My keeper seems nervous, and swears 'neath his breath,
That times are so dull we shall all starve to death,
I pity you, master, your teeth are on edge,

For custom runs low since the Temperance Pledge.
Then pray, gentle public, just give me a fling
To water-laved beds, where the oyster race cling.

But if you must eat me, be merciful, do,

And don't let me live with this dram-drinking crew.
Why, even an oyster is wiser than those

Who revel and shout where the full goblet flows;
Who stagger, and totter, and gibber and swear,
Or sit with their idiot-eyes in a glare.

So give us a temple, if worthy to eat,

Where the modest and honest can come for a treat,
And pull down the blinds, and unpaint all the glasses,
And look out like men when the traveller passes.

And then your poor oysters will fatten, and I,
In an honest vocation, will willingly die.
CHARLESTON, S. C. 1844.

MISCELLANEOUS.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE AMERICAN BOY.

[An English traveller has remarked, that when Americans speak of the relative character of England and their own country, "right or wrong, they will have the last word." This is illustrated in the following thoughts, excited by Mrs. Hemans' beautiful and elevating verses to "The English Boy."]

Look up, my young American!

Stand firmly on the earth,

Where noble deeds, and mental power,

Give titles more than birth.

A hallowed land thou claim'st, my boy,

By early struggles bought,

Heaped up with early memories-
And wide, ay, wide as thought!