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But Sir Carnaby Jenks
Blinks and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and-hem!-
Lieutenant Tregooze
Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances of the bill-brokers' refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy;

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.
Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seemed as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,-
All,-save the wretch condemned to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a sun

As that which its course has now begun,
Should rise on such scenes of misery!
Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning gallows tree!
And hark!-a sound comes big with fate,

The clock from St. Sepulcher's tower strikes-Eight !—
List to that low funeral bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!

And see!-from forth that opening door

They come-he steps the threshold o'er

Who never shall tread upon the threshold more.-
God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

That pale man's mute agony,

The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 't were scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the spirit's unknown career;
Those pinioned arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again,—not even in prayer;
That heaving chest!-Enough, 'tis done!—
The bolt has fallen !-The spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known to but One!-
Oh! 't was a fearsome sight! Ah, me!
A deed to shudder at,-not to see.
Again that clock!-'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past ;-with its earliest chime

.

The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By" dungeon villains" is borne away;
Nine!-'t was the last concluding stroke!
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose;
And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum go!

Why, captain!--my lord!-Here's the mischief to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!
What 's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!

Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town, We are all of us done so uncommonly brown !"

What was to be done?'t was perfectly plain

That they could not well hang the man over again;-
What was to be done?-The man was dead!—
Nought could be done,-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Ex. CXLIX.-SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,-

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

THOMAS HOOD.

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,
She sang the "Song of the Shirt.”

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It 's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-workTill the brain begins to swim, Work-work-work,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread,—and rags,

That shattered roof-and this naked floor

A table-a broken chair

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime!
Work-work-work,
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,

And work-work—work,

When the weather is warm and bright—
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet--
With the sky above my head

And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one sweet hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite, however brief!
No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-
She sung this "Song of the Shirt.”

Ex. CL.-THE AVENGING CHILDE.

LOCKHART.

HURRA! hurra! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe;
His horse is swift as sands that drift,-an Arab of the wild;

His gown is twisted round his arm,-a ghastly cheek he wears; And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting-knife he bears. Avoid that knife in battle-strife:-that weapon short and thin,

The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 't was steeped therein;

Seven times the smith hath proved its pith,-its cuts a coulter through;

In France the blade was fashioned,-from Spain the shaft it drew.

He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow,—
He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow:
He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour knight;
His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white.
He found him standing by the king within the judgment-

hall;

He rushed within the baron's ring,-he stood before them

all:

Seven times he gazed and pondered, if he the deed should

do;

Eight times distraught he looked and thought,-then out his dagger flew.

He stabbed therewith at Quadros :-the king did step be

tween;

It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green:
He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay.

"Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean?-thy king why wouldst thou slay ?"

"Now, pardon, pardon," cried the Childe, "I stabbed not, king, at thee,

But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee;

Eight brothers were we,-in the land might none more loving

be,

They all are slain by Quadros' hand,—they all are dead but

me.

"Good king, I fain would wash the stain,-for vengeance is

my cry,

This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy !"

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