Oh, hark! what mean those yells and cries? Now, now my dungeon grate he shakes. I am not mad, but soon shall be. Yes, soon; for, lo you!- while I speak- Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad; Your task is done! I'm mad! I'm mad! THE GLOVE AND THE LION. ING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, K And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar, they rolled on one another; Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air: Said Francis, then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous, lively dame, With smiling lips, and sharp, bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love for me: King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he soon regained the place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "In faith," cried Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat; "Not love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER. Written by a young lady, who had been accused of being a maniac on the subject of Temperance, because her writings were so full of pathos. Go, bear what I have borne- Go, kneel as I have knelt; Implore, beseech, and pray — Go, weep as I have wept, O'er a loved father's fall See every promised blessing swept, Youth's sweetness turned to gall; Life's fading flowers strewed all the way, Go, see what I have seen, Behold the strong man bow, With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, Go catch his withering glance, and see Go, to thy mother's side, And her crushed bosom cheer; Wipe from her cheek the bitter tear; But who, forsworn, hath yielded up And led her down through love and light, Go, hear, and feel, and see, and know See if its beauty can atone; Think if its flavor you will try, When all proclaim, ""Tis drink, and die." Tell me I hate the bowl Hate is a feeble word: I loathe -- abhor - my very soul With strong disgust is stirred, Whene'er I see, or hear, or tell Of the dark beverage of hell. STUART HOLLAND. "Amidst all the terrible incidents attendant upon the destruction of the Arctic, there is one which impresses us with a feeling of awe and admiration, and shows all the world that the age of heroes is not altogether gone by. We refer to the young man, Stuart Holland, whose post of duty, throughout the trying scene, was the firing of a signal gun, at intervals, in the hope of attracting the attention of vessels in the distance to the scene of the disaster. He was in the very act of firing, as the vessel disappeared below the waters." EATH on the waters! hark! the cry DEATH Of hundreds in their agony, Who, helpless, crowd the deck; There manhood sternly marks his tomb, What quiet grandeur in his air - His right arm raised - his forehead bare, And mist-wreaths rolling dun! "Save, save thyself!" the captain cried- But thou art free-thy mother waits How answered Holland-hark! His minute-gun again-and by Grand as a young Greek god who smiles Beneath the bolted storm! In vain, in vain the loud gun roars-- Of shivering horror rends the sky- The proud ship sinks- and sinks: again Soul of the brave! when sounds the trump Upon the land or brine, And knowing not if e'er his name Shall murmur from the harp of fame, But looking from a troubled zone Brave Holland! such a wreath is thine, |