In one rude clash he struck the lyre,

And swept, with hurried hands, the strings.
With woful measures, wan Despair-

Low sullen sounds !-his grief beguiled :
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;

'Twas sad, by fits,-by starts, 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure ?

Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance, hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong; And, from the rocks, the woods, the vale,

She called on Echo still through all her song;
And, where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft responsive voice was heard at every close ;
And Hope, enchanted, smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung--but, with a frown,

Revenge impatient rose.
He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,
And blew a blast, so loud and dread,
Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;'

And, ever and anon, he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat.
And though, sometimes, each dreary pause between,

Dejected Pity, at his side,

Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien; While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.,

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state! Of differing themes the voering song was mixed: · And now it courted Love-now, raving, called on Hate.

d . With eyes upraised, as one inspired, Pale Melancholy sat retired;

And, from her wild, sequestered seat,

In notes, by distance made more sweet, Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul :

And, dashing soft, from rocks around,

Bubbling runnels joined the sound: Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole; Or o'er some haunted streams, with fond delay

Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing-
In hollow murmurs died away.
But, O! how altered was its sprightly tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her bow across her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung.
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs, and sylvan boys, were seen,
Peeping from forth their alleys green ;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;
And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:
He, with viny crown, advancing,
First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,

They saw, in Tempé's vale, her native maids,

Amid the festal sounding shades,
To some un wearied minstrel dancing;

While, as his Aying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;

And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

A DRUNKEN SOLILOQUY IN A COAL-CELLAR.

BURNETT.
ET'S see, where am I? This is coal I'm lying on. How'd I

get here? Yes, I mind now; was coming up street; met a wheel-barrow wot was drunk, coming t’other way. That wheelbarrow fell over me, or I fell over the wheel-barrow, and one of us fell into the cellar, don't mind now which; guess it must have been me. I'm a nice young man; yes, I am; tight, tore, drunk, shot! Well, I can't help it; 'taint my fault. Wonder whose fault it is? Is it Jones's fault? No! Is it my wife's fault? WELL, IT AN'T! Is it the wheel-barrow's fault? N.0-0-0! It's Whiskey's fault!! Whiskey! who's Whiskey ? Has he got a large family? Got many relations ? All poor, I reckon. I won't own him any more; cut his acquaintance. I have had a notion of doing that for the last ten years; always hated to, though, for fear of hurting his feel’ns. I'll do it now, for I believe liquor is injurin' me; it's spoilin' my temper. Sometimes I gets mad and abuses Bets and the brats. I used to call 'em Lizzie and the children ; that's a good while ago, though. Then, when I cum home, she used to put her arms around my neck and kiss me, and call me “ dear William !” When I cum home now she takes her pipe out of her mouth, puts the hair out of her eyes, and looks at me and says, “ Bill, you drunken brute, shut the door after you ! We're cold enongh, havin' no fire, 'thout lettin' the snow blow in that way." Yes, she's Bets and I'm Bill now; I an't a good bill neither; I'm counterfeit; won't pass—a tavern without goin' in and getting a drink.) Don't know wot bank I'm on; last Sunday was on the river-bank, at the Corn Exchange, drunk! I stay out pretty late-sometimes out all night, when Bets bars the door with a bed-post; fact is, I'm out pretty much all over-out of friends, out of pocket, out at elbows and knees, and outrageously dirty. So Bets says, but she's no judge, for she's never clean herself. I wonder she don't wear good clothes ? Maybe she an't got any! Whose fault is that? 'Taint mine! It may be whiskey's. Sometimes I'm in ; I'm in-toxicated now, and in somebody's coal-cellar. I've got one good principle; I never runs in debt, 'cause nobody won't trust me. One of my coat-tails is

gone; got tore off, I expect, when I fell down here. I'll have to get a new suit soon. A feller told me t'other day I'd make a good sign for a paper-mill. If he hadn't been so big I'd licked him. I've had this shirt on nine days. I'd take it off, but I'm 'fraid I'd tear it. Guess I tore the window-shutter on my pants t’other night, when I sot on the wax in Ben Sniff's shoe-shop. I'll have to get it mended up or I'll catch cold. I an't very stout neither, though I'm full in the face; as the boys say, “I'm fat as a match, and healthy as the small-pox." My hat is standin' guard for a window-pane that went out the other day at the invitation of a brickbat. It's getting cold down here; wonder how I'll get out? I an't able to climb. If I had a drink, think I could do it. Let's see, I an't got three cents; wish I was in a tavern, I could sponge it then. When anybody treats, and says, “ Come, fellers !” I always think my name is fellers, and I've too good manners to refuse. I must leave this place, or I'll be arrested for burglary, and I an't come to that yet! Anyhow, it was the wheel-barrow did the harm, not me!

BELSHAZZAR.–PROCTER.
DELSHAZZAR is king! Belshazzar is lord !

D And a thousand dark nobles all bend at his board ;-
Fruits glisten, flowers blossom, meats steam, and a flood
Of the wine that man loveth, runs redder than blood :
Wild dancers are there, and a riot of mirth,
And the beauty that maddens the passions of earth;

And the crowds all shout,

Till the vast roofs ring,“ All praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar, the king!” “ Bring forth,” cries the monarch, “the vessels of gold, Which my father tore down from the temples of old : Bring forth; and we'll drink, while the trumpets are blown, To the gods of bright silver, of gold, and of stone: Bring forth !”—and before him the vessels all shine, And he bows unto Baal, and he drinks the dark wine;

While the trumpets bray,

And the cymbals ring, -
“ Praise, praise to Belshazzar, Belshazzar, the king!”

Now, what cometh ?-look, look !--Without menace or call,
Who writes, with the lightning's bright hand, on the wall ?
What pierceth the king, like the point of a dart?
What drives the bold blood from his cheek to his heart?
“ Chaldeans! magicians! the letters expound!”
They are read ;-and Belshazzar is dead on the ground !

Hark!—the Persian is come

On a conqueror's wing;
And a Mede's on the throne of Belshazzar, the king.

MRS. CAUDLE'S LECTURE ON SHIRT-BUTTONS.

DOUGLASS JERROLD. W HERE, Mr. Caudle, I hope you're in a little better temper

1 than you were this morning. There, you needn't begin to whistle: people don't come to bed to whistle. But it's like you ; I can't speak, that you don't try to insult me. Once, I used to say you were the best creature living: now, you get quite a fiend. Do let you rest ? No, I won't let you rest. It's the only time I have to talk to you, and you shall hear me. I'm put upon all day long: it's very hard if I can't speak a word at night; and it isn't often I open my mouth, goodness knows!

Because once in your lifetime your shirt wanted a button, you must almost swear the roof off the house. You didn't swear? Ha, Mr. Caudle! you don't know what you do when you're in a passion. You were not in a passion, wernt you? Well, then I don't know what a passion is; and I think I ought by this time. I've lived long enough with you, Mr. Caudle, to know that.

It's a pity you hav'nt something worse to complain of than a button off your shirt. If you'd some wives, you would, I know. I'm sure I'm never without a needle-and-thread in my hand ; what with you and the children, I'm made a perfect slave of. And what's my thanks? Why, if once in your life a button's off your shirt—what do you say " Ah” at? I say once, Mr. Caudle; or twice or three times, at most. I'm sure, Caudle, no man's buttons in the world are better looked after than yours. I only wish I'd kept the shirts you had when you were first married! I would like to know where were your buttons then ?