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For his was the error of head, not | A prince without pride, a man without heart,

And-oh, how beyond the ambushed

foe,

Who to enmity adds the traitor's part,

And carries a smile, with a curse below!

If ever a heart made bright amends For the fatal fault of an erring head

Go, learn his fame from the lips of friends,

In the orphan's tear be his glory read.

guile,

To the last unchanging, warm, sin

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'I NEVER give a kiss,' says Prue,
'To naughty man, for I abhor it.'
She will not give a kiss 'tis true,

She'll take one though, and thank you for it.

ON A SQUINTING POETESS.

To no one Muse does she her glance incline,
But has an eye at once to all the nine.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

'COME, come,' said Tom's father, 'at your time of life,
There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-

It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife.'

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Why so it is, father,-whose wife shall I take?'

ON

LIKE a snuffers this loving old dame,
By a destiny grievous enough,

Though so oft she has snapped at the flame,
Hath never caught more than the snuff.

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know, for a lover of pelf,

Is to buy up, at the price he is worth,

And then sell him at that which he gets on himself.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about

There's none like Jack, he's everywhere, At church-park-auction--dinner-rout,— Go where and when you will he's there. Try the world's end; he's at your back, Meets you, like Eurus, in the east: You're called upon for- How do, Jack?' One hundred times a day at least. A friend of his, one evening, said, As home he took his pensive wayUpon my soul, I fear Jack's dead, I've seen him but three times to-day!'

ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE.

Ir ever you've seen a gay party

Relieved from the presence of NedHow instantly joyous and hearty

They've grown when the damper was fledYou may guess what a gay piece of work, What delight to champagne it must be To get rid of its bore of a cork,

And come sparkling to you, love, and me.

BALLADS AND SONGS.

BLACK AND BLUE EYES.

THE brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts, without caring who feels 'em;

But the soft eye of blue, Though it scatter wounds too, Is much better pleased when it heals 'em.

Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!
The soft eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,

Is much better pleased when it heals 'em, dear Fanny!

The black eye may say,
'Come and worship my ray,-

By adoring, perhaps you may move

me!'

But the blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

'I love, and I'm yours if you love me!'
Dear Fanny! dear Fanny!
The blue eye, half hid,
Says, from under its lid,

I love, and am yours if you love me!' dear Fanny!

Then tell me, oh! why,

In that lovely eye,

Not a charm of its tint I discover ; Or why should you wear

The only blue pair

That ever said 'No' to a lover?
Dear Fanny dear Fanny!
Oh! why should you wear
The only blue pair

That ever said 'No' to a lover, dear
Fanny ?

CEASE, OH CEASE TO TEMPT.

CEASE, oh cease to tempt
My tender heart to love!

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Spring may bloom, but she we loved
Ne'er shall feel its sweetness!
Time, that once so fleetly moved,

Now hath lost its fleetness.
Years were days, when here she strayed,

Days were moments near her; Heaven ne'er formed a brighter maid, Nor Pity wept a dearer! Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touchOh how that touch enchanted!

HOLY BE THE PILGRIM'S SLEEP.

HOLY be the Pilgrim's sleep,

From the dreams of terror free; And may all, who wake to weep,

Rest to-night as sweet as he! Hark! hark! did I hear a vesper swell! No, no-it is my lovèd Pilgrim's prayer:

No, no-'twas but the convent bell,
That tolls upon the midnight air.

Holy be the Pilgrim's sleep!
Now, now again the voice I hear;
Some holy man is wandering near.

O Pilgrim! where hast thou been roaming?

Dark is the way, and midnight's coming. Stranger, I've been o'er moor and mountain,

To tell my beads at Agnes' fountain, And, Pilgrim, say, where art thou going? Dark is the way, the winds are blowing. Weary with wandering, weak, I falter, To breathe my vows at Agnes' altar. Strew, then, oh! strew his bed of rushes;

Here he shall rest till morning blushes.

Peace to them whose days are done,
Death their eyelids closing;
Hark! the burial-rite's begun-

'Tis time for our reposing.

Here, then, my Pilgrim's course is o'er ! 'Tis my master! 'tis my master:

Welcome here once more;
Come to our shed-all toil is over;
Pilgrim no more, but knight and lover.

I SAW THE MOON RISE CLEAR. |'Why thus in darkness lie?' whispered

I SAW the moon rise clear

O'er hills and vales of snow, Nor told my fleet reindeer The track I wished to go. But quick he bounded forth;

For well my reindeer knew I've but one path on earthThe path which leads to you,

The gloom that winter cast

How soon the heart forgets! When summer brings, at last, The sun that never sets. So dawned my love for you; Thus chasing every pain, Than summer sun more true, "Twill never set again.

JOYS THAT PASS AWAY.

Joys that pass away like this,
Alas! are purchased dear,
If every beam of bliss

Is followed by a tear.

Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
Soon, too soon thou'st broke the spell.
Oh! I ne'er can love again

The girl whose faithless art
Could break so dear a chain,

And with it break my heart.

Once, when truth was in those eyes,
How beautiful they shone!
But now that lustre flies,

For truth, alas! is gone.
Fare thee well! oh, fare thee well!
How I've loved my hate shall tell.
Oh! how lorn, how lost would prove
Thy wretched victim's fate,
If, when deceived in love,
He could not fly to hate!

LOVE AND THE SUN-DIAL.

YOUNG Love found a Dial once, in a dark shade, Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played;

young Love,

'Thou, whose gay hours should in sunshine move.'

'I ne'er,' said the Dial, 'have seen the warm sun,

So noonday and midnight to me, Love,

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LOVE AND TIME.

"TIS said-but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'emThat Love and Time have only got

One pair of wings between 'em. In courtship's first delicious hour,

The boy full oft can spare 'em,
So, loitering in his lady's bower,
He lets the gray-beard wear 'em.
Then is Time's hour of play;
Oh how he flies away!

But short the moments, short as bright,
When he the wings can borrow;
If Time to-day has had his flight,

Love takes his turn to-morrow.

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