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They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won ;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
“Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene-"
Why, 'twas a very wicked thing !"

Said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay-nay-my little girl," quoth he,
" It was a famous victory.
And every body praised the Duke,

Who this great fight did win." “ But what good came of it at last ?"

Quoth little Peterkin. Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “But 'twas a famous victory.”

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL.
All upstarts, insolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.

As in the sunshine of the morn,
A butterfly (but newly born,)
Sat proudly perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings (all-glorious to behold,)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes, and various hue.

His now-forgotten friend, a snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail,
Crawls o'er the grass; whom, when he spies,
In wrath he to the gardener cries :

“What means yon peasant's daily toil, “ From choaking weeds to rid the soil ?

Why wake you to the morning's care ?
Why with new arts correct the year ?

Why glows the peach with crimson hue? “ And why the plum's inviting blue? “Were they to feast his taste designed, " That vermin of voracious kind ! “ Crush then the slow, the pilfering race ; “So purge thy garden from disgrace."

“ What arrogance !" the snail replied ; “How insolent is upstart pride! “ Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, “Provoked my patience to complain, " I had concealed thy meaner birth, - Nor traced thee to the scum of earth. “For scarce nine suns have waked the hours, “To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, “Since I thy humbler life surveyed, “In base, in sordid guise arrayed ; - A hideous insect, vile, unclean, You dragged a slow and noisome train; “And from your spider-bowels drew - Foul film, and spun the dirty clue. “ I own my humble life, good friend ; “Snail was I born, and snail shall end. “ And what's a butterfly? At best, “ He's but a caterpillar drest; " And all thy race (a numerous seed,) “ Shall prove of caterpillar breed.”

ROBIN AND ANNA.

She listens ;—' 'Tis the wind,” she cries :

The moon, that rose so full and bright, Is now o'ercast: she weeps, she sighs,

She fears 'twill be a stormy night.

Not long was Anna wed. Her mate,

A fisherman, was out at sea : The night is dark, the hour is late,

The wind is high-and where is he?

- Oh! who would love ! oh! who would wed

A wandering fisherman, to be A wretched, lonely wife, and dread

“ Each breath that blows, when he's at sea !"

Not long was Anna wed. One pledge

Of tender love her bosom bore :
The storm comes down! the billows rage !

Its father is not yet on shore !

“Oh! who would think her portion blessed

A wandering seaman's wife to be, “ To hug the infant to her breast,

“ Whose father's on a stormy sea!" The thunder bursts! the lightning falls !

The casement rattles with the rain ! And, as the gusty tempest bawls,

The little cottage quakes again!

She does not weep; she does not sigh;

But gazes on her infant dearA smile lights up

the cherub's eye, That dims its mother's with a tear!

“Oh! who would be a seaman's wife !

" Oh! who would bear a seaman's child! " To tremble for her husband's life!

To weep-because her infant smiled !"

Hadst thou ne'er borné a seaman's boy

Nor had thy husband left the shore Thou ne'er hadst felt such frantic joy,

To see-thy Robin at the door

To press his weather-beaten cheek,

To kiss it dry and warm again,
To weep the joy thou couldst not speak-

So pleasure's in the debt of pain.
Thy cheerful fire, thy plain repast,

Thy little couch of love, I ween,
Were ten times sweeter than the last-

And not a cloud that night was seen !
O happy pair! the pains you know

Still hand in hand with pleasure come ;
For often does the tempest blow,

And Robin still is safe at home!

THE GLADIATOR.

I SEE

before me the Gladiator lie : He leans

upon

his hand-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low-
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him-he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch

who won.
He heard it, but he heeded not~his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away ;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,-
There were

his young barbarians all at play; There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday

All this rushed with his blood-Shall he expire And unavenged ?--Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire!

ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE YOUTH.

St. Philip Neri, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And, being ever courteously inclined
To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him ; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

St. “Tell me, what brings you, gentle youth, to “Rome ?"

Y. “To make myself a scholar, sir, I come."
St. “And, when you are one, what do you intend ?
Y. “To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end."
St. “Suppose it so--what have you next in view ?"
Y. “ That I may get to be a canon too.”
St. Well; and how then?”
Y.

“Why, then, for aught I know, “I may be made a bishop.”

St. " What then ?

Y. “ Why, cardinal's a high degree“ And yet my lot it possibly may be.

St. “Suppose it was—what then?”
Y.

Why, who can say, “But I've a chance of being pope one day ?”

St. “Well, having worn the mitre, and red hat, “And triple crown, what follows after that ?"

Y. “ Nay, there is nothing further to be sure, "Upon this earth, that wishing can procure : “When I've enjoyed a dignity so high, “As long as God shall please, then, I must die.” St. “What! must you die ? fond youth! and at the

best “But wish and hope, and may be all the rest !

6. Be it so—

F

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