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And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swooned ;

Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound,

These drops ?-Oh God! the life-blood is her own;
And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-
Weep not, o love !'—she cries, 'to see me bleed-

Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone-
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed
These wounds-yet thee to leave is death, is death indeed.

• Clasp me a little longer, on the brink

Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;
And, when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,

And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,

That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
A friend, to more than human friendship just.

Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust,
God shall assuage thy pangs—when I am laid in dust!

Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart;

The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart

And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove

With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace,-imagining her lot was cast

In heaven; for ours was not like earthly love,
And must this parting be our very last ?
No! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past.'

Hushed were his Gertrude's lips! but still their bland

And beautiful expression seemed to melt
With love that could not die! and still his hand

She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt,
And features yet that spoke a soul more fair.

Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,-
Of them that stood encircling his despair,
He heard some friendly words: but knew not what they were.

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 boy!

-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.


Showing how Peter was undone,
By taking care of Number One.

OF Peter Prim (so Johnson would have written),

Let me indulge in the remembrance ;-Peter!
Thy formal phiz has oft my fancy smitten,

For sure the Bank had never a completer
Quiz among its thousand clerks,
Than he who now elicits our remarks,

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To an appointment, and abuse those elves
Who are not over punctual, like themselves.

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
To Number One ;-his charity
At home beginning, ne'er extends,

But where it started had its end too;
And as to lending cash to friends,

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 move by clock-work, ever keen

To live upon the saving plan,
Had soon the honour to be deem'd
That seifish, heartless, cold machine,

Call'd in the city—a warm man.

A Bank Director once, who dwelt at Chigwell,

Prim to a turtle feast invited,
And as the reader knows the prig well,

I need not say he went delighted !
For great men, when they let you slice their meat,
May give a slice of loan-a richer treat.

No stage leaves Chigwell after eight,

Which was too early to come back;
So, after much debate,

Peter resolved to hire a hack :
The more inclined to this because he knew
In London Wall, at Number Two,
An economic stable-keeper,
From whom he hoped to get one cheaper.

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,
His horse remounted, and reach'd town

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),
Or that the darkness jumbled the two gates,
Certain it is he gave that bell a drag,

Instead of Number Two,
Rode in, dismounted, left his nag,

And homeward hurried without more ado,

Some days elapsed and no one came
To bring the bill, or payment claim;
He 'gan to hope 'twas overlook'd,
Forgotten quite, or never book'd-
An error which the honesty of Prim
Would ne'er have rectified, if left to him.
After six weeks, however, comes a pair

Of groom-like looking men,
Each with a bill, which Peter they submit to;
One for the six weeks' hire of a bay mare,
And one for six weeks' keep of ditto;

Together-twenty-two pounds ten!

The tale got wind. What! Peter make a blunder!
There was no end of joke, and quiz, and wonder,
Which, with the loss of cash, so mortified

Prim, that he suffer'd an attack

Of bile, and bargain'd with a quack,
Who daily swore to cure him-till he died !
When, as no will was found,

His scraped, and saved, and hoarded store,

Went to a man to whom, some months before,
He had refused to lend a pound.



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

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