I Prior sought, but could not see the "Hood" so late in front And when I turned to hunt for " Lee", O! where was my "Leigh Hunt"?
I tried to laugh, old care to tickle, yet could not "Tickle" touch;
And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle";-and surely Mickle's much.
'Tis quite enough my griefs to feed, my sorrows to excuse,
To think I cannot read my "Reid", nor even use my
"Hughes";
My classics would not quiet lie, a thing so fondly hoped;
Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, my " Livy" has eloped.
My life is ebbing fast away; I suffer from these shocks,
And though I fixed a lock on Gray", there's gray upon my
I'm far from "Young", am growing pale, I see my "Butler"
And when they ask about my ail, 'tis "Burton" I reply.
They still have made me slight returns, and thus my griefs
For O! they cured me of my "Burns", and eased my "Akenside".
But all I think I shall not say, nor let my anger burn,
For, as they never found me "Gay", they have not left me "Sterne".
MAGPIE AND MONKEY.-YRIARTE.
"Dear madam, I pray," quoth a magpie one day,
To a monkey, who happened to come in her way,-
"If you'll but come with me
To my snug little home in the trunk of a tree,
I'll show you such treasures of art and vertu,
Such articles, old, mediæval, and new,
As a lady of taste and discernment like you
Will be equally pleased and astonished to view;—
In an old oak-tree hard by I have stowed all these rarities; And if you'll come with me, I'll soon show you where it is."
The monkey agreed at once to proceed,
And hopping along at the top of her speed,
To keep up with the guide, who flew by her side,
As eager to show as the other to see,
Presently came to the old oak-tree;
When from a hole in its mighty bole,
In which she had cunningly hidden the whole,
One by one the Magpie drew,
And displayed her hoard to the monkey's view:
A buckle of brass, some bits of glass,
A ribbon dropped by a gypsey lass;
A tattered handkerchief edged with lace,
The haft of a knife, and a tooth-pick case;
An inch or so of Cordelia's rope,
very small cake of Castilian soap, And a medal blessed by the holy Pope;
Half a cigar, the neck of a jar,
A couple of pegs from a cracked guitar;
Beads, buttons and rings, and other odd things,
And such as my hearers would think me an ass, if I
Tried to enumerate fully or classify.
At last, having gone, one by one, through the whole,
And carefully packed them again in the hole,
Alarmed at the pause, and not without caws,
The Magpie looked anxiously down for applause.
The monkey, meanwhile, with a shrug and a smile,
Having silently eyed the contents of the pile,
And found them, in fact, one and all, very vile,
Resolved to depart; and was making a start,
When, observing the movement with rage and dismay,
The Magpie addressed her, and pressed her to stay:
"What, sister, I pray, have you nothing to say,
In return for the sight that I have shown you to-day?
Not a syllable?-hey? I'm surprised !-well I may,-
That so fine a collection, with nothing to pay,
Should be treated in such a contemptuous way.
I looked for applause, as a matter of right,
And certainly thought that you'd prove more polite."
At length when the Magpie had ceased to revile,
The monkey replied, with a cynical smile:
"Well, Ma'am, since my silence offends you," said she,
"I'll frankly confess that such trifles possess,
Though much to your taste, no attraction to me;
For though, like yourself, a collection of pelf,
Such trash, ere I'd touch it, might rot on a shelf;
And I'd not by Saint Iago, out of my way go
A moment to pick up so vile a farrago.
In the digging of roots, and the prigging of fruits,
I strictly confine my industrial pursuits;
And whenever I happen to find or to steal
More than will serve for a moderate meal,-
For my appetite's small, and I don't eat a deal,-
In the pouches or craws which hang from my jaws,
And which I contract or distend at my pleasure,
I safely deposit the rest of my treasure,
And carry it home to be eaten at leisure.
In short, Ma'am, while you collect rubbish and rags,A mass of chiffonerie not worth possessing,―
I gather for use and replenish my bags.
With things that are really a comfort and blessing.A reserve, if I need them, for future subsistence, Adapted to lengthen and sweeten existence.
The Monkey's reply-for I must, if I'm able,
Elicit some practical hint from the fable—
Suited the Magpie, and suits just as well any
Quarterly, monthly, or weekly miscellany,
Whose contents exhibit so often a hash,
Oddly compounded of all kinds of trash,
That I wonder, whenever I chance to inspect them,
How editors have the bad taste to select them.
WHITTLING-REV. J. PIERPONT.
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school
Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,
The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye
Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;
His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,
Then leaves no stone unturned until he can whet it;
And in the education of the lad
No little part that implement hath had.
His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings
A growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,
His chestnut whistle, and his shingle dart,
His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,
Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,
His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone
That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,
Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed.
His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,
His wind-mill, raised the passing breeze to win.
His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin ;
Or, if his father lives upon the shore.
You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"
Full rigged with raking masts, and timbers staunch
And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.
Thus by his genius and his jack-knife driven
Ere long he'll solve you any problem given ;
Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,
A plough, a coach, an organ or a flute;
Make you a locomotive or a clock,
Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock,—
Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;—
Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,
From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;-
Make it, said I?-Ay, when he undertakes it,
He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.
And when the thing is made,-whether it be
To move on earth, in air, or on the sea;
Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,
Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;
Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,
Whether it be a piston or a spring,
Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,
The thing designed shall surely come to pass;
For, when his hand's upon it, you may know
That there's go in it, and he'll make it go.
A SHORT SERMON ON MALT.-ANON.
MR. DODD was a minister who lived many years ago a few miles from Cambridge; and having several times been preaching against drunkenness, some of the Cambridge scholars (conscience which is sharper than a thousand witnesses, being their monitor) were very much offended, and thought he made reflections on them. Some time after, Mr. Dodd was walking towards Cambridge, and met some of the gownsmen, who, as soon as they saw him at a distance, resolved to make some ridicule of him. As soon as he came up, they accosted him with," Your servant, sir!" He replied, "Your servant, gentlemen." They asked him if he had not been preaching very much against drunkenness of late? He answered in the
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