Wit. I don't know what artifice you mean.

Mr. D. Suppose I was to tell you to bleed my servant-which heaven forbid-in the jugular vein, where would you apply the lancet ?

Wit. In the arm to be sure.

tist.

I am a bit of a den

Mr. D. Indeed! suppose then a person had the tooth-ache, and could not bear it, how would you proceed?

Wit. Beat it out, to be sure.

Mr. D. With what?

Wit. A hammer.

Mr. D. You may retire-I am perfectly satisfied.

THE FORSAKEN.

You remember the maid whose dark brown hair,
And her brow, where the finger of beauty
Had written her name, and had stamp'd it there,
Till it made adoration a duty.

And have you forgot how we watch'd with delight
Each charm-as a new one was given-

Till she grew in our eyes to a vision of light,
And we thought her a spirit from heaven.

And your heart can recall, and mine often goes back
With a sigh and a tear to those hours,

When we gazed on her form, as she follow'd the track
Of her butterfly's wings through the flowers;
When, in her young joy, she would gaze with delight
On its plumage of mingling dyes,

Till she let it go free, and look'd after its flight
To see if it enter'd the skies!

But she wander'd away from the home of her youth
One spring, ere the roses were blown ;

For she fancied the world was a temple of truth,
And she measured all breasts by her own :-

She fed on a vision, and lived on a dream,
And she follow'd it over the wave;

And she sought where the moon has a milder gleam
For a home; and they gave her a grave!

There was one whom she loved, though she breathed it to none,

For love of her soul was a part,

And he said he loved her-but he left her alone,
With the worm of despair in her heart.

And oh! with what anguish we counted each day,
The roses had died on her cheek,

And hung o'er her form as it faded away,
And wept o'er the beautiful wreck!

Yet her eye was as mild and as blue to the last,
Though shadows stole over its beam;

And her smiles are remember'd-since long they are past,

Like the smiles we have seen in a dream!

And-it may be that fancy deludes with a spell,

But I think though her tones were as clear, They were somewhat more soft, and there murmurings fell

Like a dirge on the listening ear.

And while sorrow threw round her a holier grace,Though she always was gentle and kind,—

Yet I thought that the softness that stole o'er her face Had a softening power on her mind.

But, it might be, her looks and her tones were more dear,

And we valued them more in decay,

As we treasure the last fading flower of the year,
For we felt she was passing away!

She never complain'd-but she loved to the last :
And the tear in her beautiful eye

Often told that her thoughts were gone back to the

past,

And the youth who had left her to die.

But mercy came down, and the maid is at rest,
Where the billows wave o'er her at even,
With the turf of a far foreign land on her breast,
Whence the palm-tree points upwards to heaven.

THE COUNTRYMAN AND RAZOR-SELLER.

A FELLOW in a market town,

Most musical cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteenpence,
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,

As every man would buy with cash and sense.

A country bumpkin the great offer heard,
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteenpence he paid,
And proudly to himself in whispers said,
"This rascal stole the razors, I suppose."

No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave;
It certainly will be a monstrous prize.

So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub
Just like a hedger cutting furze ;

'Twas a vile razor! then the next he tried-
All were impostors-" Ah!" Hodge sigh'd,
"I wish my eighteenpence within my purse."

In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and stamp'd, and swore ; Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces,

And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er.

;

His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds: Hodge in a passion stretch'd his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods"Razors! a cursed confounded dog, Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow-found him, and began, Perhaps, Mr. Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,

That people flay themselves out of their lives;
You rascal-for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives;
Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave.

To cry up razors that can't shave.

66

'Friend," quoth the razor-man, I'm no knave ; As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul I never thought

That they would shave."

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with won

dering eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell,

"What were they made for then, you dog," he cries,

66

Made!" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell."

THE OCEAN.

THERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:

I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the universe,-and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean!--roll;
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain :----
Man marks the earth with ruin,-his control
Stops with the shore ;-upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed; nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,-
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
And monarchs tremble in their capitals,-
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war,--
These are thy toys; and as the snowy flake,
They melt into the yeast of waves, which mar
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee;-
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage,-what are they?
Thy waters wasted them while they were free,
And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
Has dried up
realms to deserts:-not so thou,
Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play;
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow;
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Thou glorious mirror! where the ALMIGHTY's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,

Calm or convulsed,-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime

Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublime-