'Fire and fury! double shadows
On their bedroom windows ne'er,
To my knowledge, have been cast by
Ladies virtuous and fair.

"False, abandon'd Mandolina!

Fare thee well, for evermore !

Vengeance!' shrieked I, 'vengeance, vengeance !' And I thunder'd through the door.

This event occurr'd next morning;
Mandolina staring sat,

Stark amazed, as out I tumbled,
Raving mad, without a hat!

Six weeks after I'd a letter,

On its road six weeks delay'd

With a dozen re-directions

From the lost one, and it said:

'Foolish, wicked, cruel Albert!

Base suspicion's doubts resign; Double lights throw double shadows! Mandolina-ever thine.'

'Heavens, what an ass!' I mutter'd,

'Not before to think of that!'

And again I rush'd excited

To the rail, without a hat.

'Mandolina! Mandolina!'

When her house I reach'd, I cried:
'Pardon, dearest love!' she answer'd—
'I'm the Russian Consul's bride !'

Thus, by Muscovite barbarian,

And by Fate, my life was cross'd;
Wonder ye I start at shadows?
Types of Mandolina lost.

THE HAPPY MAN.

From the French of Gilles Ménage, one of the most distinguished men of letters in France, who was born at Angers in 1613. Died, 1692. He is now best known as the Author of Ménagiana, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Goldsmith's Madame Blaize, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it.

LA GALLISSE now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,

I'm sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.

La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,

Not used to any dainty

When he was born-but could not want,

As long as he had plenty.

Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well bred,

And never used a hat to wear,
But when 'twas on his head.

His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father's fashion;
And never quarrels broil'd his blood,
Except when in a passion.

His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent,
The day before Good Friday.

He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell,
He thought it best to drink it.

Than doctors more he loved the cook, Though food would make him gross;

And never any physic took,

But when he took a dose.

O happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore ;

For many followed in his train,

Whene'er he walk'd before.

Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone ;

And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.

His talents I can not rehearse,

But every one allows,

That whatsoe'er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.

He argued with precision nice,
The learned all declare ;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.

His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight:

He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.

They liked him much-so it appears Most plainly-who preferr'd him ; And those did never want their ears, Who any time had heard him.

He was not always right, 'tis true,
And then he must be wrong;

But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.

Whene'er a tender tear he shed,
'Twas certain that he wept ;

And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.

In tilting everybody knew

His very high renown;

Yet no opponents he o'erthrew,

But those that he knock'd down.

At last they smote him in the head—
What hero e'er fought all?

And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.

And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;

For that sad day that seal'd his death,
Deprived him of his life.

TO A LADY,

Who asked me to write for her a Poem of ninety lines.

H. G. BELL.

TASK a horse beyond his strength,
And the horse will fail at length;
Whip a dog, the poor dog whines-
Yet you ask for ninety lines.