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And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
These drops ?-Oh God! the life-blood is her own;
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone-
• Clasp me a little longer, on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart;
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love,
Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland
And beautiful expression seemed to melt
She presses to the heart no more that felt.
Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,-
CORPORAL TRIM'S ELOQUENCE. -My young master in London is dead, said ObadiahHere is sad news, Trim, cried Susannah, wiping her eyes as Trim stepped into the kitchen-master Bobby is dead.
I lament for him from my heart and my soul, said Trim, fetching a sigh-poor creature !
-poor gentleman ! He was alive last
Whitsuntide, said the coachman.- Whitsuntide ! alas ! cried Trim, extending his right arm, and falling instantly into the same attitude in which he read the sermonwhat is Whitsuntide, Jonathan, (for that was the coachman's name) or Shrovetide, or any tide or time past, to this ? Are we not here now, continued the corporal, (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an idea of health and stability) and are we not (dropping his hat upon the ground) gone! In a moment? It was infinitely striking ! Su. sannah burst into a flood of tears—We are not stocks and stones, Jonathan, Obadiah, the cook-maid, all melted. The foolish fat scullion herself, who was scouring a fish-kettle upon her knees, was roused with it.- -The whole kitchen crowded about the corporal.
Are we not here now—and gone in a moment? There was nothing in the sentence—it was one of your self-evident truths we have the advantage of hearing every day; and if Trim had not trusted more to his hat than his head, he had made nothing at all of it.
• Are we not here now,' continued the corporal, and are we noť (dropping his hat plump upon the ground—and pausing, before he pronounced the word) gone! in a moment? The descent of the hat was as if a heavy lump of clay had been kneaded into the crown of it. Nothing could have expressed the sentiment of mortality, of which it was the type and forerunner, like it; his hand seemed to vanish from under it, it fell dead, the corporal's eyes fixed upon it, as upon a corpse
-and Susannah burst into a flood of tears.
THE BANK CLERK AND STABLE KEEPERS.
Showing how Peter was undone,
OF Peter Prim (so Johnson would have written),
Let me indulge in the remembrance ;-Peter!
For sure the Bank had never a completer
To an appointment, and abuse those elves
If you should mark his powder'd head betimes,
And polish'd shoes in Lothbury, You know the hour, for the three-quarter chimes
Invariably struck as he went by, From morning fines he always saves his gammon, Not from his hate of sloth, but love of Mammon,
For Peter had a special eye
But where it started had its end too;
Luckily he had none to lend to.
No purchases so cheap as his,
While no one's bargains went so far, And though in dress a deadly quiz,
No quaker more particular.
This live automaton, who seem'd
To live upon the saving plan,
Call'd in the city—a warm man.
A Bank Director once, who dwelt at Chigwell,
Prim to a turtle feast invited,
I need not say he went delighted !
No stage leaves Chigwell after eight,
Which was too early to come back;
Peter resolved to hire a hack :
Behold him mounted on his jade,
A perfect Johnny Gilpin figure, But the good bargain he had made
Compensating for sneer and snigger.
He trotted on, arrived, sat down,
Devour'd enough for six or seven,
As he had fix'd, exactly at eleven.
But whether habit led him, or the Fates,
To give a preference to Number One,
(As he had always done),
Instead of Number Two,
And homeward hurried without more ado,
Some days elapsed and no one came
Of groom-like looking men,
Together-twenty-two pounds ten!
The tale got wind. What! Peter make a blunder!
Prim, that he suffer'd an attack
Of bile, and bargain'd with a quack,
His scraped, and saved, and hoarded store,
Went to a man to whom, some months before,
DEATH OF CARTHON.-OSSIAN'S ADDRESS TO
The battle ceased along the field, for the bard had sung the song of peace. The chiefs gathered round the falling Carthon, and heard his words with sighs. Silent they leaned on their spears, while Balclutha’s hero spoke. His hair sighed in the wind, and his words were feeble.
• King of Morven, Carthon said, 'I fall in the midst of my
course. A foreign tomb receives, in youth, the last of Reutna. mir's race.
Darkness dwells in Balclutha : and the shadows of grief in Crathmo. But raise my remembrance on the banks of Lora, where my fathers dwelt, perhaps the husband of Moina will mourn over his fallen Carthon. His words reached the heart of Clessammor : he fell, in silence on his son. The host stood darl ed around : no voice is on the plains of Lora. Night came, and the moon, from the east, looked on the mournful field : but still they stood, like a silent grove that lifts its head on Gormal, when the loud winds are laid, and dark autumn is on the plain.
Three days they mourned over Carthon : on the fourth his father died. In the narrow plain of the rock they lie ; and a dim ghost defends their tomb. There lovely Moina is often seen ; when the sun-beams dart on the rock, and all around is dark. There she is seen, Malvina, but not like the daughters of the hill. Her robes are from the stranger's land ; and she is still alone.
Fingal was sad for Carthon ; he desired his bards to mark the day, when shadowy autumn returned. And often did they mark the day, and sing the hero's praise. Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud ? Death is trembling in his hand ! his eyes are flames of fire! Who roars along dark Lora's heath? Who but Carthon king of swords ! The people fall! see ! how he strides, like the sullen ghost of Morven ! But there he lies, a goodly oak, which sudden blasts overturned ! When shalt thou rise, Balclutha's joy! lovely car-borne Carthon? Who comes so dark from ocean's roar, like autumn's shadowy cloud ?' Such were the words of the bards, in the day of their mourning : I have accompanied their voice ; and added to their song. My soul has been mournful for Carthon, he fell in the days of his valour: and thou, O Clessammor! where is thy dwelling in the air ? Has the youth forgot his wound? And flies he on the clouds, with thee? I feel the
O Malvina ; leave me to my rest. Perhaps they may come to my dreams ; I think I hear a feeble voice. The beams of heaven delight to shine on the grave of Carthon : I feel it warm around.
O thou that rollest above, round as the shield of my fathers ! Whence are thy beams, O sun ! thy everlasting light? Thou comest forth, in thy awful beauty, and the stars hide themselves in the sky: the moon, cold and pale, sinks into the western wave. But thou thyself movest alone : who can be a companion of thy course? The oaks of the mountains fall : the mountains themselves decay with years ; the ocean shrinks and grows again : the moon herself is lost in heaven; but thou art for ever the