With folded arms Napoleon stood,
Serene alike in peace and danger;
And, in his wonted attitude,

Address'd the stranger :

"Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass
On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd;
Thy heart with some sweet British lass
Must be impassion'd."

"I have no sweetheart," said the lad;
"But-absent long from one another-
Great was the longing that I had
To see my mother."

"And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, "Ye've both my favor fairly won; A noble mother must have bred

So brave a son."

He gave the tar a piece of gold,

And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipp'd to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift

To find a dinner, plain and hearty: But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparté.

THE JILTED NYMPH.

A SONG,

T THE SCOTCH TUNE OF "WOO'D AND MARRIED AND A'.

I'm jilted, forsaken, outwitted;

Yet think not I'll whimper or brawl

The lass is alone to be pitied

Who ne'er has been courted at all:

Never by great or small,

Woo'd or jilted at all;

Oh, how unhappy's the lass

Who has never been courted at all!

My brother call'd out the dear faithless,

In fits I was ready to fall,

Till I found a policeman who, scatheless,

Swore them both to the peace at Guildhall ; Seized them, seconds and all

Pistols, powder and ball;

I wish'd him to die my devoted,

But not in a duel to sprawl.

What though at my heart he has tilted,

What though I have met with a fall?

Better be courted and jilted,

Than never be courted at all.

Woo'd and jilted and all,

Still I will dance at the ball;

And waltz and quadrille
With light heart and heel,
With proper young men, and tall.

But lately I've met with a suitor,
Whose heart I have gotten in thrall,
And I hope soon to tell you in future

That I'm woo'd, and married and all;
Woo'd and married and all,

What greater bliss can befall?

And you all shall partake of my bridal cake, When I'm woo'd and married, and all.

BENLOMOND.

HADST thou a genius on thy peak,
What tales, white-headed Ben,
Couldst thou of ancient ages speak,
That mock th' historian's pen!

Thy long duration makes our lives
Seem but so many hours;
And likens, to the bees' frail hives,
Our most stupendous towers.

Temples and towers thou'st seen begun,

New creeds, new conquerors' sway;

And, like their shadows in the sun,
Hast seen them swept away.

Thy steadfast summit, heaven-allied,
(Unlike life's little span,)

Looks down, a Mentor on the pride
Of perishable man.

THE PARROT.

A DOMESTIC ANECDOTE.

The following incident, so strongly illustrating the power of memory and association in the lower animals, is not a fiction. I heard it many years ago in the Island of Mull, from the family to whom the bird belonged.

THE deep affections of the breast,
That Heaven to living things imparts,
Are not exclusively possess'd

By human hearts.

A parrot, from the Spanish Main,

Full young, and early caged, came o'er
With bright wings, to the bleak domain
Of Mulla's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won

His plumage of resplendent hue,
His native fruits, and skies, and sun,
He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf,
A heathery land and misty sky,
And turn'd on rocks and raging surf

His golden eye.

But, petted, in our climate cold

He lived and chatter'd many a day;
Until with age, from green and gold
His wings grew gray.

At last, when blind and seeming dumb,
He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more,
A Spanish stranger chanced to come
To Mulla's shore ;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech,
The bird in Spanish speech replied,
Flapp'd round his cage with joyous screech,
Dropp'd down, and died.

ON GETTING HOME

THE PORTRAIT OF A FEMALE CHILD,

SIX YEARS OLD.

PAINTED BY EUGENIO LATILLA.

TYPE of the Cherubim above,

Come, live with me, and be my love!
Smile from my wall, dear roguish sprite,
By sunshine and by candle-light;
For both look sweetly on thy traits:
Or, were the Lady Moon to gaze,
She'd welcome thee with lustre bland,
Like some young fay from Fairyland.
Cast in simplicity's own mould,
How canst thou be so manifold
In sportively distracting charms?
Thy lips-thine eyes-thy little armis
That wrap thy shoulders and thy head,
In homeliest shawl of netted thread,