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THE STAGE-STRUCK HERO. But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy for ever

fresh. I know the angels fold him close beneath their glittering

wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of heaven's

divinest things. I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear

and I), Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye. Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never

cease ; Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain

peace. It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss

may sever, But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still

must be ; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss, and this

world's misery ; When we groan beneath this load of sin, po feel this grief

and pain, Oh! we'd rather lose our other two than bave him here again.

Rev. J. Moultrie.

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He seized her hand, and that with speed

“Oh, Isabella, dear! In tears, thou fool!” “Not I, indeed !

I seldom shed a tear,”

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“Here will I pitch my tent !” he cries,

And on the sofa stretch'd ;
The servant-maid again appeard,

For she his breakfast fetch'd.

“ Give me another horse-bind up my wounds!

He, jumping up, did call ;
The woman, startled at the sounds,

Let all the tea-things fall !

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The man jump'd back, the woman scream'd,

For both were sore afraido;
A bedlamite, our spouter seem'd,

And, like Octavian, said

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“ I'll grapple with thee thus,” he cried ;

And soon the shears he won : The tailor was so terrified

That he thought fit to run.


(By permission of the proprietors of Mr. Anderton's worke.)

I LOVE my ease, and ne'er denied
The comforts of a warm fireside ;
Fair woman's beamy smiles impart
A thrill of rapture to my heart.
But are these only to be found
In the hotel's enchanted ground ?
Yes, in that happy cot serene
Where my dear wife presides as queen.
I love the burning thirst to quench,
But not amid the tavern's stench;
I'd rather take a hearty swill
Of water from yon gurgling rill,


Or lap the pure and snow-white juice
Which ruminating herds produce ;
While often, as I read the news,
My wife a cup of “ Samson” brews.

I like good living ; but not mine
Are costly draughts of ruby wine;
Brown ale with folly may go down,
But I prefer roast beef done brown.
Away with porter's bitter froth !
Give me a bowl of starry broth.
Health needs no stimulants like these,
And wine must bow to bread and cheese.

I welcome laughter, but my laugh
Depends not on the cups I quaff ;
My mirth is gushing, guileless, wild
As the clear chuckle of my child.
I loathe the dull, galvanic grin
Which reaches not the soul within,
Wrung from the nerves, the face to dress,
By the vile force-pump of excess.

I am no niggard, though I strive
To keep some honey in the hive :
A bag of gold to fall upon
Is a nice thing when age comes on ;
Bright independence is a prize
Excelled by none beneath the skies ;
And, in her stern and rigid school,
The spendthrift is a pitied fool.

The ruling passion which pollutes
Dur native land with reeling brutes,
Like other despots had his day,
But dwindles now his ancient sway.
How blest the hour when I rebellid,
From lip and home the foe expellid!
Short was the conflict-brief, but hard-
And freedom is my rich reward.



FRIENDS, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears ;
I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interréd with their bones;
So let it be with Cæsar! The noble Brutus
Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious :
If it were so, it were a grievous fault,
And grievously hath Cæsar answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest
(For Brutus is an honourable man,
So are they all, all honourable men),
Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful, and just to me;
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffer fill;
Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious ?
When that the poor hath cried, Cæsar hath wept :
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff.
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal
I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition ?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
And sure he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke;
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause ;
What cause withholds you then to mourn for him ?
O judgment, thou art #ed to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason ! Bear with me,
My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.

But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
Have stood against the world ; now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters ! if I were disposed to stir

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