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REMORSE OF DE MOOR.

I must rest here. My joints are shaken asunder. My tongue cleaves to my mouth. How glorious, how majestic, yonder setting sun! 'Tis thus the hero falls, 'tis thus he dies, in god-like majesty! When I was a boy, a mere child, it was my favorite thought, to live and die like that sun. 'Twas an idle thought, a boy's conceit. There was a time, there was a time, when I could not sleep, if I had forgotten my prayers! Oh that I were a child once more!

That scene

What a lovely evening! what a pleasing landscape! is noble! this world is beautiful! the earth is grand! But I am hideous in this world of beauty: a monster on this magnificent earth: the prodigal son! My innocence! Oh my innocence!

All nature expands at the sweet breath of spring; but, oh, this paradise, this heaven, is a hell to me! All is happiness around me: all is the sweet spirit of peace: the world is one family: but its Father there above is not my father! I am an outcast! the prodigal son! the companion of murderers, of viperous Яends! bound down, enchained to guilt and horror!

Oh! that I could return once more to peace and innocence! that I were once more an infant! that I were born a beggar! the meanest kind! a peasant of the field! I would toil, till the sweat of blood dropped from my brow, to purchase the luxury of one sound sleep,

the rapture of a single tear! There was a time when I could weep with ease. Oh, days of bliss! Oh, mansion of my fathers! Scenes of my infant years, enjoyed by fond enthusiasm! Will you no more return? No more exhale your sweets to cool this burning bosom? Oh, never, never shall they return! No more refresh this bosom with the breath of peace! They are gone! gone forever!

J. C. F. VON SCHILLER.

WHEN THE KYE COME HAME

Come, all ye jolly shepherds,

That whistle through the glen!

I'll tell ye o' a secret

That courtiers dinna ken:

What is the greatest bliss

That the tongue o' man can name?

'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie

When the kye come hame,

When the kye come hame,

When the kye come hame,—
'Tween the gloomin' an' the mirk,
When the kye come hame.

'Tis not beneath the burgonet,
Nor yet beneath the crown;
'Tis not on couch o' velvet,
Nor yet in bed o' down:
'Tis beneath the spreading birk,
In the glen without the name,
Wi' a bonnie, bonnie lassie,
When the kye come hame.

There the blackbird bigs his nest,
For the mate he lo'es to see,

And on the tapmost bough
O, a happy bird is he!

THE EDITOR..

The editor sat in his easy chair,
But he sat not easy; there being an air
Of anxious thought beclouding his brow,
As if rightly he knew not what or how
To do in some matter of moment great,
On which depended a throne or a state;
When, all of a sudden, flew open wide
The office door, and, with hasty stride,
A loaferish figure came stalking in
With a rubicund phiz, and hairy chi
(The former a product directly of gi
And with fiery eye and menacing
He made right up to the editor's c

"Are you

the ran

What edits the paper?

I've come to tan

Your hide for that caper.

You called me a villain; you called me a rogue;

A way of speaking, sir, too much in vogue With you fellows that handle the printing press. Defend yourself, sir! I demand a redress."

The editor quailed,
Decidedly paled,

But just at the moment his courage gave way, His genius stepped in, and gained him the day. "I'm not the person you seek," he said; "If you want redress, go straight to the head. He's not far off, and will settle affairs,

I have n't a doubt. I'll call him up stairs."

Then down he went

As if he were sent,

A fire, or something worse to prevent.
Meanwhile there came, through a door below,
Another somebody to deal him a blow;

A scamp well known to annals of fame,
Whom, the hapless editor hoping to tame,
Had ventured to publish, and that by name.

At the foot of the stair,

Or near it somewhere,

The monster met him, demanding redress,
And, just like the other, began to press
Poor editor hard with a Billingsgate mess,
And threaten forthwith his hide to dress;
When necessity, mother of all invention,
And a brain editorial, used to tension,
Contrived a means of diverting attention.

Stranger," said he,

"Be not too free

In applying abusive words to me;

Up stairs is the person you wish to see."
Up stairs all raging, the rowdy flew,
(Neither complainant the other knew)
So the moment they met, without more ado,
At it they went, in a regular set to.

A terrible tussle,

A terrible bustle,

They make, as round the room they wrestle;
There were but few words, but plenty of blows,
For they fought like a couple of deadly foes,
Till each had acquired a bloody nose;
And each had the pleasure distinctly to spy,
in the face of the other, a very black eye!