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A great frequenter of the church,
Where, bishoplike, he finds a perch,
And dormitory too.
Above the steeple shines a plate,
That turns and turns, to indicate
From what point blows the weather:
up-your brains begin to swim,
Tis in the clouds—that pleases him,
He chooses it the rather.
Fond of the speculative height,
Thither he wings his airy flight,
And thence securely sees
The bustle and the rareeshow,
That occupy mankind below,
Secure and at his ease.
You think, no doubt, he sits and muses
On future broken bones and bruises,
If he should chance to fall.
No; not a single thought like that
Employs his philosophic pate,
Or troubles it at all.
He sees, that this great roundabout,
The world, with all its motley rout,
Church, army, physic, law,
Its customs, and its bus'nesses,
Is no concern at all of his,
And says—what says he?-Caw.
Thrice happy bird! I too have seen
Much of the vanities of men;
And, sick of having seen 'em,
Would cheerfully these limbs resign
For such a pair of wings as thine,
And such a head between 'em.
4.-MARCELLUS'S SPEECH TO THE MOB.
WHEREFORE rejoice? that Cæsar comes in triumph ?
What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome,
To grace in captive bonds his chariot-wheels ?
You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things!
O, you hard hearts ! you cruel men of Rome!
Knew you not Pompey? many a time and oft
you climbed up to walls and battlements,
To towers and windows, yea, to chimney-tops,
Your infants in your arms, and there have sat
The livelong day, with patient expectation,
To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome:
And when you saw his chariot but appear,
Have you not made a universal shout,
That Tiber trembled underneath her banks,
To hear the replication of your sounds,
Made in her concave shores?
And do you now put on your best attire?
And do you now cull out a holiday?
And do you now strew flowers in his way,
That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood?
Run to your houses, fall upon your knees,
Pray to the gods to intermit the plagues
That needs must light on this ingratitude. SHAKSPEARE.
5.--THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note,
As his corse to the ramparts we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell-shot,
O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun,
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-
But we left him alone with his glory.
OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been
To see whatever could be seen,
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before,
Whatever word you chanced to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop,
“Sir, if my judgment you'll allow
" I've seen-and sure I ought to know”_
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.
Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they past,
And on their way in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that,
Discoursed a while, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
“ A stranger animal,” cries one,
« Sure never lived beneath the sun :
• A lizard's body lean and long,
" A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
“ Its foot with triple claw disjoined;
“ And what a length of tail behind !
“ How slow its pacel and then its hue
" Who ever saw so fine a blue !"
Hold there!" the other quick replies,
“ 'Tis green-I saw it with these eyes,
“ As late with open mouth it lay,
6 And warmed it in the sunny ray;
“ Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed,
" And saw it eat the air for food."
" I've seen it, sir, as well as you, “And must again affirm it blue. • At leisure I the beast surveyed, “ Extended in the cooling shade."
“ 'Tis green, 'tis green, sir, I assure ye"“ Green!” cries the other in a fury
Why, sir,—d'ye think I've lost my eyes ?”
“ 'Twere no great loss," the friend replies;
“ For, if they always serve you thus,
" You'll find 'em but of little use."
So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third-
To him the question they referred;
And begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,
Whether the thing was green or blue.
Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother, • The creature's neither one nor t'other, “ I caught the animal last night, “ And viewed it o'er by candlelight: “ I marked it well—'twas black as jet“ You stare—but, sirs, I've got it yet, “ And can produce it.”- Pray, sir, do: “ I'll lay my life the thing is blue.” “ And I'll be sworn, that when you've seen “ The reptile, you'll pronounce him green." “ Well then, at once to end the doubt," Replies the man, “ I'll turn him out: “ And when before your eyes I've set him,
If you don't find him black, I'll eat him.”
He said; then full before their sight
Produced the beast, and lo!-'twas white.
7.-RODERICK DHU'S VINDICATION OF THE PREDATORY HABITS
Saxon, from yonder mountain high,
I marked thee send delighted eye,
Far to the south and east, where lay,
Extended in succession gay,
Deep waving fields and pastures green,
With gentle slopes and groves between :-
These fertile plains, that softened vale,
Were once the birthright of the Gael;
The stranger came with iron hand,
And from our fathers reft the land.
Where dwell we now! see, rudely swell
Crag over crag, and fell o'er fell.
Ask we this savage hill we tread
For fattened steer or household bread;
Ask we for food these shingles dry,
And well the mountain might reply,
Belong the target and claymore!
"I give you shelter in my breast,
“ Your own good blades must win the rest.
“ Pent in this fortress of the north,
“ Thinkst thou we will not sally forth,
“ To spoil the spoiler as we may,
“ And from the robber rend the prey ?
Ay, by my soul !—While on yon plain
6. The Saxon rears one shock of grain;
While, of ten thousand herds, there strays
“ But one along yon river's maze, —
“ The Gael, of plain and river heir,
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share.”