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One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
To crack a joke upon his secretary.
"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade
"And in his time was reckoned good."
Each parasite, as in duty bound,
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made)
"My father's trade! by Heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."
"Excuse the liberty I take,”
Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"
ODE TO A PIG WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED.
Hark! hark! that pig-that pig! the hideous note,
You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand
Who has not also bored and ring'd her ears.
And hold your nose to let the iron through! Dare you resist your lawful Sovereign's will?
Rebellious Swine! you know not what you do!
To man o'er beast the power was given;
Pig, hear the truth and never murmur more! Would you rebel against the will of heaven ?
You impious beast, be still, and let them bore!
The social pig resigns his natural rights
When first with man he covenants to live; He barters them for safer stye delights,
For grains and wash, which man alone can give.
Sure is provision on the social plan,
Secure the comforts that to each belong:
Your master has thought fit to bore your nose!
Go to the forest, Piggy, and deplore
May hunt or snare or seize them for his food!
Till your protecting master thinks it good! And when at last, the closing hour of life Arrives, (for pigs must die as well as man,)
When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife,
And when, at last, the death wound yawning wide,
To think that for your master's good you die?
HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.-Shakspeare.
And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
He questioned me: amongst the rest demanded
I then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd
He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)
And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.
In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.
He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise-
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.
A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear, And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite
With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,
Joy quickens his pulse-all hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God thou hast blessed me—I ask for no more."
Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,
Amazement confronts him with images direWild winds and wild waves drive the vessel a wreckThe masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire! Like mountains the billows tremendously swellIn vain the lost wretch calls on Mary to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,
And the death angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave! Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!
In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright,
Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again
Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,
Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee.
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.
On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Days, months, years and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall rollEarth loses thy pattern forever and aye
Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul.