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With all the deathless bards of Greece and Rome, To spend a fortnight at his Uncle's home. Arrived, and passed the usual “How d'ye do's,” Inquiries of old friends, and College news.“Well, Tom--the road, what saw you worth discerning, “ How goes study, boy--what is't you're learning ?" “Logic, Sir, -but not the shallow rules “Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools ! " 'Tis wits' and wranglers' Logic !_Thus, d'ye see, I'll
prove at once, as plain as A, B, C, " That an eel-pie's a pigeon :-to deny it, “Would be to swear black's white.”_" Well come, let's
“An eel-pie is a pie of fish.”—“Agreed.” “A fish-pie may be a Jack-pie.”_"Well, proceed.” “A Jack-pie must be a John-pie—thus, 'tis done, “For every John-pie, must be a pie-John!" “ Bravo !” Sir Peter cries, “ Logic for ever! “That beats my grandmother--and she was clever ! “But hold, my boy--it surely must be hard, “That wit and learning should meet no reward ! “ To-morrow, for a stroll, the park we'll cross, “ And there I'll give you”-“What?” “A chestnut-horse.” “ A horse !" cries Tom, "blood, pedigree, and paces,
Oh what a dash I'll cut at Epsom races !" To bed he went, and wept for downright sorrow, To think the night must pass before the morrow; Dreamt of his boots, and spurs, and leather breeches, His hunting whip, and leaping rails and ditches ; Rose in the morn an hour before the lark, Dragged his old Uncle fasting through the park:Each craggy vale he scours, quite at a loss, To find out something like a chestnut-horse; But no such animal the meadow cropt; At length, beneath a tree, Sir Peter stopped ; Caught a bough and shook it, when straight down fell A fine horse-chestnut in its prickly shell. " There, Tom, take that."-"Well, Sir, and what beside?" “Nay, since you're booted-saddle it, and ride !"
" Ride what?”—“Why a chestnut-come get across, “I tell you, Tom, that chestnut is a horse, “ And all the horse you'll get-for I can plainly show, " As clear as sunshine, that 'tis even so~ “Not by your musty, fusty, worn-out rules “Of Locke and Bacon--antiquated fools ! “Of old Malebranche, blind Pilot into knowledge, “ But by the laws of wit and Eton College ; "All Logic !—but the wranglers' I disown, “ And stick to one sound argument—your own. “That you have proved to me, I don't deny “That a pie-John is the same as a John-pie ! “ What follows then, but as a thing of course, “ That a horse-chestnut must be a chestnut-horse ?"
GLENARA. O! heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and her people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud : Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around : They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground. In silence they reached over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar : “ Now here let us place the grey-stone of her cairn
Why speak ye no word !”—said Glenara the stern. “ And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, “Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows?" So spake the rude chieftain :-no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed. “ I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; " And empty that shroud, and that coffin, did seem; “Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !”
O ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : “I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, “ I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: "On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; “Glenara! Glenara ! now read me my dream !" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found : From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
A MOTHER'S LOVE.
A MOTHER's love,-how sweet the name !
What is a mother's love?
Enkindled from above,
This is a mother's love.
Then, while it lies forlorn,
And feel herself new-born;
This is a mother's love.
To cherish on her breast,
And lull it there to rest;
This is a mother's love,
To mark its growth from day to day,
Its opening charms admire,
Of intellectual fire ;
This is a mother's love.
And can a mother's love grow cold?
Can she forget her boy?
Nor weep for grief- for joy?
-Is this a mother's love?
Ten thousand voices answer “No!"
Ye clasp your babes and kiss ; Your bosoms yearn, your eyes
o’erflow; Yet, ah! remember this ;The infant, reared alone for earth, May live, may die,--to curse his birth ;
- Is this a mother's love?
A parent's heart may prove a snare;
The child she loves so well, Her hand may lead, with gentlest care,
Down the smooth road to hell; Nourish its frame,—destroy its mind : Thus do the blind mislead the blind,
Even with a mother's love.
Blest infant! whom his mother taught
Early to seek the Lord, And poured upon his dawning thought
The day-spring of the word; This was the lesson to her son, -Time is Eternity begun :
Behold that mother's love.
Blest mother! who, in wisdom's path,
By her own parent trod,
And know the fear of God :
Taught by that 'mother's love.
What was that mother's love?
That kindles from above
This was that mother's love,
THE INFIDEL AND THE CHRISTIAN. The path to bliss abounds with many a snare; Learning is one, and wit, however rare. The Frenchman, first in literary fame, (Mention him, if you please. Voltaire?-The same.) With spirit, genius, eloquence, supplied, Lived long, wrote much, laughed heartily, and died; The Scripture was his jest-book, whence he drew Bon-mots to gall the Christian and the Jew; An infidel in health, but what when sick ? 0—then a text would touch him at the quick ; View him at Paris in his last career, Surrounding throngs the demi-god revere ; Exalted on his pedestal of pride, And fumed with frankincense on every side, He begs their flattery with his latest breath, And, smothered in't at last, is praised to death!
Yon cottager, who weaves at her own door, Pillow and bobbins all her little store ;