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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
For justice divine could not compass her ends ;
If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested,
The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends :
The death-wounded tar who his colours defends,
Whom duty to far distant latitude sends,
For one happy day with wife, children and friends.
Though round him Arabia's whole frangrance ascends,
Alone on itself for enjoyment depends;
The laurel which o'er her dead favourite bends,
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
Nor of lovers afraid,
Her lectures were long,
But I thought her quite wrong,
Now teaching, in turn,
What I never could learn,
Men ever deceive,
Silly maidens believe,
So humbly they woo,
What can poor maidens do
Ah! who can forbear
As they weep in despair,
Yet, wedded at last,
When the honeymoon's past,
Our vanity's check’d,
And we ne'er can expect
[ James Kenry
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.