speed, it is no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of "running round to the Swan, the coach-the last coach-had gone without him. It was somewhere about three o'clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus Minns knocked feebly at the street door of his lodgings in Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr. Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander Augustus Budden, appears therein. THANK GOD FOR SUMMER-ELIZA COOK.. I loved the Winter once with all my soul, As Troubadours have poured to Beauty's eyes. I deemed the hard, black frost a pleasant thing, But I have walked into the world since then, And seen the bitter work that cold can do- I know now, there are those who sink and lie I know the roofless and unfed must die, When even lips at Plenty's feast turn white. And now whene'er I hear the cuckoo's song In budding woods, I bless the joyous comer; While my heart runs a cadence in a throng Of hopeful notes, that say-"Thank God for Summer!" I've learnt that sunshine bringeth more than flowers, The aged limbs that quiver in their task, Of dragging life on, when the north winds goad Taste once again contentment, as they bask In the straight beams that warm their churchyard road. And Childhood-poor, pinched Childhood, half forgets The moping idiot seemeth less distraught And laugh, and clutch the blades, as though he thought Ah! dearly now I hail the nightingale, And greet the bee-the merry-going hummerAnd when the lilies peep so sweet and pale, I kiss their cheeks, and say—"Thank God for Summer!" Feet that limp, blue and bleeding as they go The tired pilgrim, who would shrink with dread Is free to choose his mossy summer bed, And sleep his hour or two in some green lane. Oh! Ice-toothed King, I loved you once-but now Of hopeless pity shadowing my brow, To think how naked flesh must feel your fang. My eyes watch now to see the elms unfold, And when fair Flora sends the butterfly Painted and spangled, as her herald mummer; "Now for warm holidays," my heart will cry, "The poor will suffer less! Thank God for Summer!" THE SNOWFLAKE-HANNAH F. GOULD. "Now, if I fall, will it be my lot And there will my course be ended?" It seemed in mid air suspended "Oh, no!" said the Earth, "thou shalt not lie For thou wilt be safe in my keeping. But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form- But revive, when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, "And then, thou shalt have thy choice, to be Or aught of thy spotless whiteness; With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, "I'll let thee awake from thy transient sleep, In a drop from the unlocked fountain; "Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending! "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake; Nor the mist, that shall pass with the morning. "And if true to thy word and just thou art, For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, IMOGEN AT THE CAVE.-SHAKSPEARE. IMOGEN, in boy's clothes. Imo. I see a man's life is a tedious one: When from the mountain-top Pisanio shew'd thee, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me When rich ones scarce tell true: To lapse in fulness, Is worse in kings than beggars.-My dear lord! Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS. Bel. You, Polydore, have proved best woodman, and Are master of the feast: Cadwal and I, Will play the cook and servant: 't is our match: The sweat of industry would dry and die, But for the end it works to. Come; our stomachs Finds the down pillow hard.-Now, peace be here, Gui. Gui. There is cold meat i' the cave; we'll browze on that Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd. Bel. Stay; come not in: [Looking in cave. Bel. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An earthly paragon!-Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Enter IMOGEN. Imo. Good masters, harm me not; Before I enter'd here, I call'd; and thought To have begg'd or bought what I have took: Good troth, As I had made my meal; and parted With prayers for the provider. Gui. Money, youth? Arv. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt! As 'tis no better reckon'd, but of those Who worship dirty gods. Imo. Fidele, sir: I have a kinsman, who Bel. Gui. Were you a woman, youth, Arv. I'll make 't my comfort He is a man; I'll love him as my brother: And such a welcome as I'd give to him, After long absence, such as yours:-Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends. Imo. 'Mongst friends! To thee, Posthùmus. Bel. [Aside. He wrings at some distress. Or I; whate'er it be, [Whispering Gui. 'Would, I could free't! What pain it cost! what danger! Gods! Bel. Hark, boys. Imo. Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, |