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Hoarded, bartered, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled:
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould;
Price of many a crime untold;
Gold! gold! gold! gold!

Good or bad a thousand-fold!

How widely its agencies vary

To save to ruin

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- to curse

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As even its minted coins express,

Now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess, And now of a Bloody Mary.

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS.

THOU happy, happy elf!

(But stop, - first let me kiss away that tear) —

Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he 's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite!

With spirits feather-light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin

(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin !)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air
(The door! the door! he 'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents —(Drat the boy!

There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub - but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From ev'ry blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in Youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble ! — that's his precious nose!)

Thy father's pride and hope!

(He 'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint (Where did he learn that squint ? )

Thou young domestic dove!

(He 'll have that jug off, with another shove!) Dear nursling of the Hymeneal nest!

(Are those torn clothes his best?)

Little epitome of man!

(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life (He's got a knife!)

Thou enviable being!

No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing,
Play on, play on,

My elfin John!

Toss the light ball - bestride the stick

(I knew so many cakes would make him sick!)
With fancies, buoyant as the thistle-down,
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk,

(He's got the scissors, snipping at your gown!)

Thou pretty opening rose !

(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose!)
Balmy and breathing music like the South,
(He really brings my heart into my mouth!)

-

Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star
(I wish that window had an iron bar!)
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove,
(I'll tell you what, my love,

I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)

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MORNING MEDITATIONS.

LET Taylor preach upon a morning breezy,
How well to rise while nights and larks are flying –
For my part getting up seems not so easy

By half as lying.

What if the lark does carol in the sky,
Soaring beyond the sight to find him out
Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly?
I'm not a trout.

Talk not to me of bees and such like hums,
The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime —
Only lie long enough, and bed becomes

A bed of time.

To me Dan Phoebus and his car are nought,
His steeds that paw impatiently about, —
Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought,
The first turn-out!

Right beautiful the dewy meads appear
Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl;
What then, if I prefer my pillow-beer
To early pearl?

My stomach is not ruled by other men's,
And grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs
Wherefore should master rise before the hens
Have laid their eggs?

Why from a comfortable pillow start
To see faint flushes in the east awaken?
A fig, say I, for any streaky part,
Excepting bacon.

An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn,
Who used to haste the dewy grass among,
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'
Well he died young.

With charwomen such early hours agree,
And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup;
But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be
All up all up!

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So here I'll lie, my morning calls deferring,
Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;
A man that's fond precociously of stirring,
Must be a spoon.

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THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES.

DREAM-PEDLARY.

IF there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?

Some cost a passing bell;

Some a light sigh,

That shakes from Life's fresh crown

Only a rose leaf down.

If there were dreams to sell,

Merry and sad to tell,

And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,

Shadowy, my woes to still,

Until I die.

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown

Fain would I shake me down.

Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy ;
Life is a dream, they tell,

Waking, to die.

Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,

Which one would I?

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