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ADVICE TO BASHFUL LOVERS.

He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning-breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British regulars fired and fled-
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard-wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm--

A cry of defiance, and not of fear

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness, and peril, and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beat of that steed,
And the midnight-message of Paul Revere.

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HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

But there's danger in delaying-
And the sweetness may forsake it;
So I tell you, bashful lover,

If you want a kiss, why, take it.

Never let another fellow

Steal a march on you in this;
Never let a laughing maiden
See you spoiling for a kiss;
There's a royal way to kissing,

And the jolly ones who make it,
Have a motto that is winning-

If you want a kiss, why, take it.

Any fool may face a cannon,
Anybody wear a crown,

But a man must win a woman,
If he'd have her for his own;
Would you have the golden apple,
You must find the tree and shake it;

If the thing is worth the having,
And you want a kiss, why, take it.

Who would burn upon a desert,
With a forest smiling by?
Who would give his sunny Summer
For a bleak and wintry sky?
Oh! I tell you there's a magic,
And you cannot, cannot break it,
For the sweetest part of loving

Is to want a kiss-and take it.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.-SHAKESPEARE.

10 be or not to be-that is the question!

T

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The stings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them-To die-to sleep

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THE RUM MANIAC.

No more!—and, by a sleep, to say we end

The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to-'tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished.

To die-to sleep

To sleep?-perchance to dream-aye, there's the rub!
For, in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause! There's the respect

That makes calamity of so long life:

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes-
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin?

To

Who would fardels bear,

groan and sweat under a weary life,

But that the dread of something after death-
That undiscovered country, from whose bourne
No traveller returns-puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of!

Thus, conscience does make cowards of us all:
And thus, the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment,
With this regard, their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

THE RUM MANIAC.-ALLISON.

"SAY, Doctor, may I not have rum,

To quench this burning thirst within?

Here on this cursed bed I lie,
And cannot get one drop of gin.

THE RUM MANIAC.

I ask not health, nor even life

Life! what a curse it's been to me!
I'd rather sink in deepest hell,
Than drink again its misery.

"But, Doctor, may I not have rum? One drop alone is all I crave:

Grant this small boon-I ask no more-
Then I'll defy-yes, e'en the grave;
Then, without fear, I'll fold my arms,
And bid the monster strike his dart,
And haste me from this world of woe,
And claim his own-this ruined heart.

"A thousand curses on his head
Who gave me first the poisoned bowl,
Who taught me first this bane to drink-
Drink-death and ruin to my soul.

My soul! Oh, cruel, horrid thought!
Full well I know thy certain fate;
With what instinctive horror shrinks
The spirit from that awful state!

"Lost-lost-I know, forever lost!
To me no ray of hope can come :
My fate is sealed; my doom is
But give me rum; I will have rum.
But, Doctor, don't you see him there?
In that dark corner low he sits;
See how he sports his fiery tongue,
And at me burning brimstone spits!

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Say, don't you see this demon fierce?
Does no one hear? will no one come?
Oh, save me-save me-I will give—
But rum! I must have-will have rum!
Ah! now he's gone; once more I'm free :
He-the boasting knave and liar-
He said that he would take me off

Down to

But there! my bed's on fire!

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THE EXILES.

"Fire! water! help! come, haste-I'll die:
Come, take me from this burning bed:
The smoke I'm choking--cannot cry;
There now-it's catching at my head!
But see! again that demon's come;
Look! there he peeps through yonder crack;
Mark how his burning eyeballs flash!
How fierce he grins! what brought him back?

"There stands his burning coach of fire;

He smiles and beckons me to come--
What are those words he's written there?
'In hell, we never want for rum!""
One loud, one piercing shriek was heard;
One yell rang out upon the air;

One sound, and one alone, came forth-
The victim's cry of wild despair.

"Why longer wait? I'm ripe for hell;
A spirit's sent to bear me down:
There, in the regions of the lost,
I sure will wear a fiery crown.
Damned, I know, without a hope!--
One moment more, and then I'll come!
And there I'll quench my awful thirst
With boiling, burning, fiery rum!”

THE EXILES.--MAC DERMOTT.

HEN round the festive Christmas board, or by the Christ

W mas hearth,

That glorious mingled draught is poured-wine, melody, and

mirth!

When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and sorrows

o'er,

And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet lips once

more

Oh, in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's voice would

say-

"Forget not those who're sad to-night-poor exiles, far away!"

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