When we are pleasantly employed time flies;
He counted up his profits, in the skies,
Until the moon began to shine,
On which he gazed awhile, and then

Pulled out his watch, and cried-" Past nine, Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten."-

Backward he turn'd his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main ;
And, though 'tis plain

He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it) he Marched well for one of such obesity. Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping, He puffed and blew along the road, Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping, When in his path he met a clown Returning from the town.

Tell me," he panted, in a thawing state, "Dost think I can get in friend, at the gate ?" "Get in !" replied the hesitating loon, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, "Why-yes, Sir,I should think you might, "A load of hay went in this afternoon."

DEEPLY shadow'd by the night,

On the platform'd tower he stands ;

And his lonely hour is bright

With the dream of conquer'd lands,
Where his chosen bands have striven;

Where his plumed host appears,

And its soaring eagle bears

Its boast of blood and tears

Unto heaven!

Hush'd in silent midnight sleep
The city lies below;

And the watch-call hoarse and deep,
As he paceth to and fro,
Sternly breaks its deep repose.
Lo! kindling one by one,
A thousand lights are shown;
Each meteor-like and lone
Brightly glows!

"Say! hath the licensed hour,
With years of danger bought,
Hath the wine-cup's wanton power
To my hardy veterans taught
Deeds of riot-rapine-shame?
Have they bade yon flames arise
To tell the crimson skies
That the stain of outrage lies
On our name?

"Or doth my warriors' mirth
Yon fires in triumph raise,
To scare the shuddering earth
With the terrors of their blaze?
Like a flag of war unfurl'd,
Doth yon flood of radiance flow
From our camp ?"-" Invader, -no!
"Tis a beacon-fire, whose glow
Cheers the world!"-

"Lo! its fury rageth higher,
Column'd upward to the sky,
Like that pyramid of fire

Gleaming of old, on high

To guide the people of the Lord.-Soldiers of Fame! come forth,-Let the Empress of the North Note your valour's daring worth, At my word.

"Tear down each smoking wall
Of her city doom'd to death;
Ere her towers unaided fall,

Lie bravely earth'd beneath,
Where her bulwarks darkly nod!"
-"Invader! stay thy hand,---
Those mighty flames are fann'd
By the patriots of the land,
And their God!

"The sulphureous smoke pours down
To mock the conqueror's flight-
Flames gather like a crown

Round the Kremlin's sacred height:--
Invader! thou shalt find,

That before the blazing war
Of yon flames that shed afar
Their glorious light-thy star
Hath declined!"

THE LAND OF MY BIRTH.

DEAR Cambria! I love thee, thy vales and thy mountains,

And beauty and grandeur proclaim thee their home: Whilst dark flowing streams and crystalliz'd fountains, O'er thy fertiliz'd bosom delightfully roam.

earth:

But lovelier than all are thy beautiful daughters, Whose smiles are like sunbeams that gladden the [waters, Those forms are more fair than the nymphs of the They bless and adorn thee, lov'd Land of my Birth.

Dear Cambria! I love thee, the home of my fathers, Whom liberty honour'd as chiefs in her cause; Though hoary destruction now silently gathers Around the grey relics that speak their applause:

And sympathy raises with tears of affection,
A lasting memorial of infinite worth,
To those who shelter from sword and subjection,
E'en dying defended thee, Land of my Birth.
Dear Cambria! I love thee, long famed in thy glory,
And forthcoming ages shall cherish thy fame;
The deeds of thy heroes unrivalled in story,

With trophies immortal now blazon thy name. No more may fierce war's bloody trumpet sound o'er thee, [mirth; Be thy battle hymns changed for the anthems of May the song of the bard have no cause to deplore thee, But peace ever smile on thee, Land of my Birth.

NUMBER ONE.

Ir's very hard, and so it is,
To live in such a row ;
And witness this, that every Miss
But me has got a beau:

For love goes calling up and down,
But here he seems to shun;
I'm sure he has been ask'd enough
To call at Number One.

I'm sick of all the double knocks
That come to Number Four;
At Number Three I often see,
A lover at the door.

And one in blue at Number Two,
Calls daily like a dun ;

It's very hard they come so near,
And not to Number One.

Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear
Exactly to her mind,

By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind.

But I go in the Balcony,
Which she has never done,

Yet arts that thrive at Number Five,
Don't take at Number One.

"Tis hard with plenty in the street,
And plenty passing by-

There's nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy.

And Mrs. Smith, across the way,

Has got a grown-up son;
But la, he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One.

There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf,

And though he's pious, will not love
His neighbour as himself.
At Number Seven there was a sale,
The goods had quite a run;
And here I've got my single lot,
On hand at Number One.

My mother often sits at work,
And talks of props and stays;
And what a comfort I shall be
In her declining days.

The very maids about the house,
Have set me down a nun;

The sweethearts all belong to them
That call at Number One.

Once only, when the flue took fire
One Friday afternoon,

Young Mr. Long came kindly in,
And told me not to swoon.
Why can't he come again without
The Phoenix and the sun?
We cannot always have a flue
On fire at Number One.