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Resolves in despair
To a precipice goes,
Will soon finish his woes.
When, in rage, he came there,
Beholding how steep
And the bottom how deep;
A new lover may get ;
Can never be set :
And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But as long as he could;
The torment might grow,
To finish it so.
At the thoughts of the pain,
A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, While each was in quest of a fugitive love ; A river ran mournfully murmuring by, And they wept in its waters for sympathy. “O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!" “O, never was maid so deserted before !”
“From life and its woes let us instantly fly, And jump in together for company!” They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, But here was a bramble, and there was a weed; “How tiresome it is !” said the fair with a sigh; So they sat down to rest them in company. They gazed at each other, the maid and the knight ; How fair was her form, and how goodly his height! “One mournful embrace;” sobb’d the youth, ere we die !" So kissing and crying kept company. “O, had I but loved such an angel as you !” “O, had but my swain been a quarter as true !" “ To miss such perfection how blinded was I !” Sure now they were excellent company ! At length the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, “ The weather is cold for a watery bier ; When summer returns we may easily die, Till then let us sorrow in company.
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD,
I THINK, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour, -
The world goes round for ever :
And therefore I determine,
Who will not read a sermon.
I think you've look'd through many hearts,
And mused on many actions,
And Nature's compound fractions :
I think the studies of the wise,
The hero's noisy quarrel,
The poet's cherish'd laurel,
And all that charms or troubles,-
But still they are all bubbles.
I think the thing you call Renown,
The unsubstantial vapour
The sonnetteer a taper,
The horseman leaves behind him;
Or if he does they blind him.
I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
The sceptre for the fetters :
May live to gnaw the platters,
May wear the rags and tatters.
I think the Tories love to buy
“Your Lordship’s and “your Grace's, By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces :
And some are very funny,
And some by telling money.
(And very like the Tories) Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
And ask the price of glories:
At what their friends are planning,
As much as Mr. Canning.
I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
And far too many faggots :
And fight for two or seven,
And rather more to Heaven.
I think that, thanks to Paget's lance,
And thanks to Chester's learning,
At home are safe from burning :
And, though 'tis fun to shake him,
As many people make him.
Where tears and smiles are blended,
Whose shine with shower is ended :
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And very full of crosses.
I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure Conceal'd in life's monotony,
For those who seek the treasure ;
One blossom on a briar,
One woman not a liar!
I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; And Death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even :
And some upon the billow,
And some beneath a willow.
I think that very few have sigh'd
When Fate at last has found them,
And barren moss around them :
And some have died of drinking;
Winthrop M. Praed.
A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H.
'Twas in heaven pronounced—it was mutter'd in hell,