And how the blue sky was an azure vault.
And somehow or other the moon, and the skies,

And the stars, and all that, led to “zephyrs" and "sighs;"
And then followed "Cupid," and "heartstrings," and "ties,"
And "glances," and "blushes," and "very bright eyes."
Then came some remarks with regard to a walk
By the light of the fore-mentioned stars and the moon ;
And next an intention to fall down and talk
To the maid of his soul, on his knees, very soon,
And the moral and end of the story was this:
That if Fate interfered with his prospects of bliss,
He should lift up his voice in the midnight air,
And, addressing the moon, should most solemnly swear,
Or, at all events, promise, and vow, and declare,
By the light of its beams, so enchanting and fair,
That nothing should keep him from utter despair.
Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy ate not all day :
He tried some cold beef, but his stomach said-nay.
His tea-time arrived-not a crumb could he eat;
And all that he took was some tea-very sweet.
He really appeared the most wretched of men,
And he went up to bed at a quarter-past ten.
O! how Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy dreamed,
As he tossed on his restless lone bolster that night!
Round his couch eyes and faces in multitudes beamed,
And well-rounded figures in garments of light-
Especially one who was dressed all in white;
And then came a shape which he fancied he knew,
A foreign young man in moustachios and rings,
Who courted the lady in white in his view,

And said in her ear such unspeakable things;

When he waltzed with her, hang him! how nicely he did it;
Then he kiss'd her. Good gracious! she didn't forbid it !
He did it again; then more sweet things he spoke ;
Then he led her away; and Pigswiddy awoke.

For days, and for nights, and for weeks this went on,
And Ferdinand grew very pallid and wan;

In vain Mr. Bluepill, the doctor, attended him,
Nothing he gave or prescribed for him mended him;
Thinner and thinner poor Ferdinand grew,

Sunken his eyes became, pallid his hue.

Mr. Ferdinand Pigswiddy had a mamma;
A lady who knew the world's ways pretty well;
She was wise (as most ladies of middle-age are)
And just forty-nine-it's no libel to tell.

This lady was sent for (she lived down in Surrey)
And she came up to town in a very great hurry.

She was shocked-well she might be at sight of her son,
But she saw, with a glance, what was best to be done.
She started the doctor, and said to the youth,

66

Now, Ferdinand Pigswiddy, tell me the truth:

You're in love, are you not? Well, that blush says you are. Now, who is the lady? Come, tell your mamma." "Well, really," she said, when the murder was out, "What a story to make all this rumpus about. I'll very soon cure you-be guided by me

And as right as a trivet ere long you shall be.

What's her name do you say?" "Jane Snigglethorpe, ma!'
"And where does she live?" "Why, I'm sure I don't know
But I don't think it's far
From Temple Bar,

For I recollect hearing her say to her Pa-
As the visitors all were beginning to go-
'It's very near five,

Pa, as I am alive,

And I'm sure my watch quite correct must be,
For 'twas set by St. Dunstan's at half-past three.""

"But how long ago, dear," said Ferdinand's ma, "Was the party you speak of?" "Why, let me remember-To-day's March the thirdWell, upon my word,

"Twas the seventh-no eighth-no, the ninth of December.”

Oh, no!"

"Good gracious!" said she, "why it's three months ago!
She's surely forgot you by this time."
Sigh'd the youth, "I will never believe
That so lovely a creature could feign or deceive;
And she told me most solemnly--yes, she told me,
That I never forgotten or slighted should be-
No, neither in time nor eternity!"

"Well, I don't wish to damp you," replied Mrs. P.,
"But such speeches as that are all fiddle-de-dee.
However, we now, if your strength will allow,

Will seek this Miss What's-her-name out, but pray how?"
"O! of course, ma, to you in this matter I bow;
Whatever you do, I've no doubt, will be right,"
Said he with flushed cheek;

"But I'm still rather weak:

P'r'aps you'll try to find her out for me to-night?"
Well, I will," was the answer that Pigswiddy got;
"And I'll come back at nine, whether lucky or not."

'Twere vain to relate how the hours that pass'd
Till the lady returned were by no means so fast
As Ferdinand wished them: no doubt you can guess it,
Dear reader, much better than I can express it.

At length she came back. "Have you found her?" he said, "I have." He fell back in a swoon on his bed;

But after awhile he recovered, and then
He asked her the very same question again.
She sighed, and she cried,

And at length she replied

“I've found her, my love—but I've found her a bride!
Last week she was married to a Mr. M'Clyde!"

Once more Mr. Pigswiddy bowed down his head;
Once more Mr. Pigswiddy fell back in bed;

Once more you'd have thought Mr. Pigswiddy dead,
And, especially so, when this sentence he said-
Mamma, I shall die,

66

My last moments are nigh,

But ere I depart, let me bid you good-bye!"

Now, although Mr. Pigswiddy vowed he would die,
And kept to that mind for a fortnight or nigh,
On thinking it over again, and perceiving

Before him nought better than what he was leaving,
And seeing, moreover, that though he had fail'd

Where he thought there wasn't a doubt he'd prevailed-
There were many young ladies as pretty and sprightly
As Jane-though, of course, he'd not speak of her lightly-
Quite ready and willing his sorrows to cheer,

And his pleasures to share with him, year after year—
He resolved he would not to his purpose adhere.
So after a week or two's nursing and tending,
Poor Pigswiddy found himself rapidly mending;

And when he at length, his imprisonment ending,
Got well, and went out,

And gadded about,

To ball and to theatre, concert and rout,

He quickly got round again;

Soon grew quite sound again;

And his heart—tho' he fear'd he had lost it—he found again.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

Anon.

OUR bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpoweredThe weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march when my bosom was young;

I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part;
My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;
But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Campbell.

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot that my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness it rose from the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, it rose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.
Samuel Woodworth.

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