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Say, is there aught more sad than thus to see
The cruel wrongs of helpless infancy?
Though doomed to drudge through many a weary day,
E’en the young foal beside his dam may play,
Till his fleet limbs have grown to strength and power,
Not curbed or fettered till his destined hour:
While they-life's toilsome journey scarce begun--
Work from the rising to the setting sun;
So worn with sorrow, yet so young in years,
Does not their cause demand thy aid—thy tears ?
But they-whose lips are eloquent to plead
The negro's sufferings, and the heathen’s need
Raise not a voice to save the English child
From toils unknown to Indian of the wild !
The broken spirit, and th' untimely tomb,
Unwept, unknown, may be their common doom-
E’en in our vaunted “ Island of the Free;”
But, God of Mercy! not unmarked by Thee.
To him, who, weary, lab'ring, day by day,
Scarce from his home can keep pale Want away:
Who, heart-wrung, hears his children cry for bread,
And weeps, that honest labor toils unfed ;
Is it not insult-mockery--to behold
Flung to the stranger's use the precious gold,
One tithe of which would bid warm blessings flow
’Round many a hearth, th' abode of want and woe?
Think of the sufferers at your very door,-
The patient, toiling, starving, English poor!
Oh! for some hand to stop the reckless power
That, reigning still, the idol of the hour,
Insatiate, ever-craving, yet by stealth,
Wrings from th’impoverish'd land her ill-spared wealth ;
And pleading for the savage, still will roami
Abroad for want-too often found at home!
Happy for him, if, peaceful as before,
The white man's foot had never pressed his shore:
Happy for England, if her gold atone
For all the want and misery on her own!
WAS on the battle-field; and the cold, pale moon 1 Looked down on the dead and dying; And the wind passed o’er with a dirge and a wail,
Where the young and brave were lying.
With his father's sword in his red right hand,
And the hostile dead around him,
Lay a youthful chief; but his bed was the ground,
And the grave's icy sleep had bound him.
A reckless rover, ʼmid death and doom,
Passed—a soldier, his plunder seeking ;Careless he stepped where friend and foe
Lay, alike in their life-blood reeking.
Drawn by the shine of the warrior's sword,
The soldier paused beside it;
He wrenched the hand with a giant's strength,
But the grasp of the dead defied it.
He loosed his hold, and his noble heart
Took part with the dead before him ;
And he honored the brave who died sword in hand,
As with softened brow he leaned o'er him. “ A soldier's death thou hast boldly died,
A soldier's grave won by it:
Before I would take that sword from thine hand,
My own life's blood should dye it.
“ Thou shalt not be left for the carrion crow,
Or the wolf to batten o’er thee;
Or the coward insult the gallant dead,
Who in life had trembled before thee.”
Then dug he a grave in the crimson earth,
Where his warrior foe was sleeping;
And he laid him there, in honor and rest,
With his sword in his own brave keeping.
NOTHING TO WEAR.
M ISS FLORA M‘FLIMSEY, of Madison Square,
M Has made three separate journeys to Paris,
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend Mrs. Harris
Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping,
In one continuous round of shopping;
Shopping alone, and shopping together,
At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather ;
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind, above or below:
For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls;
Dresses for breakfasts, and dinners, and balls;
Dresses to sit in, and stand in, and walk in;
Dresses to dance in, and flirt in, and talk in;
Dresses in which to do nothing at all;
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall;
All of them different in color and pattern,
Silk, muslin, and lace, crape, velvet, and satin,
Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material
Quite as expensive and much more ethereal;
In short, for all things that could ever be thought of,
Or milliner, modiste, or tradesman be bought of,
From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills;
In all quarters of Paris, and to every store,
While MʻFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore,-
They footed the streets, and he footed the bills.
And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day
This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway,
This same Miss M-Flimsey, of Madison Square,
The last time we met, was in utter despair,
Because she had nothing whatever to wear!
NOTHING TO WEAR! Now, as this is a true ditty,
I do not assert—this, you know, is between usThat she's in a state of absolute nudity,
Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus;
But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare,
When, at the same moment, she had on a dress
Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less,
And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess,
That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear!
I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's
Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers,
I had just been selected as he whò should throw all
The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal
On myself, after twenty or thirty rejections,
Of those fossil remains which she called “ her affections,"
And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art,
Which Miss Flora persisted in styling “her heart.”
So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted,
Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove;
But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted,
Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love.
Without any romance, or raptures, or sighs,
Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes,
Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions,
It was one of the quietest business transactions,
With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any,
And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany.
On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss,
She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis,
And by way of putting me quite at my ease,
“You know, I'm to polka as much as I please,
And flirt when I like—now stop, don't you speak-
And you must not come here more than twice in the week,
Or talk to me either at party or ball,
But always be ready to come when I call;
So don't prose to me about duty and stuff,
If we don't break this off, there'll be time enough
For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be
That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free,-
For this is a sort of engagement, you see,
Which is binding on you but not binding on me.”
Well, having thus wooed Miss M-Flimsey and gained her,
With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her,
I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder
At least in the property, and the best right
To appear as its escort by day and by night:.
And, it being the week of the Stuckups' grand ball-
Their cards had been out a fortnight or so,
And set all the Avenue on the tip-toe-
I considered it only my duty to call,
And see if Miss Flora intended to go.
I found her—as ladies are apt to be found,
When the time intervening between the first sound
Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter
Than usual—I found; I won't say—I caught her--
Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning
To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning.
She turned as I entered—“ Why, Harry, you sinner,
I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinver!”
“So I did," I replied, “ but the dinner is swallowed,
And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more,
So being relieved from that duty, I followed
Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door. And now, will your ladyship so condescend As just to inform me if you intend Your beauty, and graces, and presence to lend (All which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow), To the Stuckups, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?” The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, And answered quite promptly, “Why Harry, mon cher, I should like above all things to go with you there; But really and truly—I've nothing to wear.” “ Nothing to wear! go just as you are ; Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far,