Perchance to be scorned in each :-I have but gored

This ill-starred man in vain!-hush, methought he stirred; I'll give him another thrust (stabs the body); there—lie thou quiet.

What a frown he hath upon his face! May the gods ne'er mention it

In their thunders, nor set the red stain of his blood

For a sign of wrath in the sky!-0 thou poor wretch !
Not thee, dull clod !-but for myself I weep-

The sport of malicious destinies !

Why was I heiress of these mortal gifts

Perishing all whether I love or hate?

Nay, come out of sight

[To the body.

With thy dismal puckering look-'twill fright the world Out of its happiness. [She drags the body aside, and covers it with drapery. Would I could throw

A thicker curtain on thee-but I see thee

All through and through, as though I had
The eyes of a god within; alas, I fear

I am here all human, and have that fierce thing,
They call a conscience!

[Exit.

THE EPPING HUNT.

ADVERTISEMENT.

Striding in the Steps of Strutt-the historian of the old English Sports-the author of the following pages has endeavored to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Easter Chase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times: its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become uncommon.

In proof of this melancholy decadence, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing.

66 'SIB,

"About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there was nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short our Hunt may be sad to be in the last Stag of a decline.

"I am, SIB,

"With respects from

"Your humble Servant,
"BARTHOLOMEW BUTT."

:

THE EPPING HUNT.

"On Monday they began to hunt."-CHEVY CHASE.

JOHN HUGGINS was as bold a man
As trade did ever know

A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.

There people bought Dutch cheeses round

And single Glos'ter flat;

And English butter in a lump,

And Irish-in a pat.

Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart,
At counter, with his apron tied
About his counter-part.

The seventh, in a sluice-house box
He took his pipe and pot;

On Sundays, for eel-piety,
A very noted spot.

Ab, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed!

One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head!

Epping, for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage popped;
Where, winter time or summer time,
Pig's flesh is always chopped.

But famous more, as annals tell,
Because of Easter chase ;
There every year, 'twixt dog and deer,
There is a gallant race.

With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,
And slapped his leather thigh,
And sang the burden of the song,
"This day a stag must die."

For all the live-long day before,

And all the night in bed,

Like Beckford, he had nourished "Thoughts On Hunting" in his head.

Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,

And echo's answering sounds,

All poets' wit hath every writ
In dog-rel verse of hounds.

Alas! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear,

Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the deer!

No thought he had of twisted spine,
Or broken arms or legs;
Not chicken-hearted he, although
'Twas whispered of his eggs!