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W HEN the black-lettr'd list to the gods was pre

sented, (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipt in three blessings— wife, children and

friends.
In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated,

For justice divine could not compass her ends ;
The scheme of man's penance he swore was defeated,
For earth became heaven with wife, children and

friends.

If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,

The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends :
But the heart issues bills which are never protested,
When drawn on the form of Wise, Children and

Friends.
Though valour still glows in his life's waning embers,

The death-wounded tar who his colours defends,
Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers
How blessed was his home with wife, children and

friends.
The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story,

Whom duty to far distant latitude sends,
With transport would barter whole ages of glory

For one happy day with wife, children and friends.
Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover,

Though round him Arabia's whole frangrance ascends,
The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that cover
The bower where he sat with wife, children and

friends.
The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow,

Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;
But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow
No warmth from the smiles of wife, children and

friends.
Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish

The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends,

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148

O'er me wave the willowl and long may it lourish

Bedewed with the tears of wife, children and friends.

Let us drink-for my songʻ growing graver and graver,

To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink-pledge me high-Love and Virtue shall

flavour The glass which I fill to wife, children and friends.

[William R. Spencer

THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN
W HEN I was a maid,

Nor of lovers afraid,
My mother cried, “Girl, never listen to men."

Her lectures were long,

But I thought her quite wrong,
And said I, “Mother, whom should I listen to, then?”'

Now teaching, in turn,

What I never could learn,
I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ;

Men ever deceive,

Silly maidens believe,
And still 'tis the old story over again.

So humbly they woo,

What can poor maidens do
But keep them alive when they swear they must die ?

Ah! who can forbear

As they weep in despair,
Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry ?

Yet, wedded at last,

When the honeymoon's past,
The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain ;

Our vanity's check’d,

And we ne'er can expect
They will tell us the old story over again.

[ James Kenry

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150

THE GIRL OF CADIZ

NEVER talk again to me

Of northern climes and British ladies ; 'It has not been your lot to see,

Like me, the lovely girl of Cadiz. Altho' her eyes be not of blue.

Nor fair her locks, like English lasses ; How far its own expressive hue

The languid azure eye surpasses.

Prometheus-like from Heaven she stole

The fire that thro' those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll,

From eyes that cannot hide their flashes ; And as along her bosom steal

In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel,

And curl'd to give her neck carreses.

Our English maids are long to woo,

And frigid even in possession ; And if their charms be fair to view,

Their lips are slow at Love's confession ; But, born beneath a brighter sun,

For love ordained the Spanish maid is, And who, when fondly fairly won,

Enchants you like the girl of Cadiz.

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