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In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
A jolly tradesman named Tom More;
Generous and open as the day,
But passionately fond of play ;
No sounds to him such sweets afford
As dice-box rattling o'er the board;
Bewitching hazard is the game
For which he forfeits health and fame.

In basket-prison hung on high, With dappled coat and watchful eye, A favorite magpie sees the play, And mimics every word they say; “Oh, how he nicks us !” Tom More cries; “Oh, how he nicks us !" Mag replies. Tom throws, and eyes the glittering store, And as he throws, exclaims “ Tom More !" “ Tom More !" the mimic bird replies ; The astonished gamesters lift their eyes, And wondering stare, and look around, As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.

This dissipated life, of course, Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse ; Nor prayers nor promises prevail, To keep him from a dreary jail.

And now, between each heartfelt sigh, Tom oft exclaims “ Bad company ! " Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate, Exclaims from out his wicker grate, “ Bad conipany! Bad company Then views poor Tom with curious eye,And cheers his master's wretched hours By this display of mimic powers ; The imprisoned bird, though much care

ressed, Is still by anxious cares oppressed; In silence mourns its cruel fate, And oft explores his prison gate.

Observe through life you'll always find
A fellow-feeling makes us kind;
So Tom resolves immediately
To give poor Mag his liberty;


opes his cage, and, with a sigh Takes one fond look, and lots him fly.

Now Mag, once more with freedom blest,
Looks round to find a place of rest;
To Temple Gardens wings his way,
There perches on a neighboring spray.

The gardener now, with busy cares,
A curious seed for grass prepares :
Yet spite of all his toil and pain,
The hungry birds devour the grain.

A curious net he does prepare,
And lightly spreads the wily snare;
The feathered plunderers come in view,
And Mag soon joins the thievish crew.

The watchful gardener now stands by,
With nimble hand and wary eye;
The birds begin their stolen repast,
The flying net secures them fast.

The vengeful clown, now filled with ire,
Does to a neighboring shed retire,
And, having fast secured the doors
And windows, next the net explores.

Now, in revenge for plundered seed,
Each felon he resolves shall bleed;
Then twists their little necks around,
And casts them breathless on the ground.

Mag, who with man was used to herd, Knew something more than common bird; He therefore watched with anxious care, And slipped himself from out the snare, Then, perched on nail remote from ground, Observes how deaths are dealt around. “Oh, how he nicks us !" Maggy cries; The astonished gardener lifts his eyes; With faltering voice and panting breath, Exclaims, “ Who's there?”—Ass still as death. His murderous work he does resume, And casts his eye around the room

With caution, and, at length does spy
The Magpie, perched on nail so high!
The wondering clown, from what he heard,
Believes dim something more than bird ;
With fear impressed, does now retreat
Towards the door with trembling feet;
Then says~" 'Thy name I do implore ?"
The ready bird replies" Tom More.”
“Oh dear!" the frighted clown replies,
With hair erect and staring eyes !
Half opening then the hovel door,
He asks the bird one question more:
“What brought you here ?”—with quick reply,
Sly Mag rejoins--"Bad company."

Out jumps the gardener in a fright, And runs away with all his might; And, as he runs, inpressed with dread Exclaims, “ Sure Satan's in the shed !"

The wondrous tale a bencher hears,
And soothes the man, and quells his fears,
Gets Mag secured in wicker cage,
Once more to spend his little rage :
In Temple Hall, now hung on high,
Mag oft exclaims—“ Bad company!"






First Voice.
How awful the place how gloomy-how chill!
Where the pangs of disease are lingering still,

And the life-pulse is fluttering in death.

Second Voice.
How delightful the place-how peaceful—how bright!
There, calmly, and sweetly, the taper's soft light,

Shines—an image of man's fleeting breath.

First Voice,
There the angel of death on the vitals is preying,
While beauty and loveliness fast are decaying,

And life's joys are all fading away.

Second Voice.
There the spirits of mercy round the pillow are flying,
As the angel-smile plays on the lips of the dying,

And hope—cheers the soul with her ray.

First Voice.
How the spirit is pained, e’en when loved ones are near,
Or sympathy bathes its lone couch with a tear;

Its hopes are all dead—its joy is despair.

Second Voice.
How the holiest endearments that kindred souls cherish,
Though the mortal decay and its graces all perish,

Are perfected and purified there.

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First Voice. How ghastly the visage of death doth appear, How frightsul the thought of the shroud and the bier, And the blood-crested worm how vile!

Second Voice. How friendly the hand that faith is now lending, How benignant her look o'er the pillow while bending, How sweet, how assuring her smile !

First Voice. There, in triumph, the death-knell is fitfully pealing, While the shivering chill to the cold heart is stealing, And the life-current warms-no-never

Second Voice. Hear the joy-speaking voice of some angel callingAs the visions of heaven, on the rapt soul are falling, And hope--is fruition for ever.




Child of the brave! hear the echo of glory,

That breaks from the hills of our country now free;
And the voice of our fathers—immortal in story,
Which speaks in the lessons of heroes to thee.

The sound of the battle I heard on the mountain ;

The foemen I saw,-Oh, my father was there!
I saw his red blood as it gushed like a fountain :
But what is the echo of glory!-and where ?

Paspati. 'Tis the sound of the war-song we learned from cur mother;

The war-song of heroes who bled to be free:'Tis the echo we heard on the hills, with our brothers, That speaks as the voice of the thunder to thee.

Epaminondas. 'Tis the great and good God who talks in the thunder,

Who breathes in the sweet and soft voices of spring; He hath broken the yoke of the Turkman asunder,

And taught us his praises, in boyhood to sing.

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