Anguish next, with clasped hands, Sorrow now comes drooping by, Who comes now, with dove-like eyes, Whose mild features yet disclose On whose forehead dwell enshrined From "Sacred Poems" a small volume, written and published for the benefit of the Ancoats Bazaar, Manchester, in 1840. EPITAPH, FOR THE TABLET IN MEMORY OF THE MARQUIS OF ANGLESEY'S LEG. THOMAS GASPEY. HERE rests and let no saucy knave To learn that mouldering in the grave, For he who writes these lines is sure, And here five little ones repose, A leg and foot, to speak more plain, Who when the guns, with thunder fraught, Could only in this way be taught And now in England, just as gay— Goes to the rout, review, or play, Fortune in vain here shew'd her spite, But Fortune's pardon I must beg, And when she lopp'd the hero's leg, And but indulged a harmless whim; She saw two legs were lost on him, Who never meant to run. At Beaudesert, the seat of the Noble Marquis, part of the cloth of the trowsers worn on the leg which was shot off, at the moment when his lordship received his wound, is preserved in which all the marks of the bullets are seen, and it is in the same splashed state as when removed from the noble soldier's person at Waterloo. — ManyColoured Life. THE SONG OF HEALTH. EDWIN HENRY BURRINGTON. My wing is touch'd with rosy light, I fly o'er wave and strand; The seamen and the landsmen laugh, to shake me by the hand; I have my fancies like a prince, and sup with whom I please, I'm changing as the April clouds and fickle as its breeze. Sometimes, when men for love of gold desire an old man's death, I touch him with my fairy wand and lengthen out his breath; For never should the upstart young usurp their father's chair, Oh! mine is such a bonny life of sport the new and rare! I made a child's blue eye more blue, his mother smooth'd his hair, And joy came rushing to her heart as she said, "My child, thou'rt fair;" Faith with the loved and beautiful I cannot always keep, So when the boy laid down his head, I left him in his sleep; Then came a spirit from the tomb and flutter'd round his cheek; He pass'd his shady pencil there and left the cold deathstreak. Where on earth can one be found like me, so doubly kind; For when I take the red rose off, I leave the white behind. An old crone witch'd a peasant girl, so village newsers said, And I, to share the frolic, from the timid witch'd one fled; Men flung the old dame in a pond, bound tightly with a chain She sank, and laughing I return'd unto the maid again. warm ; But let them mock ue with their rouge, for when I once depart, They mimic me upon the cheek, but not so in the heart. I ride upon the morning air, the whirlwind is my broom, Which sweeps away the pestilence to give me light and room; When cold rains lie upon the ground, and comes the wildstorm shock, I creep into a thick great coat, or in a soft warm sock, No minstrel ever strung his harp who decks the fields like I, K |