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Efery dhinks ish mofed, yet not a sound
But der noise of der wheels agoin' around,
Ash so shwiftly dhey go ofer der ground;
Und Schneider turns round und says, " Good-day,"
For now he vas more as life miles avay.
Shtill shumps der horses, .shtill on dhey go,
Und der vay dhey mofes dot ishn't shlow;
Dhey're goin' down hill, und faster und faster
Dhey're drifen aheadt by Schneider, dheir master,
Who shtucks to 'em now like a poor-man's blaster;
For veil he knows dot if now he vos dook't,
He could make up his mint dot his goose vas gooked—
So efery muscles he prings in blay,
'Cause dhey ain'd any more as ten miles avay.
Under dheir vlyin' hoofs der roat
Like a great big^ mud-gutter dot flowed,
Und efen der flies dot comed from town,
Got tired at last, und had to lay down
Und dook a shmall resht on der ground;
For Schneider und der horses dhey vent so fast
Dot efen der flies gifed oud at last;
Und der dust vas thick and der horses vas gray,
Und Schneider vas fifteen miles avay.
Der very first dhing vhat Schneider saw
Vas der sant, dhen he heard der ocean roar;
He shmelt der salt in der goot old preezes
Vhat wafed ofer vhere dhere vashn't some dreesea,
Und his heart velt glad und his shpirits vas gay,
Und der very horses dhem seemed to say:
"Ve prings you, Schneider, all der vay
From Irishtown, und safe der vhiskey,
But 'pon our vorts, it vas rader risky 1"
Den hurrah! hurrah! for Schneider dhrue,
LINES WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.
It is good for us to be here. If thou wilt, let us make here three taberna
; one for theo, and oue for Moses, aud one for Elias."
Methinks it is good to be here;
Nor Elias nor Moses appear;
Shall we build to Ambition? Ah no!
For see, they would pen him below
To Beauty? Ah no! she forgets
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.
Shall we build to the purple of pride? To the trappings whjch dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside,
To Riches? Alas, 'tis in vain!
The treasures are squandered again;
To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,
Ah! here is a plentiful board!
Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Or flod with the spirit above.
Unto Sorrow?—the dead cannot grieve;
Which compassion itself could relieve.
Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
And here there are trophies enow!
The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
The second to Faith, that insures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies
LAY OF THE MADMAN.
Many a year hath passed away,
Here have I watched, in this dungeon cell,
Longer than Memory's tongue can tell;
Here have I shrieked in my wild despair,
When the damned fiends, from their prison came,
Sported and gamboled, and mocked me here,
With their eyes of fire, and their tongues of flame,
How long I have been in this dungeon here,
What to me is the day, or night,
Spring-tide flowers, or winter's blight, Pleasure's smile, or sorrow's tear?
Time! what care I for thv flight, Joy! I spurn thee with disdain; Nothing love I but this clanking chain; Once I broke from its iron hold, Nothing I said, but silent and bold, Like the shepherd that watches his gentle fold, Like the tiger that crouches in mountain lair, Hours upon hours so watched I there; Till one of the fiends that had come to bring Herbs from the valley and drink from the spring; Stalked through my dnngeon entrance in! Ha! how he shrieked to see me free— Ho! how he trembled, and knelt to me, He, who had mocked me many a day, And barred me out from its cheerful ray— Gods! how I shouted to see him pray! I wreathed my hands in the demon's hair, And choked his breath in its muttered prayer, And danced I then, in wild delight, To see the trembling wretch's fright!
Gods! how I crushed his hated bones!
'Gainst the jagged wall and the dungeon-stone*;
And plunged my arm adown his t hroat,
And dragged to life his beating heart,
To see its quivering fibers start!
Ho! when I break its links again,
Ha! when I break its links again, Woe to the daughters and sons of men I
MACLAINE'S CHILD—Charles Mackay.
"Maclainel vou've scourged me like a hound;—
"You should have crushed me unto death
"On him, and you, and all your race!"
And starting like a hunted stag,
And leaning o'er its topmost ledge,
With flashing eye and burning brow,
But midway up the rugged steep,
"O, spare my child, my joy, my pride!
"Come, Evan," said the trembling chief,—
"I scorn forgiveness, haughty man!
And as he spoke, he raised the child,
"Fair lady, if your lord will strip,