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By luck or roguery of course old Nick

Won every trick: The score was full, the last turn-up had done it,

“ Your soul — I've won it!"

“It's true for you, I've lost that same,” Said Pat, a little hazy in his wits, – “ My soul is yours, — but come, - another game, –

Double, or quits !”

SUGGESTIONS BY STEAM.

When woman is in rags and poor,

And sorrow, cold, and hunger tease her, If man would only listen more

To that small voice that crieth — “Ease her!”

Without the guidance of a friend,

Though legal sharks and screws attack her, If man would only more attend

To that small voice that crieth — “Back her!”

So oft it would not be his fate

To witness some despairing dropper In Thames's tide, and run too late

To that small voice that crieth — “Stop her!”

THE LARK AND THE ROOK.

A FABLE.

Lo! hear the gentle lark !"

SHAKESPEARE.

ONCE on a time — no matter where —
A Lark took such a fancy to the air,
That though he often gazed beneath,
Watching the breezy down, or heath,
Yet, very, very seldom he was found

To perch upon the ground.

Hour after hour,
Through ev'ry change of weather, hard or soft,
Through sun and shade, and wind and shower,

Still fluttering aloft ;
In silence now, and now in song,
Up, up in cloudland all day long,
On weary wing, yet with unceasing flight,
Like to those Birds of Paradise, so rare,
Fabled to live, and love, and feed in air,

But never to alight.

It caused, of course, much speculation
Among the feathered generation;
Who tried to guess the riddle that was in it, -
The robin puzzled at it, and the wren,

The swallows, cock and hen,
The wagtail, and the linnet,

The yellow-hammer, and the finch as well, –
The sparrow asked the tit, who could n't tell,
The jay, the pie, — but all were in the dark,
Till out of patience with the common doubt,
The Rook at last resolved to worm it out,
And thus accosted the mysterious Lark:-

“ Friend, prithee, tell me why
You keep this constant hovering so high,
As if you had some castle in the air,
That you are always poising there,

A speck against the sky, —
Neglectful of each old familiar feature
Of Earth that nursed you in your callow state,
You think you're only soaring at heaven's gate,
Whereas you ’re flying in the face of Nature !”

“ Friend,” said the Lark, with melancholy tone, And in each little eye a dewdrop shone, “ No creature of my kind was ever fonder

Of that dear spot of earth

Which gave it birth, — And I was nestled in the furrow yonder! Sweet is the twinkle of the dewy heath, And sweet that thymy down I watch beneath, Saluted often with a loving sonnet; But Men, vile Men, have spread so thick a scurf Of dirt and infamy about the Turf,

I do not like to settle on it!”

MORAL. Alas! how nobles of another race Appointed to the bright and lofty way, Too willingly descend to haunt a place Polluted by the deeds of Birds of Prey !

A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME.

“The attempt and not the deed.” – LADY MACBETH

(COPY.)

IF I were used to writing verse,
And had a Muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy's call to spring
And carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights
From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights ;
If I, alas ! had such a Muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be filled in vain!
But ab! the power was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy's mine;
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies' old domain, —

To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes ;
Or mark the “gradual dusky veil”
Drawn over Tempé's tuneful vale,
In classic lays remembered long, –
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,
Who sang his native braes and burns.
For me, a novice strange and new,
Who ne'er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordained to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic's eye,
For 0, to hope from such as I,
For anything that's fit to read,
Were trusting to a broken reed!

E. M. G.

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