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Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown :
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God, and dies.

LITTLE JIM.

THE cottage was a thatch'd one,
The outside old and mean,
Yet everything within that cot,
Was wond'rous neat and clean.

The night was dark and stormy,
The wind was howling wild,-
A patient mother watch'd beside
The death-bed of her child.

POPE.

A little worn-out creature,

His once bright eyes grown dim ;

It was a collier's only child,

They call'd him Little Jim.

And oh to see the briny tears,

Fast hurrying down her cheek, As she offer'd up a prayer in thought,— She was afraid to speak,

Lest she might waken one she loved

Far better than her life;

For she had all a mother's love

Had that poor collier's wife.

With hands uplifted, see she kneels
Beside the sufferer's bed,

And prays that He will spare her boy,
And take herself instead.

She gets her answer from the child,
Soft fall these words from him-
"Mother, the angels do so smile,
And beckon Little Jim.

“I have no pain, dear mother, now,
But oh! I am so dry,

Just moisten poor Jim's lips again—
And mother, don't you cry."

With gentle trembling haste, she held

The tea-cup to his lips;

He smiled to thank her as he took

Three little tiny sips.

"Tell father, when he comes from work,

I said good-night to him,

And, mother, now I'll go to sleep,”

Alas! poor Little Jim.

She saw that he was dying;—
The child she loved so dear,

Had utter'd the last words that she
Might ever hope to hear.

The cottage door was open'd,-
The collier's step is heard,—

The father and the mother meet,—
Yet neither speak a word.

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He knew his child was dead,

He took the candle in his hand,-
And walk'd up to the bed.

His quivering lips gave token

Of the grief he'd fain conceal ;And now his wife has join'd him— The stricken couple kneel.

With hearts bow'd down with sadness,
They humbly ask of Him,-

In heaven once more to meet again,

Their own dear Little Jim.

Written by a Collier.

ALL THE WORLD 'S A STAGE."

JACQUES, in As you like it.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits, and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms:
Then, the whining school boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school: and then, the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow: then, a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth and then the justice,
In fair round belly, with good capon lined,

With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part; the sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon ;
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big, manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound: last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness, a mere oblivion ;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

SHAKESPERE.

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

A MAN in many a country town we know,
Professing openly with Death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother.
So (many a suffering patient saith)
Though the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.

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