A Rill from the Town Pump.

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were meant only for people who have no wine-cellars. Well, well, sir-no harm done, I hope! Go draw the cork, tip the decanter; but when your great toe shall set you a-roaring, it will be no affair of mine. If gentlemen love the pleasant titillation of the gout, it is all one to the Town Pump.

Then Sin, if Until now, the

human blood,

From my spout, and such spouts as mine, must flow the stream that shall cleanse our earth of the vast portion of its crime and anguish, which has gushed from the fiery fountains of the still. Blessed consummation! Then Poverty shall pass away from the land, find no hovel so wretched, where her squalid form may shelter itself. Then Disease, for lack of other victims, shall gnaw its own heart and die. she do not die, shall lose half her strength. frenzy of hereditary fever has raged in the transmitted from sire to son, and rekindled, in every generation, by fresh draughts of liquid flame. When that inward fire shall be extinguished, the heat of passion cannot but grow cool, and war-the drunkenness of nations-perhaps will cease. At least, there will be no war of households. The husband and wife, drinking deep of peaceful joy-a calm bliss of temperate affections-shall pass hand in hand through life, and lie down, not reluctantly, at its protracted close. To them, the past will be no turmoil of mad dreams, nor the future an eternity of such moments as follow the delirium of the drunkard. Their dead faces shall express what their spirits were, and are to be, by a lingering smile of memory and hope.

In the moral warfare which you are to wage-and indeed in the whole conduct of your lives-you cannot choose a better example than myself, who have never permitted the dust and sultry atmosphere, the turbulent and manifold disquietudes of the world around me, to reach that deep calm well of purity, which may be called my soul. And whenever I pour out that soul, it is to cool earth's fever or cleanse its stains.

One o'clock! Nay, then, if the dinner-bell begins to speak, I may as well hold my peace. Here comes a pretty young girl of my acquaintance, with a large stone pitcher for me to fill. May she draw a husband, while drawing her water, as

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The Foot's Complaint.

Rachel did of old. Hold out your vessel, my dear! There it is, full to the brim; so now run home, peeping at your sweet visage in the pitcher as you go; and forget not, in a glass of my own liquor, to drink-" SUCCESS TO THE TOWN PUMP."

THE FOOT'S COMPLAINT.

S. W. PARTRIDGE.

"IT'S really too bad," cried the Foot, in a fever,
"That I am thus walking and walking for ever;
My mates are to honour and indolence thrust,
While here I am doomed to the mud and the dust.

"There's the Mouth-he's the fellow for all the nice
things,

And the Ear only wakes when the dinner bell rings,
The Hand with his rings decks his fingers so white,
And as to the Eye-he sees every fine sight."

"Stay, stay," says the Mouth, "don't you know, my dear brother,

We all were intended to help one another?

And surely you can't be thought useless and mean,
On whom all the rest so entirely must lean.

"Consider, my friend, we are labouring too,
And toiling-nay, don't interrupt me-for you;
Indeed, were it not for the Hand, Mouth, and Eye,
Of course you know well you would falter and die.

"I eat, but 'tis only that you may be strong,
The Hand, too, works for you, friend, all the day long,
And the Eye-he declares he shall soon lose his sight,
So great are his efforts to guide you aright."

The Foot in reply could find nothing to say,
For he felt he had talked in a culpable way,

And owned the reproof was both wise and well meant,
For wherever we are we should there be content.

(From "Rhymes Worth Remembering."

"Withhold not thou thine hand."

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"WITHHOLD NOT THOU THINE HAND."

F. H. BOWMAN, F.R.A.S., F.L.S., &c.

WITH

ITHHOLD not thou thine hand;
For the harvest field is wide,

And the crowded furrows stand,
Thick set, on every side-

The Master bids thee go,

While time and strength remain,
Haste forth! to reap or sow,
Rejoicing in His name.

Withhold not thou thine hand,
Where Childhood's bounding step
Races along life's strand,

Nor dreams of danger yet.
Tell them, beneath that sea
That sparkles to their eye,
Strange depths and whirlpools be,
And wrecks unnumbered lie.

Tell them the waves may sleep

As they push from off the shore,
But the winds will o'er them sweep,
And the tempest rise and roar.
Tell them that Christ alone

Can its dread power assuage,
Till the wind shall cease to moan
And the waters cease to rage.

Withhold not thou thine hand,

Where Youth's impetuous force,
Through all the flowery land

Holds its unbridled course.
Say, that the snares are set
To catch unguarded feet;
And the sins of youth beget
What punishment is meet;

The wine cup that they fill,
Hides the serpent's deadly coil;

And fairest fruits distil

Rank poisons from the soil;
The sun that seems to flood

Their path with glorious light,

May fade in night and blood
Ere his meridian height.

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"Withhold not thou thine hand."

Withhold not thou thine hand,

When in life's middle day,
With aspect of command,

Men meet thee by the way.
Where the crowd and strife are strong
In the busy street and mart,
And a thousand questions throng
To occupy the heart.

Lift up thy voice and say,

That wealth hath secret wings;
That health and strength decay;
And honour, trouble brings.
Point to enduring wealth

In Wisdom's boundless store,
And tell of fadeless health
On Gilead's happy shore.

Withhold not thou thine hand,
Where the eye is waxing dim,
Where the tottering footsteps stand
By Jordan's flowing stream:
When the weight and care of years
The weary traveller sink,

As beset with sins and fears

He dreads to touch the brink:

Tell him that One has died,
And shed His precious blood,

That He may safely guide

His children through the flood:
That He has borne the weight

Of all our sin and shame,

And pardon for His sake

The vilest wretch may claim.

Withhold not thou thine hand!

For thy days make haste to flee,
And the Master will demand
Thy stewardship from thee.
Haste then! and tarry not,

Ere the setting of the sun
Bid thee stand amidst thy lot,
And the servant's work is done.

Mahomet's Mysterious Charge.

MAHOMET'S MYSTERIOUS CHARGE.

COWPER.

THUS says the prophet of the Turk,

"Good Mussalman, abstain from pork;

There is a part in every swine,

No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication."
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.

Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarred;
And set their wits at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.

Much controversy straight arose,
These chose the back; the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at the doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.

Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-the tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other side.

"Renounce the world!" the preacher cries;
"We do!" a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game of cards;

And one, whatever you may say,

Can see no evil in a play;

Some love a concert or a race,

And others shooting and the chase.

Reviled and loved, renounced and follow'd,
Thus bit by bit the world is swallow'd;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he;

With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

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