But eastward atar,

Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car; Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,

He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where in front of the jail, he

Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump?”

The clock strikes twelve-it is dark midnight-
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.
The parties are met;

The tables are set;

Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy,

And just as dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
It seemed that the mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,
On all-save the wretch condemned to die.
Alack! that ever so fair a sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such a scene of misery-

"heavy wet,"

Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs Cold fowl and cigars,

That dismal, dark-frowning gallows-tree!
And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate;
The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!-
List to that low funereal bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell—
And see - from forth that opening door
They come !-He steps that threshold o'er
Who never shall tread upon threshold more.
-God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see
That pale, wan man's mute agony,
The glare of that wild, despairing eye.
Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again, not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!—Enough—'tis done!
The bolt has fallen !-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!-
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight!-Ah me!
A deed to shudder at, not to see.
Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past; -with its earliest chime
The chord is severed, its lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away :
Nine !-'twas the last concluding stroke!
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M’Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
66 Hollo! Hollo!
Here's a rum go!

Wny Captain !—my Lord !—Here's the dickens to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!—
What's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!—

Why they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town,

But Sir Carnaby Jenks

Blinks and winks,

As a candle burns down in the socket, and sinks.

What was to be done?—'t was perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again

What was to be done!-The man was dead!

"That the bluebird an' phœbe Are smarter 'n we be?

Nought could be done—nought could be said; So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller

F ever there lived a Yankee lad,

Wise or otherwise, good or bad,

Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump
With flapping arms from stake or stump,
Or, spreading the tail

Of his coat for a sail,

Take a soaring leap from post or rail,
And wonder why

He couldn't fly,

And flap and flutter and wish and try-
If ever you knew a country dunce
Who didn't try that as often as once,
All I can say is, that's a sign

He never would do for a hero of mine.

An aspiring genius was D. Green:
The son of a farmer, age fourteen;
His body was long and lank and lean-
Just right for flying, as will be seen;
He had two eyes as bright as a bean,
And a freckled nose that grew between,

A little awry-for I must mention
That he had riveted his attention
Upon his wonder ̃ul invention,
Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings,
And working his face as he worked the wings,
And with every turn of gimlet and screw
Turning and screwing his mouth round too,
Till his nose seemed bent

To catch the scent,

Around some corner, of new-baked pies,
And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes
Grew puckered into a queer grimace,
That made him look very droll in the face,
And also very wise.

And wise he must have been, to do more

Than ever a genius did before,

Excepting Dædalus of yore

And his son Icarus, who wore
Upon their backs

Those wings of wax

He had read of in the old almanacs.
Darius was clearly of the opinion
That the air is also man's dominion,
And that, with paddle or fin or pinion,
We soon or late shall navigate
The azure as now we sail the sea.
The thing looks simple enough to me;
And if you doubt it,

Hear how Darius reasoned about it.

"The birds can fly an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he with a grin.

Just show me that!

Ur prove 't the bat

Hez got more brains than's in my hat,
An' I'll back down, an' not till then!"
He argued further: "Nur I can't see
What's th' use o' wings to a bumble-bee,
Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me ;—
Ain't my business
Important's his'n is?
That Icarus

Made a perty muss

Him an' his daddy Dædalus

They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther,

Ur suthin' ur other."

And he said to himself, as he tinkered and planned: 'But I ain't goin' to show my hand

To nummies that never can understand
The fust idee that's big an' grand."

So he kept nis secret from all the rest,
Safely buttoned within his vest;
And in the loft above the shed
Himself he locks, with thimble and thread
And wax and hammer and buckles and screws
And all such things as geniuses use ;-
Two bats for patterns, curious fellows!
A charcoal-pot and a pair of bellows;
Some wire, and several old umbrellas;
A carriage-cover, for tail and wings;
A piece of harness; and straps and strings;
And a big strong box,

"The weasel's head is small an' trim,

An' he is little an' long an' slim,

An' quick of motion an' nimble of limb
An' ef you'll be
Advised by me,

Keep wide awake when ye're ketchin' him!"
So day after day

He stitched and tinkered and hammered away,
Till at last 'twas done-

The greatest invention under the sun!
"An' now," says Darius, "hooray fur some fun!"

'Twas the Fourth of July,

And the weather was dry,

And not a cloud was on all the sky,

Save a few light fleeces, which here and there,
Half mist, half air,

Like foam on the ocean went floating by--
Just as lovely a morning as ever was seen
For a nice little trip in a flying-machine.
Thought cunning Darius: "Now I shan't go
Along 'ith the fellers to see the show.
I'll say I've got sich a terrible cough!
An' then, when the folks 'ave all gone off,
I'll hev full swing fur to try the thing,
An' practise a little on the wing."
"Ain't goin' to see the celebration?"
Says brother Nate. "No; botheration!
I've got sich a cold-a toothache—I—
My gracious!-feel's though I should fly!"
Said Jotham, "Sho!
Guess ye better go."

But Darius said, "No!

Shouldn't wonder 'f you might see me, though, 'Long 'bout noon, ef I git red

O' this jumpin', thumpin' pain 'n my head." For all the while to himself he said :

"I tell ye what!

I'll fly a few times around the lot,

To see how 't seems, then soon's I've got
The hang o' the thing, ez likely's not,
I'll astonish the nation,

An' all creation,

By flyin' over the celebration!

Over their heads I'll sail like an eagle;

I'll balance myself on my wings like a sea-gull:

I'll dance on the chimbleys; I'll stand on the steeple;

I'll flop up to winders an' scare the people!

I'll light on the liberty-pole, an' crow;

An' I'll say to the gawpin' fools below,

'What world 's this 'ere

That I've come near?'

Fur I'll make 'em b'lieve I'm a chap f'm the moon; An' I'll try a race 'ith their ol' balloon!"

He crept from his bed;

And, seeing the others were gone, he said, "I'm gittin' over the cold 'n my head." And away he sped,

To open the wonderful box in the shed.

His brothers had walked but a little way,
When Jotham to Nathan chanced to say,
“What is the feller up to, hey!”
"Don'o'-the 's suthin' ur other to pay,
Ur he wouldn't 'a' stayed tu hum to-day."
Says Burke, "His toothache's all 'n his eye!
He never 'd miss a Fo'th-o`-July,

Ef he hedn't got some machine to try."
Then Sol, the little one, spoke: "By darn !
Le's hurry back an' hide 'n the barn,
An' pay him fur tellin' us that yarn!"
"Agreed!" Through the orchard they creep back
Along by the fences, behind the stack,
And one by one, through a hole in the wall,
In under the dusty barn they crawl,
Dressed in their Sunday garments all;
And a very astonishing sight was that,
When each in his cobwebbed coat and hat
Came up through the floor like an ancient rat
And there they hid;

He's a climbin' out now-Of all the things!
What's he got on? I van, it's wings!
An' that 'tother thing? I vum, it's a tail!
An' there he sits like a hawk on a rail!
Steppin' careful, he travels the length

Of his spring-board, and teeters to try its strength.
Now he stretches his wings, like a monstrous bat;
Peeks over his shoulder; this way an' that,

Fur to see 'f the' 's any one passin' by;

But the''s on'y a caf an' goslin nigh.
They turn up at him a wonderin' eye,
To see- The dragon! he's goin' to fly!
Away he goes! Jimminy! what a jump!
Flop-flop-an' plump

To the ground with a thump!
Flutt'rin' an' flound'rin' all 'n a lump!"

As a demon is hurled by an angel's spear,
Heels over head, to his proper sphere-
Heels over head, and head over heels,
Dizzily down the abyss he wheels-
So fell Darius. Upon his crown,

In the midst of the barn-yard, he came down,
In a wonderful whirl of tangled strings,
Broken braces and broken springs,

Broken tail and broken wings,
Shooting-stars, and various things;
Barn-yard litter of straw and chaff,
And much that wasn't so sweet by half.
Away with a bellow fled the calf,

And what was that? Did the gosling laugh?
'Tis a merry roar from the old barn-door,
And he hears the voice of Jotham crying,
Say, D'rius! how do you like flyin'?'

Slowly, ruefully, where he lay,

Darius just turned and looked that way,
As he stanched his sorrowful nose with his cuff.
"Wal, I like flyin' well enough,"

He said; "but the' ain't such a thunderin' sight
O' fun in 't when ye come to light."

I just have room for the MORAL here:
And this is the moral-Stick to your sphere.
Or if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is-Take care how you light.

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY

ES he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Polly Bingham,) she says, I never found it out till after he died, Lut that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by bua. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it;

it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says

Teach him for to proclaim
Salvation to the folks;

No occasion give for any blame,
Nor wicked people's jokes.

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses.

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers :

He never jawed in all his life,

He never was onkind

And (tho' I say it that was his wife)

Such men you seldom find.

(That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)

I never changed my single lot

I thought 'twould be a sin

(Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever hud a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch"-seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could getbut I goes on to say—

I never changed my single lot,

I thought 'twould be a sin

For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott,

I never got married agin.

If ever a hasty word he spoke,

His anger dident last,

But vanished like tobacker smoke Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be The wife of such a man, Tell the men that's after me To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in

That's a fact-he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think-widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is they

couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin, and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Becott-and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back. He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin—so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had,

That felt for all mankind

It made him feel amazin' bad

To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not

That's as true as the Scripturs,-but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house, how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth-beside she always had a pertikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'-distracted after my husbana herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. See-where had I got to? Oh, I remember now

Whiskey and rum he tasted not

He thought it was a sin

I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

But now he's dead! the thought is killin',
My grief I can't control-
He never left a single shillin'

His widder to console.

dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper-used to swear like all possest when he got mad-and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n,t a man that cver said any. thing that wa'n't true`—I've heard him say Bill Jikins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth it he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console ”—ther ain't but one more verse, tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he "What did you stop so soon for?"--but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun-she's a purty crit ter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern-I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't-said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as follers :

I'll never change my single lot

I think 't would be a sin

The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bcdott
Don't intend to get married agin.

Excuse my cryin'-my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0 !

FRANCES MIRIAM WHITCHER.

PAT'S CRITICISM.

HERE'S a story that's old,

But good if twice told, Of a doctor of limited skill,

Who cured beast and man On the "cold-water plan," Without the small help of a pill.

On his portal of pine
Hung an elegant sign,
Depicting a beautiful rill,

And a lake where a sprite,
With apparent delight,
Was sporting in sweet dishabille.

Pat McCarty one day,

As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine; When the doctor with pride Stepped up to his side, Saying, "Pat, how is that for a sign?"

"There's wan thing," says Pat, "You've lift out o' that, Which, be jabers! is quoite a mistake. It's trim and it's nate;

But, to make it complate, Ye shud have a foine burd on the lake."