And all that tore their locks of black, Ah no! the living oak shall crash, The rock shall rend its mossy base Shall add one word, to tell Whose name she knows so well. Peace to the ever-murmuring race! Shall fold in death her feeble wings Then shall she raise her fainting voice, And then the child of future years THE SPECTRE PIG. A BALLAD. IT was the stalwart butcher man And oh! it was the gentle Pig Lay stretched upon the ground, And ah! it was the cruel knife They took him then, those wicked men, And through his heels a thong; And round and round an oaken beam A hempen cord they flung, And, like a mighty pendulum, All solemnly he swung! Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, And think what thou hast done, And read thy catechism well, Thou bloody-minded one; For, if his sprite should walk by night, It better were for thee That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea. It was the savage butcher then It was the butcher's youngest son,- All young and ignorant was he, And, in his soft simplicity, Out spoke the tender child: O father, father, list to me; And men have hung him by his heels, It was the bloody butcher then That laughed as he would die, "O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig, It was the butcher's daughter then, That sobbed as if her heart would break, And thus she spoke in thrilling tone,- "Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas! Then did her wicked father's lips Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones, The bright sun folded on his breast And softly over all the west The shades of evening came. He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks, Wide yawned their mortal seams The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard ; He opened both his eyes, And sullenly he shook his tail To lash the feeding flies. One quiver of the hempen cord,- And straight towards the sleeper's house Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch, And little mincing feet were heard Pat pat along the floor. Two hoofs upon the sanded floor, And two upon the bed; And they are breathing side by side, The living and the dead! Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man! Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear Untwisted every winding coil; The shuddering wretch took hold; All like an icicle it seemed, So tapering and so cold. "Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"— He strives to loose his grasp, And open, open swung the door, Fast fled the darkness of the night, They called full loud, they knocked full long, Straight, straight towards that oaken beam A ghastly shape was swinging there,― PARK BENJAMIN. [Born in 1809 at Demerara, of a New England family; died towards 1865 Practised as an attorney at Boston. Afterwards took to magazine-writing and general literature, and published a great number of compositions, in verse and prose. Two of his principal poems are satires, named Poetry and Infatuation]. INDOLENCE. THERE is no type of indolence like this :- To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found Some are asleep; some whistle, try to sing; But every lubber there is lazy as a king. MATTHEW C. FIELD. [Born in 1812, died in 1844. Irish by parentage, and a Londoner by place of birth, but living in the United States from four years of age. He published much verse, and much prose also, in journals of the Southern States, from 1834 onwards]. TO MY SHADOW. SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men, Constant and close to friends while fortune's bright. Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done, Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet, JOHN GODFREY SAXE. [Born in 1816. A barrister and newspaper editor, highly popular in the States for his humorous or burlesque poems-some of them modelled very closely on Hood, and others on Barham]. THE GHOST-PLAYER. A BALLAD. TOM GOODWIN was an actor man, In all the light and sprite-ly parts, Now Tom was very fond of drink, But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff For any man to sup; For, when it fails to pull him down, And so it fared with ghostly Tom, |