Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,

And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's com

mand.

Then, kneeling down to HEAVEN'S ETERNAL KING,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days-
There ever bask in uncreated rays,

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear,

Together hymning their Creator's praise,

In such society, yet still more dear,

While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY.

LUCRETIA DAVIDSON.

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers,
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers;
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful meter,
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter:
It seemed that a law had been recently made
That a tax on old bachelors' rates should be laid;
And in order to make them all willing to marry,
The tax was as large as a man could well carry.
The bachelors grumbled and said 'twas no use-
'Twas horrid injustice and horrid abuse,

And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from spilling,

Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling.
But the rulers determined them still to pursue,
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue :
A crier was sent through the town to and fro,
To rattle his bell and a trumpet to blow,
And to call out to all he might meet in his way,
"Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day!"
And presently all the old maids in the town,
Each in her very best bonnet and gown,
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red and pale,

Of every description, all flocked to the sale.
The auctioneer then in his labor began,
And called out aloud, as he held up a man,
"How much for a bachelor? Who wants to buy?"
In a twink, every maiden responded, "I-I!"
In short, at a highly extravagant price,

The bachelors all were sold off in a trice:

And forty old maidens, some younger, some older,
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder.

ORATOR PUFF.

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,

THOMAS MOORE.

The one squeaking thus, and the other down so;
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
For one half was B alt, and the rest G below.

Oh! oh! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs,

That a wag once, on hearing the orator say,

"My voice is for war," asked him, "Which of them, pray?" Oh! oh! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

Reeling homewards, one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tripp'd near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in,

"Sinking fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

"Oh! save!" he exclaim'd, in his he-and-she-tones,

Help me out! help me out!-I have broken my bones!"

"Help you out!" said a Paddy, who passed, "what a bother! Why, there's two of you there; can't you help one another?” Oh! oh! Orator Puff,

One voice for an orator's surely enough.

IN CHURCH-DURING THE LITANY.

"I'm glad we got here early, Nell;
We're not obliged to sit to-day
Behind those horrid Smith girls-well

I'm glad they go so soon away.
How does this cushion match my dress?
I think it looks quite charmingly.

'Bowed sweetly to the Smiths? Oh! yes—
Pride, vanity, hypocrisy,

[Responds]

Good Lord, deliver us.'

"I hate those haughty Courtenays!
I'm sure they needn't feel so fine,
Above us all-for mamma says

Their dresses aren't as nice as mine.
And one's engaged; so, just for fun,
To make her jealous-try to win
Her lover-show her how 'tis done-
[Responds] From hatred, envy, mischief, sin,
Good Lord, deliver us.'

"To-day the rector is to preach
In aid of missionary work;
He'll say he hopes and trusts that each
Will nobly give, nor duty shirk.

I hate to give. But then one must,

You know we have a forward seat;
People can see-they will, I trust-
[Responds] 'From want of charity, deceit,
Good Lord, deliver us.'

"Did you know Mr. Gray had gone ?
That handsome Mr. Rogers, too?
Dear me! We shall be quite forlorn
If all the men leave-and so few!

I trust that we with Cupid's darts
May capture some-let them beware-

[Responds] 'Behold the sorrow of our hearts,

And, Lord, with mercy,

Hear our prayer!"

ANON.

THE DEATH OF THE WARRIOR KING.

CHARLES SWAIN.

There are noble heads bowed down and pale,

Deep sounds of woe arise,

And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies;
The hue of death is gathering dark

Upon his lofty brow,

And the arm of might and valor falls,
Weak as an infant's now.

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
Like a bright and leading star,
Where banner, helm and falchion gleamed,
And flew the bolts of war.
When, in his plenitude of power,
He trod the Holy Land,

I saw the routed Saracens

Flee from his blood-dark brand.

I saw him in the banquet hour
Forsake the festive throng,
To seek his favorite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song;

For dearly as he loved renown,

He loved that spell-wrought strain
Which bade the brave of perished days

Light Conquest's torch again.

Then seemed the bard to cope with Time,

And triumph o'er his doom

Another world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb!
Again the hardy Britons rushed

Like lions to the fight,

While horse and foot-helm, shield and lance,

Swept by his visioned sight!

But battle shout and waring plume,

The drum's heart-stirring beat,

The glittering pomp of prosperous war,
The rush of million feet,
The magic of the minstrel's song,
Which told of victories o'er,

Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shal see-shall hear no more!

It was the hour of deep midnight,
In the dim and quiet sky,

When, with sable clock and 'broidered pall,
A funeral train swept by;

Dull and sad fell the torches' glare

On many a stately crest-
They bore the noble warrior king
To his last dark home of rest.

GODIVA.

I waited for the train at Coventry;

I hung with grooms and porters on a bridge,

To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped
The city's ancient legend into this:

Not only we, the latest seed of Time,

New men, that in the flying of a wheel
Cry down the past, not only we, that prate
Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well,
And loathed to see them overtax'd: but she
Did more, and underwent, and overcame,
The woman of a thousand summers back,
Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled
In Coventry: for when he laid a tax

TENNYSON.

Upon his town, and all the mothers brought
Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve !"
She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode
About the hall, among his dogs, alone,

His beard a foot before him, and his hair

A yard 'behind. She told him of their tears,

And pray'd him,

"If they pay this tax, they starve."