VIII.

WISDOM.

No man e'er found a happy life by chance;

Or yawned it into being with a wish; Or, with the snout of grovelling appetite,

E'er smelt it out, and grubbed it from the dirt.

An art it is, and must be learned; and learned

With unremitting effort, or be lost; And leave us perfect blockheads, in our bliss.

The clouds may drop down titles and estates;

Wealth may seek us; but wisdom must be sought;

Sought before all; but (how unlike all else

We seek on earth!) 'tis never sought

in vain.

[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT IX.

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And is the ceiling of her sleeping sons. O'er devastation we blind revels keep; While buried towns support the dancer's heel.

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 gave,

And

the freed spirit mounts on wings of fire;

Each element partakes our scattered spoils;

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SPORTIVE, SATIRICAL, HUMOROUS,

AND

DIALECT POEMS.

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

YAWCOB STRAUSS.

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Dot vas der roughest chouse: I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,

To make der schticks to beat it mit,-
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions such as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who was it cuts dot schmoodth blace
oudt

Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

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PAT'S CRITICISM.
THERE's a story that's old,
But good if twice told,
Of a doctor of limited skill,

Who cured beast and man

On the " cold-water plan," Without the small help of a pill.

On his portal of pine
Hung an elegant sign,
Depicting a beautiful rill,

And a lake where a sprite,
With apparent delight,
Was sporting a sweet dishabille.
Pat McCarty one day,

As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine;

NOTE.- Thackeray's Bouillabaisse and Trowbridge's Vagabonds, being really 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,
Und some dey kicks us oudt,

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, To make it look well, What bird do you think it may lack?" Says Pat, "Of the same, I've forgotten the name. But the song that he sings is 'Quack!' quack!'"

FRITZ AND I.

here

To sdroll der schtreets aboudt!"

Vot's dot you say?-you puy mine
tog

To gife me pread to eadt!
I vas so boor as nefer vas,

But I vas no "tead peat."

Vot, sell mine tog, mine leedle tog,
Dot vollows me aboudt,
Und vags his dail like anydings
Vene'er I dakes him oudt ?

Schust look at him, und see him
schump!

He likes me pooty vell;
Und dere vas somedings 'bout dot

tog,

Mynheer, I wouldn't sell.

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,
No blace to lay me down;

For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I,
Und sdrangers in der town.

ding else

Vrom vich I gould not bart;
Und, if dot ding was dook avay

I dink it prakes mine heart.

"Vot was it, den, aboudt dot tog,"
You ashk, "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!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest;

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

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,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine-
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

The dance o' last Whit Monday night exceeded all before-
No pretty girl for miles around was missing from the floor;
But Mary kept the belt of love, and O! but she was gay;
She danced a jig, she sung a song, and took my heart away!

When she stood up for dancing, her steps were so complete,
The music nearly killed itself, to listen to her feet;

The fiddler mourned his blindness, he heard her so much praised;
But blessed himself he wasn't deaf when once her voice she raised.

And evermore I'm whistling or lilting what you sung;
Your smile is always in my heart, your name beside my tongue.
But you've as many sweethearts as you'd count on both your hands,
And for myself there's not a thumb or little finger stands.

O, you're the flower of womankind, in country or in town;

The higher I exalt you the lower I'm cast down.

If some great lord should come this way and see your beauty bright,
And you to be his lady, I'd own it was but right.

O, might we live together in lofty palace hall

Where joyful music rises, and where scarlet curtains fall!
O, might we live together in a cottage mean and small,
With sods of grass the only roof, and mud the only wall!

O, lovely Mary Donnelly, your beauty's my distress
It's far too beauteous to be mine, but I'll never wish it less;
The proudest place would fit your face, and I am poor and low,
But blessings be about you, dear, wherever you may go!

FLETCHER BATES.

THE CLERGYMAN AND THE
PEDDLER.

A CLERGYMAN who longed to trace
Amid his flock a work of grace,
And mourned because he knew not
why,

Yon fleece kept wet and his kept
dry,

While thinking what he could do

more

Heard some one rapping at the door,
And opening it, there met his view
A dear old brother whom he knew,
Who had got down by worldly blows,
From wealth to peddling cast-off
clothes.

"Come in, my brother," said the
pastor,
"Perhaps my trouble you can mas-
ter,

For since the summer you withdrew,
My converts have been very few."
"I can," the peddler said, "unroll
Something, perchance, to ease your
soul,

And to cut short all fulsome speeches,
Bring me a pair of your old breeches."
The clothes were brought, the ped-
dler gazed,

And said, "No longer be amazed,
The gloss upon this cloth is such,
I think, perhaps, you sit too much
Building air castles, bright and gay,
Which Satan loves to blow away.
And here behold, as I am born,
The nap from neither knee is worn;
He who would great revivals see,
Must wear his pants out on the knee;
For such the lever prayer supplies,
When pastors kneel, their churches
rise."

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