Steward.

Over ate himself, Sir.

Mr. G. Did he, faith ?-a greedy dog! Why, what did he get that he liked so well?

Steward. Horse-flesh, Sir. He died of eating horseflesh.

Mr. G. How came he to get so much horse-flesh?
Steward. All your Father's horses, Sir.
Mr. G. What are they dead, too?

Steward. Aye, Sir. They died of over-work.
Mr. G. And why were they over-worked, pray?
Steward. To carry water, Sir.

Mr. G. To carry water! And what were they carrying water for?

Steward. Sure, Sir, to put out the fire!

Mr. G. Fire! What fire?

Steward. Oh, Sir, your father's house is burnt down to the ground!

Mr. G. My father's house burnt! And how came it to be set on fire?

it!

Steward.

I think it must have been the torches !

Mr. G. Torches! What torches ?

Steward. At your mother's funeral !

Mr. G. My mother dead?

Steward. Aye, poor lady! She never looked up after

Mr. G. After what?

Steward. The loss of your father, Sir!

Mr. G. My father gone too?

Steward. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it!

Mr. G. Heard of what?

Steward. The bad news, sir, an' please y'r honor! Mr. G. What! More miseries! More bad news? Steward. Yes, Sir! Your bank has failed-your credit is lost—and you are not worth a shilling in the world! I made bold, Sir, to come and wait on you, to tell you about it, for I thought you would like to hear the news!

ANONYMOUS.

THE MOTHER WHO HAS A CHILD AT SEA.

THERE's an eye that looks on the swelling cloud,
Folding the moon in a funeral shroud:

That watches the stars dying one by one,

Till the whole of heaven's calm light hath gone.
There's an ear that lists to the hissing surge,
As the mourner turns to the anthem dirge:
That eye! that ear! oh, whose can they be,
But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

There's a cheek that is getting ashy white,
As the tokens of storm come on with the night;
There's a form that's fixed at the lattice pane,
To mark how the gloom gathers over the main;
While the yeasty billows lash the shore
With loftier sweep, and hoarser roar.

That cheek that form! oh, whose can they be, But a mother's who hath a child at sea?

The rushing whistle chills her blood,

As the north wind hurries to scourge the flood:
And the icy shiver spreads to her heart,
As the first red lines of lightning start.
The ocean boils! All mute she stands,
With parted lips and tight clasp'd hands:
Oh! marvel not at her fear,-for she
Is a mother who hath a child at sea.

She conjures up the fearful scene

Of yawning waves, where the ship between,
With striking keel and splinter'd mast,
Is plunging hard and foundering fast.
She sees her boy, with lank, drench'd hair,
Clinging on to the wreck with a cry of despair-
Oh! the vision is maddening-No grief can be
Like a mother's who hath a child at sea.

She presses her brow, she sinks and kneels ;
While the blast howls on and the thunder peals;
She breathes not a word, for her passionate prayer
Is too fervent and deep for the lips to bear:
It is pour'd in the long convulsive sigh,
In the straining glance of an upturn'd eye:
And a holier offering cannot be

Than the mother's prayer for her child at sea.

Oh! I love the winds when they spurn control,
For they suit my own bond-hating soul;
I like to hear them sweeping past,
Like the eagle's pinions, free and fast:
But a pang will rise, with sad alloy,

To soften my spirit, and sink my joy,

When I think how dismal their voices must be
To a mother who hath a child at sea!

ELIZA COOK.

THE SICK MAN AND THE ANGEL.

"Is there no hope?" the sick man said.
The silent doctor shook his head,

And took his leave with signs of sorrow,
Despairing of his fee to-morrow.

When thus the man with gasping breath;
"I feel the chilling wound of death:
Since I must bid the world adieu,

Let me my former life review.

I grant, my bargains well were made,
But all men over-reach in trade;
"Tis self-defence in each profession,
Sure self-defence is no transgression.

The little portion in my hands,
By good security on lands,

Is well increased.

If unawares,

My justice to myself and heirs,
Hath let my debtor rot in jail,
For want of good sufficient bail;
If I by writ, or bond, or deed,
Reduced a family to need,

My will hath made the world amends;
My hope on charity depends.

When I am numbered with the dead,
And all my pious gifts are read,

By heaven and earth 'twill then be known
My charities were amply shown.”

66

An angel came. Ah, friend!" he cried,
"No more in flattering hope confide.
Can thy good deeds in former times
Outweigh the balance of thy crimes?
What widow or what orphan prays
To crown thy life with length of days?
A pious action's in thy power,
Embrace with joy the happy hour.
Now, while you draw the vital air,

Prove your intention is sincere.

This instant give a hundred pound;

Your neighbours want, and you abound."

"But why such haste?" the sick man whines;

"Who knows as yet what Heaven designs?

Perhaps I may recover still;

That sum, and more, are in my will."

66

Fool," says the angel, "now 'tis plain,

Your life, your soul, your heaven was gain,