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[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT IV.

FALSE TERRORS IN VIEW OF DEATH.

WHY start at death! Where is he? Death arrived,

Is past; not come, or gone, he's never here.

Ere hope, sensation fails; blackboding man

Receives, not suffers, death's tremendous blow.

The knell, the shroud, the mattock, and the grave;

The deep, damp vault, the darkness, and the worm; Leve, These are the bugbears of a winter's The terrors of the living, not the dead.

Imagination's fool and error's wretch, Man makes a death, which nature never made:

Then on the point of his own fancy falls;

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queen,

And feels a thousand deaths, in fear-Carousing gems,

ing one.

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love.

herself dissolved in

Some weep at death, abstracted from

the dead,

And celebrate, like Charles, their own decease.

By kind construction

deemed to weep

some are

Because a decent veil conceals their joy.

Some weep in earnest, and yet weep in vain,

As deep in indiscretion as in woe. Passion, blind passion! impotently

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Then melts into the spring: soft spring, with breath

Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,

[fades, Recalls the first. All, to reflourish, As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend. Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.

With this minute distinction, emblems just,

Nature revolves, but man advances; both

Eternal; that a circle, this a line. That gravitates, this soars. The aspiring soul,

Ardent and tremulous, like flame, ascends;

Zeal and humility, her wings to heaven.

The world of matter, with its various forms,

All dies into new life. Life born from death

Rolls the vast mass, and shall for

ever roll.

No single atom, once in being, lost.

[From Night Thoughts.]

NIGHT VII.

AMBITION.

MAN must soar: An obstinate activity within, An insuppressive spring will toss him up

In spite of fortune's load. Not kings alone,

Each villager has his ambition too; No sultan prouder than his fettered slave: [straw, Slaves build their little Babylons of Echo the proud Assyrian, in their hearts,

And cry-"Behold the wonders of my might!"

their lord,

summer gay,

And

why?

Because immortal as

sial flowers,

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CHEERFULNESS IN MISfortune. The moist of human frame the sun NONE are unhappy: all have cause to

smile,

But such as to themselves that cause deny. [pains; Our faults are at the bottom of our Error, in act, or judgment, is the

source

Of endless sighs. We sin, or we mistake;

And nature tax, when false opinion

stings. Let impious grief be banished, joy indulged;

exhales;

Winds scatter, through the mighty void, the dry;

Earth repossesses part of what she

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SPORTIVE, SATIRICAL, HUMOROUS,

AND

DIALECT POEMS.

CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS.

YAWCOB STRAUSS.

I HAF Von funny leedle poy

Vot gomes schust to mine knee; Der queerest schap, der createst rogue,

As efer you dit see.

He runs, und schumps,und schmashes dings

In all barts off der house;
But vot off dot? he vas mine son,
Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He get der measles and der mumbs,
Und eferyding dot's oudt;
He sbills mine glass off lager bier,
Poots schnuff indo mine kraut.
He fills mine pipe mit Limburg
cheese,

Dot vas der roughest chouse:
I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy
But leedle Yawcob Strauss.

He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum,
Und cuts mine cane in dwo,
To make der schticks to beat it mit,—
Mine cracious, dot vas drue!
I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart,
He kicks oup sooch a touse:
But nefer mind; der poys vas few
Like dot young Yawcob Strauss.
He asks me questions such as dese:
Who baints mine nose so red?
Who was it cuts dot schmoodth blace
oudt

Vrom der hair ubon mine hed?

Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der
lamp

Vene'er der glim I douse,
How gan I all dose dings eggsblain
To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ?

I somedimes dink I schall go wild
Mit sooch a grazy poy,

Und wish vonce more I gould haf
rest,

Und beaceful dimes enshoy;
But ven he vas ashleep in ped,

So guiet as a mouse,

I prays der Lord, “Dake anyding,
But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss.'

PAT'S CRITICISM.

THERE'S a story that's old,
But good if twice told,
Of a doctor of limited skill,
Who cured beast and man
On the "cold-water plan,"
Without the small help of a pill.

On his portal of pine
Hung an elegant sign,
Depicting a beautiful rill,

And a lake where a sprite,
With apparent delight,
Was sporting a sweet dishabille.
Pat McCarty one day,

As he sauntered that way, Stood and gazed at that portal of pine;

NOTE.-Thackeray's Bouillabaisse and Trowbridge's Vagabonds, being realig pathetic poems, are placed here for convenience rather than fitness, their colloquial style adapting them to this rather than the other department.

When the doctor with pride

Stepped up to his side,

Some beoples gife us dings to eadt,
Und some dey kicks us oudt,

Saying, Pat, how is that for a Und say, 'You don'd got peesnis

sign ?"

"There's wan thing," says Pat, "Y've lift out o' that, Which, be jabers! is quite a mistake: It's trim, and it's nate: But, to make it complate, Ye should have a foin burd on the lake."

"Ah! indeed! pray, then tell,
To make it look well,

What bird do you think it may lack?"
Says Pat, "Of the same,
I've forgotten the name.
But the song that he sings is 'Quack!'
quack!'"

FRITZ AND I.

here

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MYNHEER, blease helb a boor oldt "Der collar?" Nein: 'tvas some

man

Vot gomes vrom Sharmany,

Mit Fritz, mine tog, and only freund,

To geep me company.

I haf no geld to puy mine pread,
No blace to lay me down;
For ve vas vanderers, Fritz und I,
Und sdrangers in der town.

ding else
Vrom vich Igould not bart;
Und, if dot ding was dook avay

I dink it prakes mine heart.

"Vot was it, den, aboudt dot tog," You ashik, "dot's not vor sale ?" I dells you what it ish, mine freund: 'Tish der vag off dot tog's dail!

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

LOVELY MARY DONNELLY.

O LOVELY Mary Donnelly, it's you I love the best!
If fifty girls were round you, I'd hardly see the rest;

Be what it may the time of day, the place be where it will,
Sweet looks of Mary Donnelly, they bloom before me still.

Her eyes like mountain water that's flowing on a rock,

How clear they are, how dark they are! and they give me many a shock; Red rowans warm in sunshine, and wetted with a shower,

Could ne'er express the charming lip that has me in its power.

Her nose is straight and handsome, her eyebrows lifted up,
Her chin is very neat and pert, and smooth like a china cup;
Her hair's the brag of Ireland, so weighty and so fine-
It's rolling down upon her neck, and gathered in a twine.

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