At this good news, so great The devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent

The hole where his tail came through.

His countenance fell for a moment
When he felt the stitches go;
Ah! thought he, there's a job now
That I've made for my tailor below.

Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman;
The devil said, Stop, let me see!
Great news? bloody news! thought the devil,
The bloodier the better for me.

So he bought the newspaper, and no news
At all for his money he had.

Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick!
But it 's some satisfaction, my lad,

To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick,
For the sixpence I gave thee is bad.

He went to a coffee-house to dine,
And there he had soy in his dish;
Having ordered some soles for his dinner,
Because he was fond of flat fish.

They are much to my palate, thought he,
And now guess the reason who can,
Why no bait should be better than place,
When I fish for a parliament-man.

But the soles in the bill were ten shillings;
Tell your master, quoth he, what I say;
If he charges at this rate for all things,
He must be in a pretty good way.

But mark ye, said he to the waiter,
I'm a dealer myself, in this line,
And his business, between you and me,
Nothing like so extensive as mine.
Now soles are exceedingly cheap,
Which he will not attempt to deny,
When I see him at my fish-market,
I warrant him, by-and-by.

Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish
To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to hell;

So thought he, I'll step into a gaming house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door,
A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,

He came upon General

s burning face;
And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way he did take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake,
'T was the general conflagration.

CIV.-THE SEVEN HEADS.

LOCKHART.

"WHO bears such heart of baseness, a king I'll never call,"— Thus spake Gonzalo Gustos within Almanzor's hall; To the proud Moor Almanzor, within his kingly hall, The gray-haired knight of Lara thus spake before them all :"In courteous guise, Almanzor, your messenger was sent, And courteous was the answer with which from me he went; For why?-I thought the word he brought of a knight and of a king;

But false Moor henceforth never me to his feast shall bring.

"Ye bade me to your banquet, and I at your bidding came; Accurséd be the villainy, eternal be the shame,—

For ye have brought an old man forth, that he your sport might be:

Thank God, I cheat you of your joy,-thank God, no tear you see.

"My gallant boys," quoth Lara, "it is a heavy sight

These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night; Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain.

"Some currish plot, some trick, (God wot!) hath laid you all so low,

Ye died not altogether in one fair battle so;

Not all the misbelievers ever pricked upon yon plain
The seven brave boys of Lara in open field had slain.

"Thou youngest and the weakest, Gonzalez dear! wert thou,

Yet well this false Almanzor remembers thee, I trow;
O, well doth he remember how on his helmet rung
Thy fiery mace, Gonzalez! although thou wert so young.
"Thy gallant horse had fallen, and thou hadst mounted thee
Upon a stray one in the field,—his own true barb had he;
O, hadst thou not pursued his flight upon that runaway,
Ne'er had the caitiff 'scaped that night, to mock thy sire to-
day.

"False Moor, I am thy captive thrall; but when thou bad'st me forth,

To share the banquet in thy hall, I trusted in the worth Of kingly promise. Think'st thou not my God will hear my prayer?

Lord! branchless be (like mine) his tree,-yea, branchless, Lord, and bare !"

So prayed the baron in his ire; but when he looked again, Then burst the sorrow of the sire, and tears ran down like

rain;

Wrath no more could check the sorrow of the old and childless man,

And, like waters in a furrow, down his cheeks the salt tears ran. He took their heads up one by one, he kissed them o'er and

o'er,

And aye ye saw the tears down run,-I wot that grief was sore. He closed the lids on their dead eyes all with his fingers

frail,

And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips so pale.

"O, had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away!

The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbelievers' horn, And the last of all the Lara's line a Gothic spear had borne.”

With that it chanced a Moor drew near, to lead him from the

place,

Old Lara stooped him down once more, and kissed Gonzalez'

face;

But ere the man observéd him, or could his gesture bar, Sudden he from his side had grasped that Moslem's cimeter.

O, swiftly from its scabbard the crooked blade he drew, And, like some frantic creature, among them all he flew :"Where, where is false Almanzor ?-back, bastards of Ma houn !"

And here and there, in his despair, the old man hewed them down.

A hundred hands, a hundred brands, are ready in the hall,
But ere they mastered Lara, thirteen of them did fall;
He has sent, I ween, a good thirteen of dogs that spurned
his God,

To keep his children company beneath the Moorish sod.

Ex. CV.-TO THE NEAPOLITANS.

THOMAS MOORE.

AYE-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of liberty's war

Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-

Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands

Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think-as the doomed often think of that heaven

They had once within reach-that they might have been free.

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed
The fresh hour of the olden time, whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs seemed bursting to view,

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history, when had you but hurled
One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world,

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-even then
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful;-shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er ;"—
If there lingers one spark of her life, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.