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Nor to business a drudge, nor to faction a slave, He strove to make int'rest and freedom agree; In public employments industrious and grave, And alone with his friends, Lord! how merry was he.

Now in equipage stately, now humbly on foot,

Both fortunes he tried, but to

neither would trust; And whirled in the round as the

wheel turned about, He found riches had wings, and

knew man was but dust.

This verse, little polished, though mighty sincere, Sets neither his titles nor merits to view;

It says that his relics collected lie here,

And no mortal yet knows if this may be true.

Fierce robbers there are that infest the highway, So Matt may be killed, and his bones never found; False witness at court, and fierce tempests at sea. So Matt may yet chance to be hanged or be drowned.

If his bones lie in earth, roll in sea, fly in air, To Fate we must yield, and the thing is the same; And if passing thou giv'st him a smile or a tear, He cares not—yet, prithee, be kind to his fame.

AN EPITAPH.

Interred beneath this marble stone
Lie sauntering Jack and idle Joan.
While rolling threescore years and one
Did round this globe their courses run;
If human things went ill or well,
If changing empires rose or fell,

The morning past, the evening came, And found this couple just the same. They walked and ate, good folks:

What then? Why,then they walked and ate again; They soundly slept the night away; They did just nothing all the day. Nor sister either had nor brother; They seemed just tallied for each

other.

Their moral and economy
Most perfectly they made agree;
Each virtue kept its proper bounds,
Nor trespassed on the other's ground.
Nor fame nor censure they regarded;
They neither punished nor rewarded.
He cared not what the footman did;
Her maids she neither praised nor
chid:

So every servant took his course,
And, bad at first, they all grew worse,
Slothful disorder filled his stable,
And sluttish plenty decked her table.
Their beer was strong, their wine was
port;

Their meal was large, their grace was short.

They gave the poor the remnant meat,

Just when it grew not fit to eat.

They paid the church and parish rate,

And took, but read not, the receipt;

For which they claimed their Sunday's due,

Of slumbering in an upper pew.

No man's defects sought they to know.

So never made themselves a foe. No man's good deeds did they commend,

So never raised themselves a friend.
Nor cherished they relations poor.
That might decrease their present
store;

Nor barn nor house did they repair,
That might oblige their future heir.
They neither added nor confounded;
They neither wanted nor abounded.
Nor tear nor smile did they employ
At news of grief or public joy.
When bells were rung and bonfires
made

If asked, they ne'er denied their aid;
Their jug was to the ringers carried,
Whoever either died or married.

Their billet at the fire was found. Whoever was deposed or crowned. Nor good, nor bad, nor fools, nor wise,

They would not learn, nor could

advise;

Without love, hatred, joy, or fear, they led — a kind of — as it were; Nor wished, nor cared, nor laughed,

nor cried, And so they lived, and so they died.

FROM " THE THIEF A.VD THE
CORl>ELIER."

"What frightens you thus, my good

son? says the priest; "You murdered, are sorry, and have

been confessed." "O father! my sorrow will scarce

save my bacon; For 'twas not that I murdered, but

that I was taken."

"Pooh, prithee ne'er trouble thy head

with such fancies; Rely on the aid you shall have from

St. Francis; If the money you promised be brought

to the chest, You have only to die; let the church

do the rest."

"And what will folks say, if they see

you afraid? It reflects upon me, as I knew not my

trade.

Courage, friend, for to-day is your

period of sorrow; And things will go better, believe me,

to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" our hero replied in a fright;

"He that's hanged before noon, ought to think of to-night."

"Tell your beads." quoth the priest, "and be fairly trussed up.

For you surely to-night shall in Para- dise sup."

"Alas! " quoth the 'squire, " howe'er

sumptuous the treat, Parbleu! I shall have little stomach

to eat;

I should therefore esteem it great

favor and grace, Would you be so kind as to go in my

place."

"That I would," quoth the father, "and l ink you to boot;

But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit;

The feast I proposed to you, I cannot taste,

For this night, by our order, is marked for a fast."

[from Alma.]

RICHARD'S THEORY OF THE MIND.

I Say, whatever you maintain
Of Alma in the heart or brain.
The plainest man alive may tell ye
Her seat of empire is the belly.
From hence she sends out those sup-
plies,

Which make us either stout or wise:

Your stomach makes the fabric roll
Just as the bias rules the bowl.
The great Achilles might employ
The strength designed to ruin Troy;
He dined on lion's marrow, spread
On toasts of ammunition bread;
But, by his mother sent away
Amongst the Thracian girls to play,
effeminate he sat and quiet—
Strange product of a cheese-cake
diet!

Observe the various operations
Of food and drink in several nations.
Was ever Tartar fierce or cruel
Upon the strength of water gruel?
But who shall stand his rage or force
If first he rides, then eats his horse?
Salads, and eggs, and lighter fare
Tune the Italian spark's guitar:
And, if I take Dan Congreve right,
pudding and beef make Britons
fight.

John Godfrey Saxe.

How crrus Laid The Carle.

Come, listen all unto my song

It is no silly fable;
'Tis all about the mighty cord

They call the Atlantic Cable.

Bold Cyrus Field, he said, says he,

I have it pretty notion That I can run a telegraph

Across the Atlantic Ocean.

Then all the people laughed, and said,
They'd like to see him do it;

He might get half-seas over, but
He never could get through it:

To carry out his foolish plan

He never would be able;
He might as well go hang himself

With his Atlantic Cable.

But Cyrus was a valiant man,

A fellow of decision: And heeded not their mocking words,

Their laughter and derision.

Twice did his bravest efforts fail,
And yet his mind was stable;

He wa'n't the man to break his heart
Because he broke his cable.

"Once more, my gallant boys!" he cried;

"Three times!—you know the fable, —

(I'll make it thirty," muttered he, "But I will lay'the cable!")

Once more they tried, — hurrah! hurrah!

What means this great commotion? The Lord be praised ! the cable's laid across the Atlantic Ocean!

Loud rang the bells, — for flashing through

Six hundred leagues of water, Old Mother England's benison

Salutes her eldest daughter]

O'er all the land the tidings speed,
And soon, in every nation,

They'll hear about the cable with
Profoundest admiration!

Now long live President and Queen;

And long live gallant Cyrus; And may his courage, faith, and zeal

With emulation fire us;

And may we honor evermore

The manly, bold, and stable; And tell our sons, to make them brave,

How Cyrus laid the cable!

THE SUPERFLUOUS .MAN.

I Long have been puzzled to guess, And so I have frequently said,

What the reason could really be
That I never have happened to
wed;

But now it is perfectly clear,
I am under a natural ban;

The girls are already assigned, —
And I'm a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chaps

Declare the numerical run
Of women and men in the world,

Is twenty to twenty-and-one;
And hence in the pairing, you see,

Since wooing and wedding began, For every connubial score,

They've got a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go,

And giddily rush to their fate, For none of the number, of course,

Can fail of it conjugal mate; But while they are yielding in scores

To Nature's inflexible plan, There's never a woman for me, —

For I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am a churl,
To solitude over-inclined;

It isn't that I am at fault

In morals or manners or mind;

Then what is the reason, you ask,
I'm still w ith the bachelor-clan?

I merely was numbered amiss,—
And I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am in want

Of personal beauty or grace, For many a man w ith a wife

1s uglier far in the face; Indeed, among elegant men

I fancy myself in the van; But w hat is the value of that.

When I'm a superfluous man?

Although I am fond of the girls.

For aught I could ever discern The tender emotion I feel

Is one that they never return; 'Tis idle to quarrel w ith fate!

For, struggle as hard as I can, They're mated already, you know,—

And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,

With women so pretty and plenty, To know that I never was born

To figure as one of the twenty; But yet, when the average lot

With critical vision I scan, I think it may be for the best

That I'm a superfluous man!

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"Husband, of course 1" the Marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine; And again she shook her flaxen head. And civilly answered, "Nein!"

"The devil you have!" the Marshal said

To the lady from over the Rhine: And again she shook her flaxen head. And civilly answered, "JVefn .'"

"Now what do you mean by shaking your head, And always answering, ' Nine' t" "Ich fconn nicht Englbtch!" civilly said

The lady from over the Rhine.

SONG OF SARATOGA.

"Pray, what do they do at the
Springs?"
The question is easy to ask;
But to answer it fully, my dear,

Were rather a serious task.
And yet, in a bantering way.
As the magpie or mocking-bird
sings,

I'll venture a bit of a song
To tell what they do at the Springs!

Imririmtit, my darling, they drink

The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavor is none of the best,

And the odor exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know.

With w holesome medicinal things. So they drink, and they drink, and they drink, —

And that's what they do at the
Springs!

Then w ith apl>etites keen as a knife,
They hasten to breakfast or dine

(The latter precisely at three,
The former from seven till nine.)

Ye gods! what a rustle and rush When the eloquent dinner.bell rings!

Then they eat, and they eat, and theyeat, —

And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,

Or loll in the shade of the trees: Where many a whisper is heard

That never is told by the breeze; And hands are commingled with hands,

Regardless of conjugal rings; And they flirt, and they Uirt, and they flirt,—

And that's what they do at the

Springs!

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze,

And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour.

And Fashion was never so gay! An arm round a t wist.

How closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz, —

And that's what they do at the
Springs!

In short — as it goes in the world — they eat, and they drink, and they sleep;

They talk, and they walk, and they woo;

They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep; They read, and they ride, and they dance;

(With other unspeakable things;) They pray, and they play, and they pay,

And that's what they do at the Springs!

EARLY rising.

"God bless the man who first invented sleep!' So Sancho Panza said, and so say I:

And bless him, also, that he didn't keep

His great discovery to himself; nor try

To make it — as the lucky fellow might —

A close monopoly by patent-right!

Yes; bless the man who first invented sleep

(I really can't avoid the iteration); But blast the man with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising.

That artificial cut-off,—Early Rising.

"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl;

Maxims like these are very cheaply said;

But, ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,

Pray just inquire about his rise and fall.

And whether larks have any beds at all!

The time for honest folks to be abed Is in the morning, if I reason right: And he who cannot keep his precious head

Upon the pillow till it's fairly light, And so enjoy his forty morning winks,

Is up to knavery; or else —he drinks.

Thomson, who sang about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to rise in season;

But then he said it—lying — in his

bed,

At ten o'clock, A. Jr., — the very reason

He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,

His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.

'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake, — Awake to duty, and awake to truth,—

But when, alas! a nice review we take

Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,

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