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Stretch'd on the ground, awhile entranc'd he
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then upsprung, with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart!

'Oh, Heavens,' he cried, 'my first rash vow forgive,
These bind to earth-for these I pray to live.'
Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest,
And clasp'd them sobbing to his aching breast.

HANDS versus HEADS.

THINK the hand must certainly be a more important member than the head; for we all know, if a man lose his hand, he is subjected to much inconvenience which cannot be disguised; whereas if a man lose his head, there's an end of all his troubles, and he never complains about the matter. Again, if a man should be born without a head, although it might at first be thought he would cut a very strange figure in the world, yet we know from experience otherwise. We know that such a man may be a good neighbour, a loyal subject, and indeed, an excellent parish-officer. Suppose the same man without an arm--still he is better, for if there's any treason abroad, he's sure to have no hand in it; although this may not say much for his honesty, inasmuch as the world may call him light-fingered. I am willing to take both sides of the question, but still I cannot avoid a little partiality in the favour of hands. I hope every person present has not lived so long in the world, without being three or four times in imminent danger of going out of it. If this has been the case, I must triumph in one position; does the doctor deal with his head? no, he applies to the hand. Go to a lawyer, ask him for a single monosyllable, and we all know, before he opens his mouth-he holds out his hand. There is a current from the palm to all the other functions and moral capacities of man. The hand may be said to contain

all the channels in the moral world ;-from the hand of a lawyer it washes the Cape of Good Hope, and abounds in flats. In the miser, it is the Frozen Ocean. In the doctor, too frequently, the Dead Sea. In the slave-merchant, it is the Atlantic, for it keeps the whites from the blacks. The parson's hand holds the parish stream. Every man contributes a share-in the hand of the tax-gatherer, is the Bay of Biscay, for what falls in, there is no knowing where it goes to; in the hand of the man of the world, is the petrifying spring of Derbyshire, for whatever is put into it, comes out a stone,-and in the hand of the man of charity, is the blessed Nile, for its overflowings give abundance and content. It would be well if our heraldry were, as Othello says, "hands, not hearts." From the true poet's hand flows the purest crystal, which without disguise, shews the little shining pebble and the hollow shell in their native brilliancy and emptiness. Hands are the most important members, far superior to heads; even a bad man's hand may be sometimes held out, and give a hearty shake, when in five minutes after the head may reprove the action; when the hand is given in haste, the repentant head sometimes says "excuse my glove," which may be translated, "excuse my heart." How often do we see, when gentlemen can do nothing with their heads, settle matters with their hands; men, who have frequently not reason to withdraw an objection, have fortunately a finger to draw a trigger. I hope these affairs will, in many cases, be allowed to depend entirely upon hands, and in which heads have not the least transaction. A hand, I repeat it, is the most powerful engine in the possession of man ; and if any gentleman present is sceptical on this point, I trust he may be arrested before he gets home, in order that he may declare to me, by to-morrow morning's post, that there is nothing so awful as the hand of a sheriff's officer; never mind the head of the law, or I should say, head and wig; for what would one

be without the other; but keep from the hand-touch but a little finger, and you are lost. A hand must be the best, for, as Lord Chesterfield says, "Show me the company he keeps, and I'll tell you the man:" now as the hand keeps the best company, viz. the pocket-it must consequently be superior to every other part, at least, until any thing shall be found superior to the pocket; which no one will have the hardihood to say is the head; for how often is the head completely lost in the pocket! Every thing depends upon the hand; and we may liken society to one great fiddle, that only wants judicious fingering to be made profitable: on it, all men play different tunes, but the most prevalent is a catch. What would Hymen do if it were not for hands?-when a man comes to the dreadful resolution of fettering himself up for life, where does he put the ring of his charmer ?-upon the hand; the hand settles all matters at the marriage, and very frequently after it. I am aware that this important subject has been but slightly touched by me, but I at first merely attempted it off hand, and will leave it to abler fingers; and if, like the patriarchs of old, I find refreshment under your palms, my gratitude shall not be wanting for the obligation.

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly arch'd and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye,

Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy winged speed,

I may not mount on thee again, thou art sold, my Arab steed;

Fret not with that impatient hoof, snuff not the breezy

wind

The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind.

The stranger hath thy bridle rein-thy master hath his gold

Fleet limbed and beautiful, farewell, thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold.

Farewell! these free untired limbs full many a mile must roam,

To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home.

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare

The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee

Shall I gallop through the desert paths where we were wont to be.

Evening shall darken on the earth, and o'er the sandy plain,

Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go, the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,

Thy master's home, from all of these my exiled one must fly.

Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,

And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.

Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing

bright;

Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and

light;

And when I raise my dreaming arm, to check or cheer thy speed,

Then must I starting wake, to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed.

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may

chide,

Till foam wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side,

And the rich blood that is in thee swells in thy indignant pain;

Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.

Will they ill use thee? If I thought-but no it can

not be

Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free.

And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn,

Can the hand which cast thee from it, now command thee to return.

Return, alas! my Arab steed, what shall thy master do, When thou who wert his all of joy hath vanished from his view;

When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gathering tears,

Thy bright form for a moment like the false Mirage appears,

Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot

alone,

Where with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft has borne me on.

And sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,

It was here he bowed his glossy neck when last I saw

him drink.

When last I saw thee drink? Away! the fevered

dream is o'er,

I could not live a day, and know that we should meet

no more.

They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong,

They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long,

Who said that I'd giv'n thee up, who said that thou wert sold?

"Tis false, 'tis false, my Arab steed, I fling them back their gold;

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