TIME NOT TO BE RECALLED.

MARK that swift arrow, how it cuts the air,—
How it out-runs the following eye!
Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou cans't call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No track is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou
Of all the time thou'st shot away
I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

REASONS FOR HUMILITY.-Beattie.

ONE part, one little part, we dimly scan,
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem;
Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem.
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise:
O! then renounce that impious self-esteem
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;
For thou art but of dust,-be humble and be wise.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.-Shakspeare.

BANISHED from Rome!-what's banished but set free
From daily contact of the things I loathe?

'Tried and convicted traitor!"-Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished?-I thank you for't. It breaks my chain!
I held some slack allegiance till this hour-
But now my sword's my own. Smile on, my lords!
I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes,
Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,
I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.
But here I stand and scoff you:-here I fling
Hatred and full defiance in your face.

THE DYING GLADIATOR.-Lord Byron,

I SEE before me the Gladiator lie:
He leans upon his hand,--his manly brow

Consents to death, but conquers agony,

And nis drooped head sinks gradually low,-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him-he is gone,

Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not: his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was his Dacian mother, he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday,—

All this rushed with his blood.-Shall he expire,
And unavenged?—Arise, ye Goths, and glut your 're.

A LECTURE ON PATENT MEDICINES.-By Dr. Puff Stuff.

LADIES and Gentlemen:-My name is Puff Stuff, the physician to that great and mighty Han Kann, Emperor of all the Chinas; I was converted to Christianity during the em bassy of the late Lord Macartney, and left that there country, and came to this here, which may be reckoned the greatest blessing that ever happened to Europe, for I've brought with me the following unparalleled, inestimable, and never-to-bematched medicines: the first is called the great Parry Mandyron Rapskianum, from Whandy Whang Whang-one drop of which, poured into any of your gums, if you should have the misfortune to lose your teeth, will cause a new set to sprout out, like mushrooms from a hot-bed; and if any lady should happen to be troubled with that unpleasant and redundant exuberance, called a beard, it will remove it in three applications, and with greater ease than Packwood's razor strops.

I'm also very celebrated in the cure of eyes; the late Emperor of China had the misfortune to lose his eyes by a cataract. I very dexterously took out the eyes of his Majesty, and after anointing the sockets with a particular glutinous application, I placed in two eyes from the head of a living lion, which not only restored his Majesty's vision, but made him dreadful to all his enemies and beholders. I beg leave to say, that I have hyes from different hannimals, and to suit all your different faces and professions. This here bottle which I holds in my and, is called the great-elliptical-asiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, which cures all the diseases incident to

humanity. I don't like to talk of myself, ladies and gentlemen, because the man that talks of himself is a Hegotist; but this I will venture to say, that I am not only the greatest physician and philosopher of the age, but the greatest genius that ever illuminated mankind-but you know I don't like to talk of myself: you should only read one or two of my lists of cures, out of the many thousands I have by me; if you knew the benefits so many people have received from my grand-elliptical-asiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, that cures all diseases incident to humanity, none of you would be such fools as to be sick at all. I'll just read one or two. (Reads several letters.) Sir, I was jammed to a jelly in a linseedoil mill; cured with one bottle. 'Sir, I was cut in half in a saw-pit; cured with one bottle." Sir, I was boiled to death in a soap-manufactory; cured with half a bottle." Now comes the most wonderful of all.

66

66

"Sir, venturing too near a powder-mill at Faversham, I was, by a sudden explosion, blown into a million of atoms; by this unpleasant accident, I was rendered unfit for my business, (a banker's clerk); but, hearing of your grand-ellipticalasiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, I was persuaded to make essay thereof; the first bottle united my strayed particles; the second animated my shattered frame; the third effected a radical cure; the fourth sent me home to Lombardy street, to count guineas, make out bills for acceptance, and recount the wonderful effects of your grand-elliptical-asiatical panticnrial-nervous cordial, that cures all diseases incident to huDanity."

KNEEL AT NO HUMAN SHRINE.—By A. F. K.

"Must then that peerless form,

Which love and admiration cannot view,
Without a beating of the heart; those veins,
That steal like streams along a field of snow,
That lovely outline that is fair

As breathing marble, perish?”

KNEEL not, oh! friend of mine, before a shrine,
That bears the impress of humanity;

Have thou no idol; lest those hopes of thine,
Prove but false lights upon a treacherous sea.

SHELLEY.

Know'st thou that clouds freighted with storm and rain,
Will overspread with darkest gloom again,

Yon azure sky?

Know'st thou that rose that blooms beside thy door,
Will waste upon the gale its fragrant store,
And fade and die?

Know also that the loved and tried for years,
The cynosure of all thy hopes and fears,
May pass thee by.

Maiden! upon whose fair unclouded brow,
Half hid by many a curl of clustering hair,
I mark the buds of promise bursting now,
Unmingled with a thought of future care,
Thou, for whose sake the bridal wreath is made,
For whom the rose in spotless white arrayed,
Expands its leaf,

Oh! let me teach thee, as a sister may,
A lesson thou should'st bear in mind alway,
That life is brief;

That bridal flowers have decked the silent bier,
And smiles of joy been melted with the tear
Of burning grief.

Mother! who gazeth with a mother's joy,
And all a mother's changeless love and pride,
Upon the noble forehead of thy boy,

Who stands in childish beauty by thy side,
And gazing through the mists of coming time,
Beholds him standing in the verdant prime
Of manhood's day;

I warn thee! build no castles in the air,
That form, so full of life-so matchless fair,
Is only clay,

That bud just bursting to a perfect flower,
May, like the treasures of thy garden bower
Soon pass away.

Father! whose days though in "the yellow leaf,"
Have golden tints from life's rich sunset thrown,
Whose heart, a stranger to the pangs of grief,
Still suns itself within the loves of home,
Who with thy dear companion by thy side,
Hast felt thy barque adown life's current glide
With peaceful breeze,

Burn thou no incense here! hast thou not seen
The forest change its summer robe of green,
For leafless trees?

Believe me, all who breathe the vital breath,
Are subjects to the laws of life and death,
And so are these.

Ah! yes! beneath the church-vard's grassy mound,
Too many an early smitten idol lies,

Too many a star of promise has gone down

The soul's horizon, never more to rise,

For thou to safely rear thy temple here,
And fancy while the storm cloud hovers near,
It stands secure;

Oh! trust it not; that flash of brilliant light,
Will only from the thorny path of night,
Thy steps allure;

One arm that never fails, that never tires,
That moves in harmony the Heavenly choirs,
Alone is sure.

Be this thy Spirit's anchor; that when all
Most near and dear to thee shall pass away,
When pride, and power and human hope shall fall,
A faith in God shall be thy shield and stay.
Lay up thy treasures, where the hand of time,
The storms and changes of this fickle clime,
Shall seek in vain;

Where the bright dreams of youth, shall know no blight
The days of love and joy, no starless night,

And life no pain,

And where thon yet shalt find when cares are o'er
The loved and lost ones who have "gone before,"
Are thine again.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.—By Duferin.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side

On a bright May morning, long ago,
When first you were my bride;

The corn was springing fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high;
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.