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AGAINST LIFE.

(From the Greek of Prosidippus.)

WHAT tranquil road, unvex'd by strife, Can mortals choose thro' human life? Attend the courts, attend the barThere discord reigns, and endless jar. At home the weary wretches find Severe disquietude of mind; To till the fields gives toil and pain; Eternal terrors sweep the main. If rich, we fear to lose our store; Need and distress await the poor. Sad care the bands of Hymen give; Friendless, forlorn, th' unmarried live; Are children born? we anxious groan; Childless our lack of heirs we moan. Wild giddy schemes our youth engage; Weakness and want depress old age. Would Fate then with my wish comply, I'd never live, or quickly die.

FOR LIFE.

(From the Greek of Metrodorus.)

MANKIND may walk, unvex'd by strife,
Thro' every road of human life.
Fair wisdom regulates the bar,

And peace concludes the wordy war.
At home auspicious mortals find
Serene tranquillity of mind.
All-beauteous nature decks the plain,

And merchants plough for gold the main.
Respect arises from our store;
Security from being poor.

More joys the bands of Hymen give;
Th' unmarried with more freedom live.
If parents, our blest lot we own;
Childless, we have no cause to mean.
Firm vigour crowns our youthful stage;
And venerable hairs old age.
Since all is good, then who would cry
"I'd never live, or quickly die?"

He would as soon pretend to sing

As to attempt another trip. So Jack, when his red gills are wet, Well dipp'd in claret or champaigne, He'll sing, and joke, and swear, and bet, And all his wit is up amain. But in the morn Jack's gills grow dry, His tongue and wit alike are slack; You quickly see by his dead eye No flounder is more flat than Jack.

LINES

Written under a Miniature.

WHEN mem'ry, chill'd by absence, shall decay,
And love's impression seems to wear away;
Oh may this sketch, with more than mimic art,
Recal the living portrait to the heart,
Save an affection, threat'ning to decline,
And whilst it pleads my faith, recover thine.

OLD AGE.

"TIME has not thinn'd my flowing hair," "Tis still so thick, 'twould make you stare; But he has play'd the barber's part, And powder'd it with wondrous art, Meaning, no doubt, to let me see,✔ That when he can, he'll powder Me.

G. G.

Present enjoyment preferred to Posthumous.
THE meed which after death men give
To merit, meets my laughter;

For here in flesh I'd rather live,
Than stand in stone hereafter.

TO A LADY THAT WISHED TO DIE.

THY form, sweet fair, to earth is due;
Not yet to heav'n repair,

Since angels are on earth so few,
And are so many there.

Trifles.

POOR JACK'S CASE.
A Simile.

THERE is a fish, as sailors tell,
That quits the ocean, and will fly
A journey in the air as well

As any bird, but not so high;
And when the salt drops quit his wing,
And he is dry as any chip,

THE INFIDEL.

I LOVE thee, charming Jessy, well; But, Jessy, you're an infidel

You vow men swear but to deceive,
And nought on earth will you believe,
Save this one truth-this only one-
You're lovely as the roving sun.

But thus I swear, my truth to prove,
By all th' artillery of love,
By all the roses all the myrtles,
All the ring doves and the turtles
E'er employed by absent lover,
His secret passion to discover;
By thine azure eye of brightness,
By the fairy foot of lightness,

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BY THE LATE MR. FOX.

OH, poverty! of pale, consumptive hue,
If thou delight'st to haunt me, still in view;
If still thy presence must my steps attend,
At least continue, as thou art,—my friend!
When Scotch example bids me be unjust,
Faise to my word, or faithless to my trust,
Bid me the baneful error quickly see,
And shun the world, to find repose with thee;
When vice to wealth would turn my partial eye,
Or interest shut my ear to sorrow's cry,
Or courtier's custom would my reason bend,
My foe to flatter,-or desert my friend;
Oppose, kind poverty, thy temper'd shield,
And bear me off unvanquish'd from the field.
If giddy fortune e'er return again,
With all her idle, restless, wanton train,
Her magic glass should false ambition hold,
Or avarice bid me put my trust in gold-
To my relief, thou virtuous goddess, haste,
And with thee bring thy daughters, ever chaste,
Health! liberty! and wisdom! sisters bright;
Whose charms can make the worst condition light;
Beneath the hardest fate the mind can cheer,
Can heal affliction, and disarm despair!
In chains, in torments, pleasure can bequeath,
And dress in smiles the tyrant hour of death!

CONSCIENCE.

CONSCIENCE, thou whisper of the soul!thou form

Unseen, yet terrible!-Sleep seldom sets
Its earthly seal upon those eyes of thine!
Touch but th' alarum, and though hous'd in
wealth

And pow'r, still shall the mighty shake at thee!
Self-horrified-e'en lordly man turns pale

At thy convicting voice, for thou canst blast
His guilty spirit with a tongue of fire!
Ah! who would scatter for a fleeting grasp
Of unblest gold, a bane upon the sweet
Reviving hour of Nature's rest?-Ah! who
Would feel the inextinguishable curse
Of his own reason? nursing, as it were,
A serpent's venom in each brooding thought.
"Tis Conscience like a heav'n-born Seraph sits
On the watch-tow'r of life, and seems to light
The friendly beacon 'gainst Temptation's storm
Destructive: Conscience gives the genial smile,
The calm, untainted cheerfulness of soul
That guiltless Poverty dares call its own!
"Tis that stern pow'r which never smii'd on vice,
Though trimly wrapp'd in grandeur's glitt'ring
garb.

THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR GLASS.

COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again:
Companion of the lonely hour!

Spring thirty times hath fed with rain
And cloth'd with leaves my humble bower,
Since thou hast stood

In frame of wood,

On chest or window by my side:
At every birth still thou wert near,
Still spoke thine admonitions clear-

And when my husband died, I've often watch'd thy streaming sand And seen the growing mountain rise, And often found life's hopes to stand On props as weak in wisdom's eyes: Its conic crown

Still sliding down,

Again heap'd up, then down again;
The sand above more hoilow grew,
Like days and years still filt'ring through,
And mingling joy and pain.

While I thus spin and sometimes sing,
(For now and then my heart will glow)
Thou measur'st Time's expanding wing:
By thee the noontide hour I know:
Though silent thou,
Still shalt thou flow,
And jog along thy destined way:
But when I glean'd the sultry fields,
When earth her yellow harvest yields,
Thou get'st a holiday.

Steady as truth on either end
Thy daily task performing well,
Thou'rt meditation's constant friend,
And strik'st the heart without a bell:
Come, lovely May!

Thy lengthen'd day

Shall gild once more my native plain;
Curl inward here, sweet woodbine flower;-
Companion of the lonely hour,

I'll turn thee up again.

ON THE CHANGES OF LIFE. THE rolling years by tnrns decay, And life recedes from day to day; The golden Sun, that gives us light, That Sun departed brings us night,

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And go, or poor, or deok'd with state,
To visit countries, see the great;
From East to West, from time to time,
From man to man, from clime to clime;
You'll find, as thro' the world you range,
All things are changed, or on the change:
The beast, the bird-the tree, the flow'r-
Tht humble cot, and castle tow'r-

The sea, the stream-the stars, the Moon-
The air, the sky-the Earth, the Sun-
Must all the last, great change obey,
And pass in nothingness away!
How then, fond Man, these facts despise,
A world in ashes, and the skies
Dissolved-build hopes on hopes below,
And wish them fix'd-then think them so.
Know, all of life's a cheating breath,
And nothing's certain here but death?
Go, trifler of the globe, you rule,
The worm, the god-the sage, the fool-
The saint, the sinner-sin no more-
You're gods, indeed, when sin is o'er!
All wit is folly-wisdom dross-
Ambition, nonsense-pride, remorse-
Unless Religion's soothing care
Direct the thought, the reason clear,
The passions still, the mind control,
And calm in all the restless soul!
Why rolls the Sun along on high,
Dilates his beam, and lights the sky?
Why shines the Earth with vernal geen,
And flow'rs and fruitage swell the scene?
Why lives the ox, and lives to toil,
And bows his strength to till the soil,
Unless a God the whole design'd
Obsequious to the human mind?
That mind immortal! and how great
The change to that immortal state!
Hold then, awhile, successful strife,
Time leads us on to death or life;
A scene of things, a world on high-
A length of pain-a round of joy,
A life or death, which then shall be,
When Time evolves Eternity!

WOMAN.

-thou shalt stand

S. H.

A Deity, sweet Wonian, and be worshipped.

GONE from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And her breath hath lost all its faint perfume,
Aud the gloss hath dropped from her golden hair,
And her forehead is pale, tho' no longer fair :-

And the Spirit that sate on her soft blue eye,
Is struck with cold mortality;

And the smile that played on her lip hath fled,
And every grace hath now left the dead.

Like slaves they obeyed her in height of power,
But left her all in the wintry hour:

And the crowds that swore for her love to die, Shrank from the tone of her last sad sigh:And this is Man's fidelity.

"Tis Woman alone, with a firmer heart,

Can see all these idols of life depart,

And love the more; and soothe, and bless Man in his utter wretchedness.

THE PLAGUE OF LONDON, 1666.
The following very poetical and impressive de-
scription is extracted from the ** City of the
Plague," by WILSON.

KNOW ye what you will meet with in the city!
Together will ye walk, thro' long, long streets,
All standing silent as a midnight church.
You will hear nothing but the brown red grass
Rustling beneath your feet; the very beating
Of your own hearts will awe you; the small voice
Of that vain bauble, idly counting time,
Will speak a solemn language in the desert.
Look up to Heaven, and there the sultry clouds,
Still threatening thunder, lower with grim delight,
As if the spirit of the plague dwelt there,
Dark'ning the city with the shadows of death.
Know ye that hideous hub-bub? Hark, far off
A tumult-like an echo!--on it comes,
Weeping and wailing, shrieks and groaning

prayer:

And louder than all outrageous blasphemy.
The passing storm hath left the silent streets.
And are these houses near you tenantless?
Over your beads from a window-suddenly
A ghastly face is thrust, and yells of death
With voice not human.. Who is he that flies,
As if a demon dogg'd him on his path?
With ragged hair, white face, and blood-shot eyes,
Raving, he rushes past you; 'till he falls,
As if struck by light'ning, down upon the stones,
Or, blind madness, dash'd against the wall,
Sinks backward into stillness. Stand aloof,
And let the pests triumphant chariot
Have open way advancing to the tomb.
See how he mocks the pomp and pageantry
Of earthly kings! a miserable cart,
Heaped up with human bodies! dragged along
By pale steeds, skeleton anatomies!

And onwards urg'd by a wan meagre wretch,
Doom'd never to return from the foul pit,
Whither, with oaths, he drives his load of horror.
Would ye look in? Grey hairs and golden tresses,
Wan shrivell'd cheeks that have not smil'd for

years,

And many a rosy visage smiling still;
Bodies in the noisome weeds of beggary wrapt,
With age decrepid, and wasted to the bone;
And youthful frames, august and beautiful;
In spite of mortal pangs-there lie they all
Embrac'd in ghastliness! But look not long,
For haply 'mid the faces glimmering there,
The well-known cheek of some beloved friend
Will meet thy gaze, or some small snow-white
hand,

Bright with the ring that holds her lover's hair.
Let me sit down beside you. I am faint
Talking of horrors that I look'd upon
At last without a shudder.

London: Printed for the Proprietors by H.Hewitt, 145, High Holborn, Published at 42, Holywellstreet, Strand; and sold by Sherwood, Neely, and Jones, Paternoster-row; Simpkin and Marshall, Stationers'-court; and may be had of all

Booksellers.

TICKLER

THE

MAGAZINE.

No. 1. VOL. III.] LONDON, MONDAY, JANUARY 1, 1821.

Anecdotes.

SERVILIA.---Among the numerous victims of the tyranny of Nero, was one Bareas Soranus, a man, as Tacitus informs us, of singular vigilance and justice in the discharge of his duty. During his confinement, his daughter Servilia was apprehended, and brought into the Senate to be arraigned. The crime laid to her charge was, that she had turned into money all her ornaments and jewels, and the most valuable part of her dress, to defray the expence of consulting magicians. To this the young Servilia, with a flood of tears, replied, "That she had indeed consulted magicians, but the whole of her enquiry was to know whether the Emperor and Senate would afford protection and safety to her dear and indulgent parent against his accusers. "With this view," said she, “I presented the diviners, men till now utterly unknown to me, with my jewels, my apparel, and other ornaments peculiar to my quality, as I would have presented my blood and life, could they have procured my father's liberty. But whatever this my proceeding was, my unfortunate father was an utter stranger to it; and if it is a crime, I alone am guilty." This pathetic appeal was lost on the sanguinary monster; and Servilia and her father were condemned to die.

FILIAL PIETY. --- Valerius Maximus relates, that a woman of distinction having been condemned to be strangled, was delivered to the triumvir, who caused her to be carried to prison, in order to be put to death. The gaoler who was ordered to execute her, was struck with compunction, and could not resolve to kill her. He chose, however, to let her die of hunger; but meanwhile suffered her

[PRICE 6d.

daughter to visit her in prison, taking care that she brought her nothing to eat. Many days passed over in this manner, when the gaoler, at length surprised that the prisoner lived so long without food, and suspecting the daughter, took means of secretly observing their interviews.--He then discovered that the affectionate daughter had all the while been nourishing her mother with her own milk. Amazed at so tender, and at the same time so ingenious an artifice, he related it to the triumvir, and the triumvir to the prætor, who thought the fact merited stating in the assembly of the people. This produced the happiest effects; the criminal was pardoned, and a decree passed, that the mother and the daughter should be

maintained for the remainder of their lives at the expence of the public, and that a temple, sacred to filial piety, should be erected near the prison.

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Freehold, during the first American war, a young English officer, closely pressed by two Abenakis Indians, with upraised hatchets, no longer hoped for life, and only resolved to sell it dearly. At the moment when he expected to sink beneath them, an old Indian armed with a bow approached him, and prepared to aim an arrow; but having adjusted it, in an instant he dropt his bow, and ran to throw himself between the young officer and his assailants; they immediately retired with respect.

The old man took his prisoner by the hand, encouraged him by caresses, and conducted him to his cabin. It was winter, and the Indians were retiring home. Here he kept him for some time, treating him with undiminished softness, and making him less his slave than his companion. At length he taught him the Abenakis language, and the rude arts

in use among that people. They became perfectly satisfied with each other, and the young officer was comparatively happy---except at times when his heart was wrung, to perceive the old man intently fix his eyes on him and shed

tears.

At the return of spring, the Indians returned to arms, and prepared for the campaign. The old man, yet sufficiently strong to support the fatigues of war, set out with them, accompanied by his prisoner. The Abenakis made a march of more than two hundred leagues across the desert, till at length they arrived within sight of an English camp; the old Indian pointed it out to the young officer, at the same time contemplating him wistfully. "Behold thy brothers!" said he to him; "behold where they wait to give us battle! Hear me; I have saved thy life, I have taught thee to make a canoe, bows, and arrows; to obtain the means to make them from the forest; to manage the hatchet, and to take off the scalp of an enemy. What wert thou, when I took thee to my cabin? Thy hands were those of a child; they neither served to nourish nor defend thee; thy soul was in night; thou knew nothing; thou owest me all! Wilt thou, then, he ungrateful enough to join thy brothers, and raise the hatchet against us?"

The young Englishman vowed he would rather lose a thousand lives, than spill the blood of one Abenakis. The Indian looked on his prisoner with earnestness, and in a mingled tone of tenderness and sorrow, enquired, "Hast thou a father?" "He was alive," answered the young man, "when I left my country." "Oh,

how miserable he must be!" cried the Indian; and after a moment of silence, he added, "Knowest thou that I have been a father? I am so no more! I saw my child fall in the battle; he was at my side. I saw him die like a warrior; he was covered with wounds, my child, when he fell! But I have avenged him! Yes, I have avenged him." The Indian at pronouncing these words was much agitated; then turning to the East, where the sun was just rising, he said to the young Englishman, "Seest thou that beauteous sun, resplendent of brightness? Hast thou pleasure in seeing it?" "Yes," answered he, "I have pleasure in seeing that beautiful sky." "Ah, well! I have it no more," said the Indian, shedding a torrent of tears. A moment

after he shewed the young officer a flowering shrub. "Seest thou that fine tree?" said he to him; "and hast thou pleasure in looking upon it?" "Yes, I have," he answered. "I have it no more," returned the Indian, with precipitation; "but as for thou---Go, return to thy country, that thy father may again with pleasure mark the rising sun, and behold the springing flower."

GOOD FORTUNE WHEN LEAST EXPECTED.-A poor retailer of fruit, who had three small children, could scarcely, in dear times, earn so much as was necessary to procure herself and children bread; but for the hire of the damp hole, which her landlord called a room, it was impossible. The hard-hearted man distrained for his rent, really took her bed, and her little wretched furniture, and ordered them to be sold by auction. The poor wretched widow and her orphans were present at the sale. Even the best things were thrown away for a trifle, and there was not enough produced for the rent. In the catalogue there was a very small and much smoaked picture of Saint Jerom, an inheritance from her grandmother, which hung over her bed, and to which she and her children offered up their pious prayers. As they were accustomed to do, they mechanically raised up their little hands, when Saint Jerom was put up, and the tears of the mother flowed abundantly. A painter who was present examined the picture for a considerable time, and at last bid a dollar. Another connoiseur doubled the bidding. The painter to alarm his rival at once immediately rose to a louis d'or, but the connoiseur said, without pondering, "twenty-five guilders". "Fifty," answered the painter. "A hundred," replied the connoiseur. The astonishment and joy of the poor woman may be well conceived, who not only saw all her debts paid by the little Jerom, but a considerable overplus remaining. She could scarcely believe her ears, when she heard, that the two connoiseurs still kept out-bidding each other; and the painter first was silent at an offer of six hundred guilders. "You are fortunate," said he, after the painting was knocked down to his rival-"You are fortunate, Sir, in being richer than I am; otherwise you would not have had it under a thousand."

It was an original of Raphael.

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