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You've set me talking, Sir; I'm sorry ;

It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? you find it strange?
I had a mother so proud of me!

'Twas well she died before-- Do yon know
If the happy spirits in heaven can see

The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden

This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,

Aching thing, in place of a heart?
He is sad sometines, and would weep, if he could,

No doubt, remembering things that were,
A viruous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.
I'm better now; that glass was warming.--

You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.-
Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,
And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;--

The sooner, the better for Ruger and me!

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KTA

HENRY VIII.--Shakspeare.
NAY, then, farewell,
I have touch'd the highest poiiit of all my greatnes. ;
And, from that full meridian of my glory,
I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.
So farewell to the little good you bear ne.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man: to-day he puts fortlı

But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride.
At length broke under me; and now has left nie,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new open'd. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors !
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have.
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!
Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
Let's dry our eyes: and thus far bear me, Cromwell;
And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
And sleep in dull coli marble, where no mention
Of me must more be heard,-say, then, I taught thee,--
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruin'd me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, lling away ambition !
By that sin fell the angels : how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by't ?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee, -
Corruption wins not more than honesty;
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
And,- - Prithee, lead me in:
There, take an inventory of all I have,
To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call mine own. O, Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he wonld not, in mine age,
Ilave left me naked to mine enemies !

DEATH OF JOHN Q. ADAMS.-By I. E. IIolmes. Mr. SPEAKER: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the Price of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state - Massach isctts, weeping for her honored son. The state I

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have the honor in part to represent once endured, with yours, a common suffering, battled for a common cause, and rejoiced in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet, that in this the day of your affliction, we should mingle our griefs.

When a great man falls, the nation mourns; when a patriarch is removed, the people weep: Ours, my associates, is no common bereavement. The chain which linked our hearts with the gifted spirits of former times has been suddenly snapped. The lips from which flowed those living and glorious truths that our fathers uttered are closed in death. Yes, my friends, Death has been among us! He has not entered the humble cottage of some unknown, ignoble peasant; he has knocked audibly at the palace of a nation! His footstep has been heard in the halls of state! He has cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a people. He has borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah! he has taken him as a trophy who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and learning, and truth; he has borne at his chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth.

How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wisdom as they fell from the lips of the venerable Sage, we can all remember, for it was but of yesterday. But what a change! How wondrous ! how sudden! Tis like a vision of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days since is now cold in death!

But the last Sabbath, and in this hall he worshipped with others. Now his spirit mingles with the noble army of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the living God. With him, “this is the end of earth.” He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone-and forever! The sun that ushers in the morn of that next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the capitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the consecrated spot beneath whose turf forever lies the PATRIOT FATHER and the PATOS SAGE.

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THE FIELD OF WATERL00.-Byron.

There

was

As the ground was before, thus let it be.

llow that red rain hath' made the harvest grow! And is this all the world has gained by thee, Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory?

a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; And all went merry as a marriage-bell. Bat hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street: On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined !

Vo sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying leet!
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,

And canght its tone with death's prophetic ear:

And when they smiled because he deemed it near His heart more truly knew that peal too well,

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell! Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ! And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Last noon belield them full of lusty life;

Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife

The morn, the marshaling in arms—the day,

Battle's magnificently stern array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it; which, when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.

JOSII BILLINGS ON COURTING.

COURTING is a luxury, it is sallad, it is ise water, it is a beveridge, it is the pla spell ov the soul. The man who has never courted haz lived in vain : he haz bin a blind man amung landskapes and waterskapes; he has bin a deff man in the land ov hand orgins, and by the side ov murmuring ca. nals. Courting iz like 2 little springs ov soft water that steal out from under a rock at the fut ov a mountain and run down the hill side by side singing and dansing and spatering each uther, eddying and frothing and kaskading, now hiding under bank, now full ov sun, and now full ov sladder, till bimeby tha jine and then tha go slow. I am in faver ov long courting; it gives the parties a chance to find out each uther's trump kards, it iz good exercise, and is jist as innersent as ? merino lambs. Courting iz like strawberries and cream, wants tew be did slow, then yu git the flaver. I hav saw folks git ackquainted, fall in luv, git marrid, settel down and git tew wurk, in 3 weeks from date. This is jist the wa sum folks larn a trade, and akounts for the grate number ov almitey mean mechanicks we hav, and the poor jobs tha turn out.

Perhaps it iz best i shud state sum good advise tew yung men, who are about tew court with a final view to matrimony, az it waz. In the fust plase, yung man, yu want tew git yure system awl rite, and then find a yung woman who iz willing tew be courted on the square. The nex thing is tew find out how old she is, which yu kan dew bi asking her and she will

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