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THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.— PETER PINDAR.
There is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labor cannot to perfection bring :
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise :
A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,

And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,

And never be a whit the wiser.
Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in’t,
Never to be superior to a hint-

The genius of each man, with keenness view-
A spark from this, or t'other, caught,
May kinale, quick as thought,

A glorious bonfire up in you.
A question of you let me beg-

Of famed Columbus and his egg,
Pray, have you heard? “Yes.”—Oh! then, if you please
I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

A TRUE STORY. A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood,

And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel.
In short, their toes so gently to amuse,
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes;-
A nostrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying souls that stunk of crimes,

A sort of apostolic salt,
Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:

But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners galloped on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limped, as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin soon-peccari cried

Had his soul white-washed all so clever;
WWW

The dry and embalming air of the mine
Had arrested the natural hand of decay,
Nor faded the flesh, nor dimmed a line.

Who was he, then? No man could say
When the passage had suddenly fallen in-
Its memory, even, was pass'd away!

In their great rough arms, begrimed with coal,
They took him up, as a tender lass
Will carry a babe, from that darksome hole

To the outer world of the short warm grass.
Then up spoke one, “Let us send for Bess,
She is seventy-nine, come Martinmas;

Older than any one here, I guess!
Belike, she may mind when the wall fell there,
And remember the chap by his comeliness."

So they brought old Bess with her silver hair,
To the side of the hill, where the dead man lay,
Ere the flesh had crumbled in outer air.

And the crowd around him all gave way,
As with tottering steps old Bess drew nigh,
And bent o'er the face of the unchanged clay.

Then suddenly rang a sharp, low cry!
Bess sank on her knees, and wildly tossed
Her withered arms in the summer sky-

“O Willie! Willie! my lad! my lost!
The Lord be praised! after sixty years
I see you again! .... The tears you cost,
O Willie darlin', were bitter tears!
They never looked for ye underground,
They told me a tale to mock my fears !
They said ye were auver the sea-ye'd found
A lass ye loved better nor me, to explain
How ye'd a-vanished fra sight and sound !
O darlin', a long, long life o' pain
I ha' lived since then! .... And now I'm old,
'Seems a'most as if youth were come back again,
Seeing ye there wi' your locks o' gold,
And limbs as straight as ashen beams,
I a'most forget how the years ha' rolled

[graphic]

Between us! .... O Willie! how strange it seems
To see ye here as I've seen ye oft,
Auver and auver again in dreams!”
In broken words like these, with soft
Low wails she rocked herself. And none
Of the rough men around her scoffed.
For surely a sight like this, the sun
Had rarely looked upon. Face to face,
The old dead love, and the living one!
The dead, with its undimmed fleshly grace,
At the end of threescore years; the quick,
Puckered and withered, without a trace
Of its warm girl-beauty. A wizard's trick
Bringing the youth and the love that were,
Back to the eyes of the old and sick!
Those bodies were just of one age; yet there
Death, clad in youth, had been standing still,
While life had been fretting itself threadbare!
But the moment was come ;-as a moment will
To all who have loved, and have parted here,
And have toiled alone up the thorny hill;
When, at the top, as their eyes see clear,
Over the mists of the vale below,
Mere specks their trials and toils appear
Beside the eternal rest they know.
Death came to old Bess that night, and gave
The welcome summons that she should go.
And now, though the rains and winds may rave,
Nothing can part them. Deep and wide,
The miners that evening dug one grave.
And there, while the summers and winters glido
Old Bess and young Willie sleep side by side.

A BOY.-N. P. WILLIS.

There's something in a noble boy,

A brave, free-hearted, careless one,
With his unchecked, unbidden joy,

His dread of books and love of fun,

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