"Give me yon maiden,— if the downcast eye SPEEDWELL-MINE. BY THE REV. C. HOYLE. THE long, low vault whose hollow groans resound Along the wave in rocky channel pent, Is past; and we o'erhang the dire profound Where the close-prisoned waters find their vent, Hurled through the mountain's subterranean rent, Of grim dimensionless obscure around— Height without end, and fathomless descent, Down to the nether world's remotest bound. Fit burial-place for hope-'t is death to view : How if the blasting spectre of the mine Crush in the roof, and leave us here to die, Or bid the widening gulf our flight pursue? Peace, trembler! Is there not a hand divine, Or art thou hidden from the' All-seeing Eye? VANITY FAIR. BY THOMAS H. BAYLY, ESQ. I. To Vanity Fair all my neighbours have been, To see all the sights that were there to be seen; II. A very rich man ostentatiously came, To buy with his lucre a liberal name; He published his charities everywhere, III. A lady, whose beauty was on the decline, Rather tawny from age, like an over-kept wine ; IV. Another, so plain that she really resigned And came back quite a genius from Vanity Fair! V. A soldier came next, and he flourished a flag, VI. A mathematician there made up his mind VII. Another, despising refinement and grace, Growled at all who were near, with a frown on his face; He prided himself on being rude as a bear, So he shone the eccentric of Vanity Fair! VIII. A grand politician, unshaken, withstood Individual ill for the national good; To mount a new step on promotion's high stair, IX. A ci-devant beau, with one foot in the grave, He smoothed down his wrinkles in Vanity Fair! X. The next was an orator, longing to teach, In attitudes purchased at Vanity Fair! XI. One sailed to the Red Sea-and one to the Black; One danced on the tight rope-and one on the slack; And all were agog for the popular stare,— All mad to be Lions in Vanity Fair! XII. One raised on new doctrines his personal pride, His pen put the wisdom of ages aside ; The apple of Eve after all was a pear! XIII. A poet came last, with a fine rolling eye, So he sticks up his portrait in Vanity Fair! |