Full of lambs that frisk and feed

While the Pastor plays on his rustic reedTo the very best of his humble ability,

Piping ever shrill and loud,

But oh! what new magnetic cloud
Passes over my passability!

Over my soul there seems to pass
A middle state of life or death,
And I almost seem to feel, alas!
That I am drawing my passing breath.
No more prospects bright and sunny,
No more chance of pleasant cheer,
No more hope of passing money-
I feel the pass of the Overseer!

THE LARK AND THE ROOK.

A FABLE.

"Lol here the gentle lark !"-SHAKSPEARE.

ONCE on a time-no matter where—
A Lark took such a fancy to the air,
That though he often gaz'd beneath,
Watching the breezy down, or heath,
Yet very, very seldom he was found
To perch upon the ground.

Hour after hour,

Through ev'ry change of weather, hard or soft, Through sun and shade, and wind and show't Still fluttering aloft;

In silence now, and now in song,
Up, up in cloudland all day long,

On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight,
Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare,
Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air,
But never to alight.

It caus'd, of course, much speculation
Among the feather'd generation;

Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it—
The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,

The swallows, cock and hen,

The wagtail, and the linnet,

The yellowhammer, and the finch as well
The sparrow ask'd the tit, who couldn't tell,
The jay, the pie-but all were in the dark,
Till out of patience with the common doubt,
The Rook at last resolv'd to worm it out,
And thus accosted the mysterious Lark :—

"Friend, prithee, tell me why

You keep this constant hovering so high,
As if you had some castle in the air,
That you are always poising there,
A speck against the sky—

Neglectful of each old familiar feature

Of Earth that nurs'd you in your callow stateYou think you're only soaring at heaven's gate, Whereas you 're flying in the face of Nature!"

"Friend," said the Lark, with melancholy tone, And in each little eye a dewdrop shone, "No creature of my kind was ever fonder

Of that dear spot of earth

Which gave it birth—

And I was nestled in the furrow yonder!
Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath,
And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath,
Saluted often with a loving sonnet ;

But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurf
Of dirt and infamy about the Turf,

I do not like to settle on it !"

MORAL.

Alas! how nobles of another race
Appointed to the bright and lofty way,
Too willingly descend to haunt a place
Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey!

THE SAUSAGE MAKER'S GHOST.

A LONDON LEGEND.

SOMEWHERE in Leather Lane

I wonder that it was not Mincing,

And for this reason most convincing,
That Mr. Brain

Dealt in those well-minc'd cartridges of meat,
Some people like to eat-

However, all such quibbles overstepping,
In Leather Lane he liv'd; and drove a trade
In porcine sausages, though London-made,
Call'd "Epping."

Right brisk was the demand,

Seldom his goods staid long on hand.

For out of all adjacent courts and lanes,
Young Irish ladies and their swains,
Such soups of girls and broths of boys!
Sought his delicious chains,

Preferr❜d to all polonies, saveloys,
And other foreign toys—
The mere chance passengers
Who saw his "sassengers,"

Of sweetness undeniable,

So sleek, so mottled, and so friable, Stepp'd in, forgetting ev'ry other thought, And bought.

Meanwhile a constant thumping

Was heard, a sort of subterranean chumping—
Incessant was the noise!

But though he had a foreman and assistant,
With all the tools consistent,

(Besides a wife and two fine chopping boys)
His means were not yet vast enough

For chopping fast enough

To meet the call from streets, and lanes, and passages, For first-chop "sassages.

However, Mr. Brain

Was none of those dull men and slow,
Who, flying bird-like by a railway train,
Sigh for the heavy mails of long ago;
He did not set his face 'gainst innovations
For rapid operations,

And therefore in a kind of waking dream

Listen❜d to some hot water sprite that hinted
To have his meat chopp'd, as the Times was printed,
By steam!

Accordingly in happy-hour,

A bran new Engine went to work

Chopping up pounds on pounds of pork With all the energy of Two-Horse-Power, And wonderful celerity—

When lo! when ev'ry thing to hope responded, Whether his head was turn'd by his prosperity, Whether he had some sly intrigue, in verity, The man absconded!

His anxious Wife in vain
Placarded Leather Lane,

And all the suburbs with descriptive bills,
Such as are issued when from homes and tills
Clerks, dogs, cats, lunatics, and children roam;
Besides advertisements in all the journals,
Or weeklies or diurnals,
Beginning "LEFT HIS HOME"-

The sausage-maker, spite of white and black,
Never came back.

Never, alive!-But on the seventh night,
Just when the yawning grave its dead releases,
Filling his bedded wife with sore affright
In walked his grisly Sprite,

In fifty thousand pieces!

"O Mary!" so it seem'd

In hollow melancholy tone to say,

Whilst thro' its airy shape the moonlight gleam'd With scarcely dimmer ray—

"O Mary! let your hopes no longer flatter, Prepare at once to drink of sorrow's cup,— It an't no use to mince the matter

The Engine's chopp'd me up!"