And, to make her cup of woe run over,
Her elegant, ardent, plighted lover

Was the very first to forsake her;
"He quite regretted the step, 'twas true-
The lady had pride enough for two,'
But that alone would never do

To quiet the butcher and baker."

And now the unhappy Miss MACBRIDE—
The merest ghost of her early pride-
Bewails her lonely position;

Cramped in the very narrowest niche,
Above the poor, and below the rich,
Was ever a worse condition?

MORAL.

Because you flourish in worldly affairs,
Don't be haughty, and put on airs,

With insolent pride of station;

Don't be proud, and turn up your nose
At poorer people in plainer clo'es,

But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose,
That wealth's a bubble that comes- -and

goes!
And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows,
Is subject to irritation!

PHAETHON, OR THE AMATEUR COACHMAN.

DAN PHAETHON-so the histories run

Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun; Or rather of PнŒBUS-but as to his mother, Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,

Some going for one, and some for another;
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA !
Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun,"
Running, they say,

Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way),

All lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay !

NOW PHAETHON begged of his doting old father
To grant him a favour, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means РHOBUS's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!

"By the terrible Styx," said the

angry sire, While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire, "To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!" "Then by my head,”

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed

For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,

Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, PHAETHON, don't

I beg you won't—

Just stop a moment, and think upon't!

You're quite too young," continued the sage, "To tend a coach at your early age;

Besides, you see,

"Twill really be

Your first appearance on any stage!

Desist, my child—

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thoroughly riled,'
Depend upon't, the coach will be 'spiled'—
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day—

So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!"
But the youth was proud,

And swore aloud,

"Twas just the thing to astonish the crowd-
He'd have the horses, and wouldn't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!

NOW PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry;
But, having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.
So calling PHAETHON up in a trice,

He gave the youth a bit of advice:

"Parce stimulis, utere loris !' (A 'stage direction,' of which the core is, Don't use the whip-they're ticklish thingsBut, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)

Remember the rule of the JEHU-tribe is, 'Medio tutissimus ibis,'

As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman (Who was going to quod between two watchmen); So mind your eye and spare your goad

Be shy of the stones and keep in the road!"

NOW PHAETHON, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack-
"Crack-whack-

Whack-crack”

Resounding along the horses' back!
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On-on they speed as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash
(Such rapid driving is always rash)!
When, all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole establishment went to smash!
And PHAETHON, he,

As all agree,

Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses,
Nor set it down in your table of forces
That any one man equals any four horses!

Don't swear by the Styx !--
It's one of Old NICK'S

Diabolical tricks

To get people into a regular " fix,”

And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

THE POET.

FOR this present, hard

Is the fortune of the bard

Born out of time;

All his accomplishment

From Nature's utmost treasure spent

Booteth not him.

When the pine tosses its cones
To the song of its waterfall tones,
He speeds to the woodland walks,
To birds and trees he talks :
CÆSAR of his leafy Rome,
There the poet is at home.
He goes to the river-side,-

Not hook nor line hath he:

He stands in the meadows wide,-Nor gun nor scythe to see; With none has he to do,

And none to seek him,

Nor men below,

Nor spirits dim.