Begs she won't fret if the time should seem long; Snatches a kiss, which was "pleasant, but wrong; Mounts, and taking a fence in good fox-hunting style, Sets off for her family-seat on the Weil. The sun went down, The bright stars burned, The morning came, The net he spread O'er the giant's bed, While eglantine and harebell blue, And some nice green moss on the spot he threw ; The rocks around As tears stream from her eyes,— A lady-like weakness we must not despise (And here, let me add, I have been much to blame, As I long ago ought to have mentioned her name): "Here he comes! nów do hide yourself, dear Eppo, pray; For my sake, I entreat you, keep out of his way." Time to get out of sight Among some thick bushes, which covered him quite, While, to add even yet to all this singularity, What an anxious moment! Will he lie down? Attish hu! attish hu! You brute, how I wish you Were but as genteel as the Irish lady, Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke's face, I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers; Has at once set them down as a little attention There! he's down! now he yawns, and in one minute more I thought so, he's safe-he's beginning to snore; From heel to head, and from head to heel, Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair. You must up and be doing. Depend on't, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing; Like Shakspeare's tall cliff which they show one at Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll over; As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide, "Pull him, and haul him! take care of his head! stone. Yo! heave ho! roll him along (It's exceedingly lucky the net's pretty strong); At it again, and over he goes To furnish a feast for the hooded crows; Each vulture that makes the Taurus his home Lives there a man so thick of head (From "Mirth and Metre," F. Warne and Co.) THE FALL OF MARIE ANTOINETTE. EDMUND BURKE. (Considered the most elegant Passage in BURKE's "Reflections on the French Revolution.") Ir is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to move in; glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant man, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers; I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Nevér, never more, shall we behold that loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that generous dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness. ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR THE POWER OF MUSIC: JOHN DRYDEN. [Dryden was born at Aldwinkle, Northampton, in 1631. He was educated at Winchester School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He came to London in 1654, and acted as secretary to his relation, Sir Gilbert Pickering, who was one of Cromwell's council. Like the celebrated Vicar of Bray, Dryden shifted his politics in conformity with the ins and outs of that stirring period he wrote a laudatory ode on the death of the Protector, and a panegyric on the restoration of Charles II. In 1667 he was appointed poet-laureate, with a salary of 2001. a-year. None of his plays have kept the stage, and his numerous satires are to the now popular literature of his country as if they had never been written, but his translation of Virgil is undying and has immortalized him. As he was a weathercock in his politics so he was in his religion. On the accession of James II. he became a Roman Catholic, and, like all perverts, was loudest in the abuse of his old faith. It was not until the abdication of James, when he was obliged to write for bread, that his finest compositions were written. The freedom, grace, and strength of his compositions have never been supassed. He died in 1700, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.] 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won, By Philip's warlike son: Aloft in awful state The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; The lovely Thais by his side Sat, like a blooming eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave deserves the fair. Timotheus plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the iyre: The song began from Jove; * * |