"Tis done; the blazing pile is fir'd, the flames have wrapped her round; The owlet shrieked, and circling flew with dull, foreboding sound; Fate shuddered at the ghastly sight, and smil'd a ghastly smile ; HOW A WICKED NEVY GOT HIMSELF INTO THE WILL, J. T. FIELDS. It was a wicked nephew bold And ground upon a huge grindstone And while the sparks were flying wild Quoth he unto himself, "I will 'His property is large, and, if "I'll hie unto my uncle's bed, His chamber well I know, And there I'll find his pocketbook "With this bright steel I'll slay him first Because that is the way They do such things, I understand, "Come forth, my trusty weapon, now y (Or words to that effect) He shouted to his little blade, Then out he starts. His uncle's door He gains the latch, which upward flies One pause upon the entry stair, And one upon the mat How still the house at such an hour “O, nephew, nephew be not rash ; "The gallows tree was never built He will not be advised-he stands WHO SHALL JUDGE MAN. Who shall judge man from his manners 2 Who shall know him by his dress? Paupers may be fit for princes, Princes fit for something less, Crumpled shirt and dirty jacket There are streams of crystal nectar Hidden, crushed and overthrown. Man upraised above his fellows Men of thought and men of fame, There are foam-embroidered oceans; For to him all vain distinctions Toiling hands alone are builders Fed and fattened on the same. While the poor man's outraged freedom Vainly lifts his feeble voice. Truth and justice are eternal, Links oppression with its titles But as pebbles in the sea, DIRGE OF LOVELY ROSABELLE SCOTT. O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell, Soft is the note, and sad the lay, That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew, "The blackening wave is edged with white, 'Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round a ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?” "Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."— O'er Roslin all that dreary night, A wonderous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It rudied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 5 |