Laud high the god-like Belcher race, Mendoza, also, stick in, Dick Humphries,—he who fought with grace, And every mill correctly trace Of Harry Pearce, The Chicken. Sing Crib, who fought the giant black, Come, Nonpareil, now gaily sing, But first wet well your whistle Here's health to those who grace the Ring, Whether for them a Rose may spring, Or Shamrock, Leek, or Thistle." 66 LORD BYRON'S MAZEPPA." THE dreadful punishment inflicted upon the hero of Lord Byron's poem, has an example in a newspaper, called "Mercurius Politicus," printed in the year 1655. The narrative is dated from Hamburgh. "This last week, several waggoners coming from Breslaw to Silesia, upon their way into the Duke of Saxonie's country, perceived a stag, with a man upon his back, running with all his might: coming near the waggons, he suddenly fell down: the poor man, sitting on his back, made a pitiful complaint, how that he was, the day before, by the Duke of Saxonie, for killing a deer, condemned to be bound with chains upon that stag, his feet bound fast under the stag's belly with an iron chain soldered, and his hands chained to the horns. The miserable man begged earnestly that they would shoot him, to put him out of pain; but they durst not, fearing the Duke. Whilst they were talking with him, the stag got up, and ran away with all his might, The waggoners computed that he had run, in 16 hours, 25 Dutch miles in the least; which VOL. III. R makes near 100 of our English miles, in a direct line. The miseries which that poor creature did and must undergo, especially if the stag killed him not in running, cannot be expressed, hardly imagined." DRYDEN'S "MEDAL." "It was King Charles II. who gave Dryden the hint for writing his poem, called The Medal.' “One day, as the King walked in the Mall, and was talking with Dryden, he said, If I was a poet, and I think I am poor enough to be one, I would write a poem on such a subject, in the following manner;' and then gave him the plan of it. Dryden took the hint, carried the poem, as soon as it was finished, to the King, and had a present of a hundred broad pieces for it. This was said by a Priest that I often met at Mr. Pope's; and he seemed to confirm it, adding, that King Charles obliged Dryden to put his Oxford Speech into verse, and to insert it towards the close of his Absalom and Achitophel." SPENCE. JAMES MONTGOMERY. THIS amiable man, whose poetry is so justly esteemed by the public, has lately given to the world a volume both curious and talented, entitled "The Chimney-Sweeper's Friend and Climbing Boy's Album," which contains much beautiful poetry from various poets on this heart-rending subject. The profits are laudably given to "The Society for bettering the Condition of the Climbing Boys of Sheffield.” The poems of which the greater part of the book is composed (for at least one third of it is prose), are unequal. None, however, it must be confessed, make a very near approach to mediocrity. Those from the pens of Messrs. Bowring and Montgomery "stick fiery off indeed." Our space precludes the possibility of our giving both: we therefore present the reader with the one written by the Editor of this interesting volume. The being who can read it unmoved, must be heartless indeed. 66 A WORD WITH MYSELF. I know they scorn the Climbing Boy, I know his villainous employ Is mockery with the thoughtless crowd. So be it-brand with ev'ry name Of burning infamy his heart; I cannot coldly pass him by, Stript, wounded, left by thieves half dead; Nor see an infant Lazarus lie At rich men's gates, imploring bread. A frame as sensitive as mine; Limbs moulded in a kindred form; A soul degraded, yet divine, Endear to me my brother worm. He was my equal at his birth, A naked, helpless, weeping child; And such are born to thrones on earth, On such hath ev'ry mother smil'd. My equal he will be again, Down in that cold oblivious gloom, Where all the prostrate ranks of men Crowd without fellowship the tomb. My equal in the Judgment Day, He shall stand up before the throue, When ev'ry veil is rent away, And good and evil only known. And is he not mine equal now— Am I less fall'n from God and truth |