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And yet, though scarce three months have passed since

the day All this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway, This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, When asked to i ball was in utter despair, Because she had nothing whatever to wear! But the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising;

I find there exists the greatest distress In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress; Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air With the pitiful wail of “ Nothing to wear!"

Oh ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day
Please trundle your loops just out of Broadway,
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt
Their children have gathered, their lovels have built;
Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair ;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,

Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold; See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street, Then liome to your wardrobes, and say, il you dare, Spoiled children of fashion,-you've nothing to wear!

And, oh, is perchance there should be a sphere,
Where all is made right which so puzles us here;
Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time
Fade and die in the light of that region sublime;
Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense,
Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence,
Must be clotlied for the life and the service above,
With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love;
Oh, daughters of earth ! foolish virgins, beware!
Lest, in that upper realm,—you have nothing to wear!

Wm. Allen Butler.

him in the topmost place in his party--who has been heard to speak of the Irish as aliens." Disdaining all imposture, and abandoning all reserve, he distinctly and audaciously tells the Irish people that they are not entitled to the same privileges as Englishmen; that they are "aliens." Aliens? Good beavens! Was Arthur, Duke of Wellington, in the House of Lords, and did he not start up and exclaim, Hold! I have seen the aliens do their duty!The“ battles, sieges, fortunes that he has passed," ought to have come back upon him. He ought to have remembered that, from the earliest acheivement in which be displayed that military genius which has placed him foremost in the annals of modern warfare, down to that last and surpassing combat, which has made bis name imperishable, -from Assaye to Waterloo,—the Irish sol. diers, with whom your armies are filled, were the inseparable auxiliaries to the glory with which bis unparalleled successes have been crowned.

Whose were the arms that drove your bayonets at Vimiera through the phalanxes that never reeled in the shock of war before? Wbat desperate valor climbed the steeps and filled the moats of Badajos ? All, all bis victories should have rushed and crowded back upon his memory; Vimiera, Badajos, Salamanca, Albuera, Toulouse; and, last of all, the greatest -Tell me, for you were there,—I appeal to the gallant soldier before me (Sir Henry Tardinge), who bears, I know, a generous heart in an intrepid breast;ếtell me, for you must needs remember, -on that day, when the destinies of mankind were trembling in the balance, while death fell in showers; when the artillery of France, leveled with the precision of the most deadly science, played upon them; when her legions, incited by the voice, inspired by the example, of their mighty leader, rushed again and again to the onset, -tell me if, for an instant, when to hesitate for an instant was to be lost, the “aliens” blenched ! And when, at length, the moment for the last decisive movement had arrived; when the valor, so long wisely checked, was at last let loose; when with words familiar, but immortal, the great captain commanded the great assault ----tell me if Catholic Ireland with less heroic valor than the natives of your own glorious isle precipitated herself upon the foe! The Flood of England, Scotland, Ireland, flowed in the same stream, drenched the same field. When the chill morning dawned, their dead lay cold and stark together; in the same deep pit their bodies were deposited ; the green corn of spring is now breaking from their commingled dust; the dew falls from heaven upon their union in the grave! Partakers in every peril; in the glory sball we not be permitted to participate?—and shall we be told, as a requital, that we are estranged from the noble country for whose salvation our life-blood was poured out?

R. L. Shiel.


A PARSON, who a missionary had been,
And hardships and privations oft had seen,
While wandering far on lone and desert strands,
A weary traveller in benighted lands,
Would often picture to his little flock
The terrors of the gibbet and the block;
How martyrs suffer'd in the ancient times,
And what men suffer now in other climes;
And though his words were eloquent and deep,
His hearers oft indulged themselves in sleep.
le marked with sorrow cach unconscions nod,
Within the portals of the house of God,
And once this new expedient thought he'd take
In his discourse, to keep the rogues awake-
Said he, “ While travelling in a distant state,
I witness'd scenes which I will here relate:
'Twas in a deep, uncultivated wild,
Where noontide glory scarely ever smiled ;
Where wolves in hours of midnight darkness lowl'd-
Where bears frequented, and where panthers prowid;
And, on my word, mosquitoes there were found,
Many of which, I think, would weighi a pound!
More fierce and ravenous than the hungry sliark-
They oft were known to climb the trees and bark !"
The audience seem'd taken by surprise-
All stated up and rubbid their wondering eyes;
At such a tale they all were much amazed,
Each drooping lid was in an instant raised,
And we must say, in keeping heads erect,
It had its destinel aud desired effect.

But tales like this credulity appall’d;
Next day, the deacons on the pastor call’d,
And berg'il to know how he could ever tell
The foolish falsehoods from his lips that fell.
“Why, sir, "said one, “think whata monstrous weight!
Were they as large as you were pleased to state ?
You said they'd weigli a pound! It cau't be true;
We'll not believe it, though 'tis toll hy you!"
“Ali, but it is !" the parson quick replied;
“In what I stated you may well contide;
Many, I said, sir-and the story's good-
Indeed I think that many of them woule!"
The deacon sw at once that he was caught,
Yet deem'd himself relieved, on second thought.
“ But then the barking-think of that, good man !
Such monstrous lies! Explain it if you can!"

Why, that my friend, I can explain with ease-
They climbed the bark, sir, when they climbed the trees !


GREAT King William spread before him

All his stores of wealth untold, -
Diamonds, emeralds, and rubies,

Heaps on leaps of minted gold.
Mournfully be gazed upon it

As it glittered in the sun,
Sigling to himself “Oh! treasure,

Held in care, by sorrow won!
Millions think me rich and happy ;

But, alas! before me piled,
I would give thee ten times over

For the slumbers of a child !"

Great King William from his turret

Ileard the martial trumpets blow;
Saw the crimson banners tioating

Of a countless lost below;
Saw their weapons flash in sunlight,

As the squadrons trod the sward;
And he sighed, “Oh, inighty arnıy,

Hear thy miserable lord :
At my word tlıy legions gather,

At my nod tly captains bend;
But, with all thy power and splendor,

I would give thee for a friend!

Great King William stood on Windsor,

Looking, from its castled height,
O’er his wide-spread realm of Eugland

Glittering in the morning light;
Looking on the tranquil river

And the forest waving free;
And he sighed, “Oh ! land of beauty,

Fondled by the circling sea,
Mine thou art, but I would yield thee

And be happy, could I gain,
In exchange, a peasant's garden,
And a conscience free from stain !"

Charles Mackay.


I SNEERED when I heard the old priest complain
That the doomed seemed voiceless and dull of brain ;
For why should the felon be other than dumb
As he stands at the gate of the world to come?
Let them lock up his Reverence bere in the cell,
Waiting the sound of the morning bell
That leralds his dying and tolls his kuell,

And the tick-tock

Of the great jail clock
Will attract lim more than the holiest prayer
That ever was mingled with dungeon air.

Will it never be morning-never arise
The great red sun in the cold gray skies,
Thrusting its rays in my iron-barred cell,
And lighting the city I know so well?
Is this horrible night forever to be-
The phantom I feel, though I camot see-
Is that to be ever alone with me?

Will the tick-tock

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