Resolves in despair

No longer to languish,
Nor bear so much anguish;
But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above

Will soon finish his woes.

When, in rage, he came there,
Beholding how steep
The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;

His torments projecting,

And sadly reflecting

That a lover forsaken

A new lover may get;

But a neck, when once broken,
Can never be set:

And that he could die
Whenever he would;
But that he could live

But as long as he could;

How grievous soever

The torment might grow,
He scorn'd to endeavour

To finish it so.

But bold, unconcern'd,

At the thoughts of the pain,

He calmly return'd

To his cottage again.

William Walsh.

CCCXL.

SYMPATHY.

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,
So kissing and crying kept company.

"O, had I but loved such an angel as you!"

66

66

'O, had but my swain been a quarter as true!" "To miss such perfection how blinded was I!" Sure now they were excellent company!

ere we die !"

At length spoke 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.

Reginald Heber.

CCCXLI.

THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD,

I THINK, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour,-

A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave,—
The world goes round for ever:

I think that life is not too long;
And therefore I determine,
That many people read a song
Who will not read a sermon.

I think you've look'd through many hearts,
And mused on many actions,
And studied Man's component parts,
And Nature's compound fractions :
I think you've pick'd up truth by bits
From foreigner and neighbour;
I think the world has lost its wits,
And you have lost your labour.

I think the studies of the wise,
The hero's noisy quarrel,
The majesty of Woman's eyes,
The poet's cherish'd laurel,
And all that makes us lean or fat,
And all that charms or troubles,-
This bubble is more bright than that,
But still they are all bubbles.

I think the thing you call Renown,
The unsubstantial vapour

For which the soldier burns a town,
The sonnetteer a taper,

Is like the mist which, as he flies,
The horseman leaves behind him;
He cannot mark its wreaths arise,
Or if he does they blind him.

I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
And shifts the funeral for the dance,
The sceptre for the fetters:

I think that Fortune's favour'd guest
May live to gnaw the platters,
And he that wears the purple vest
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:

I think that some are very wise,
And some are very funny,

And some grow rich by telling lies,
And some by telling money.

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves— (And very like the Tories)-

Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, And ask the price of glories:

I think that many fret and fume

At what their friends are planning, And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham As much as Mr. Canning.

I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots:

I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to Town,
And rather more to Heaven.

I think that, thanks to Paget's lance,
And thanks to Chester's learning,
The hearts that burn'd for fame in France
At home are safe from burning:

I think the Pope is on his back;

And, though 'tis fun to shake him,

I think the Devil not so black

As many people make him.

I think that Love is like a play,

Where tears and smiles are blended,

Or like a faithless April day,

Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,

And like a Highland plaid, -all stuff,
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 planet in a starless night,
One blossom on a briar,

One friend not quite a hypocrite,

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 :

I think some die upon the field,
And some upon the billow,

And some are laid beneath a shield,
And some beneath a willow.

I think that very few have sigh'd

When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them:

I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought,-
And I'm a fool for thinking!

Winthrop M. Praed.

CCCXLII.

A RIDDLE ON THE LETTER H.

'TWAS in heaven pronounced-it was mutter'd in hell,
And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell;
On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest,
And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd.
"Twill be found in the sphere, when 'tis riven asunder,
Be seen in the light'ning, and heard in the thunder.
'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath,
Attends at his birth and awaits him in death:
Presides o'er his happiness, honour, and health,
Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir.

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crown'd.
Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam,

But woe to the wretch who expels it from home!
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion is drown'd.

'Twill not soften the heart; and tho' deaf be the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
Yet in shade let it rest like a delicate flower,

Ah, breathe on it softly-it dies in an hour.

Catherine Fanshawe.