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In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
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
opes his cage, and, with a sigh Takes one fond look, and lots him fly.
Now Mag, once more with freedom blest,
The gardener now, with busy cares,
A curious net he does prepare,
The watchful gardener now stands by,
The vengeful clown, now filled with ire,
Now, in revenge for plundered seed,
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
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,
DRAMATIC AND SENTIMENTAL.
THE CHAMBER OF SICKNESS. FIRST VOICE-SECOND VOICE.
And the life-pulse is fluttering in death.
Shines—an image of man's fleeting breath.
And life's joys are all fading away.
And hope—cheers the soul with her ray.
Its hopes are all dead—its joy is despair.
Are perfected and purified there.
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.
THE GREEK ORPHAN.
That breaks from the hills of our country now free;
The foemen I saw,-Oh, my father was there!
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.