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Memory-drowner, honor-wrecker,
Judgment-warner, blue-faced quack;
Feud-beginner, rags-bedecker,
Strife-enkindler, fortune's wreck !

Summer's cooler, winter's warmer,
Blood-polluter, specious snare ;
Mob-collector, man-transformer,
Bond-undoer, gambler's fare!

Speech-bewrangler, headlong bringer,
Victuals-burner, deadly fire;
Riot-mover, firebrand-flinger.

Discord-kindler, misery's sire;

Sinews-robber, worth-depriver,

Strength-subduer, hideous foe; Reason-thwarter, fraud-contriver, Money-waster, nation's woe! Vile seducer, joy-dispeller,

Peace-disturber, blackguard guest; Sloth-implanter, liver-sweller, Brain-distracter, hateful pest!

Utterance-boggler, stench-emitter,

Strong-man-sprawler, fatal drop;

Tumult-raiser, venom-spitter,

Wrath-inspirer, coward's prop;

Pain-inflicter, eyes-inflamer,

Heart-corrupter, folly's nurse;

Secret-babbler, body-maimer,

Thrift-defeater, loathsome curse!

Wit-destroyer, joy-impairer,

Scandal-dealer, foul-mouthed scourge

Senses-blunter, youth ensnarer,

Crime-inventor, ruin's verge;

Virtue-blaster, base deceiver,

Spite-displayer, sot's delight;

Noise-exciter, stomach-heaver,

Falsehood-spreader, scorpion's bite!

Quarrel-plotter, rage-discharger,

Giant-conqueror, wasteful sway;

Chin-carbuncler, tongue-enlarger,
Malice-venter, death's broadway!

Tempest-scatterer, window-smasher,
Death-forerunner, hell's dire brink!
Ravenous murderer, windpipe-slasher,
Drunkard's lodging, meat, and drink.

THE FIRST AND LAST DINNER.

Twelve friends, much about the same age, and fixed by their pursuits, their family connections, and other local interests, as permanent inhabitants of the metropolis, agreed one day when they were drinking wine at the Star and Garter at Richmond, to institute an annual dinner among themselves, under the following regulations:-That they should dine alternately at each other's houses on the first and last day of the year; and the first bottle of wine uncorked at the first dinner should be recorked and put away, to be drunk by him who should be the last of their number; that they should never admit a new member; that when one died, eleven should meet, and when another died, ten should meet, and so on; and when only one remained, he should on these two days dine by himself, and sit the usual hours at his solitary table; but the first time he had so dined, lest it should be the only one, he should then uncork the first bottle, and in the first glass, drink to the memory of all who were gone.

Some thirty years had now glided away, and only ten remained; but the stealing hand of time had written sundry changes in most legible characters. Raven locks had become grizzled; two or three heads had not as many locks as may be reckoned in a walk of half a mile along the Regent's Canal-one was actually covered with a brown wig-the crow's feet were visible in the corner of the eye-good old port and warm Madeira carried against hock, claret, red burgundy, and champagne-stews, hashes, and ragouts, grew into favor-crusts were rarely called for to relish the cheese after dinner-conversation was less boisterous, and it turned chiefly upon politics and the state of the funds, or the value of landed property-apologies were made for coming in thick shoes and warm stockings-the doors and windows were more carefully provided with list-the fire was in more request-and a quiet game of whist filled up the hours that were wont to be devoted to drinking, singing, and riotous merriment. Two rubbers, a cup of coffee, and at home by eleven o'clock, was the usual cry, when the fifth or sixth glass had gone round after the removal of the cloth. At

parting, too, there was now a long ceremony in the hall, buttoning up great coats, tying on woolen comforters, fixing silk handkerchiefs over the mouth and up to the ears, and grasping sturdy walking-canes to support unsteady feet.

Their fiftieth anniversary came, and death had indeed been busy. Four little old men, of withered appearance and decrepit walk, with cracked voices, and dim, rayless eyes, sat down by the mercy of heaven, (as they tremulously declared,) to celebrate, for the fiftieth time, the first day of the year, to observe the frolic compact, which half a century before they had entered into at the Star and Garter at Richmond. Eight were in their graves! The four that remained stood upon its confines. Yet they chirped cheerily over their glass, though they could scarcely carry it to their lips, if more than half full: and cracked their jokes, though they articulated their words with difficulty, and heard each other with still greater difficulty. They mumbled, they chattered, they laughed, (if a sort of strangled wheezing might be called a laugh,) and as the wine sent their icy blood in warmer pulses through their veins, they talked of their past as if it were but a yesterday that had slipped by them, and of their future as if it were but a busy century that lay before them.

At length came the LAST dinner; and the survivor of the twelve, upon whose head four score and ten winters had showered their snow, ate his solitary meal. It so chanced that it was in his house, and at his table, they celebrated the first. In his cellar, too, had remained the bottle they had then uncorked, recorked, and which he was that day to uncork again. It stood beside him. With a feeble and refuctant grasp he took the "frail memorial” of a youthful vow, and for a moment memory was faithful to her office. She threw open the long vista of buried years; and his heart traveled through them all: Their lusty and blithesome spring, their bright and fervid summer,-their ripe and temperate autumn,-their chill, but not too frozen wint er. He saw, as in a mirror, how one by one the laughing companions of that merry hour, at Richmond, had dropped into eternity. He felt the loneliness of his condition, (for he had eschewed marriage, and in the veins of no living ereature ran a drop of blood whose source was in his own,)

and as he drained the glass which he had filled, “to the memory of those who were gone," the tears slowly trickled down the deep furrows of his aged face.

He had fulfilled one part of his vow, and he prepared himself to discharge the other by sitting the usual number of hours at his desolate table. With a heavy heart he resigned himself to the gloom of his own thoughts—a lethargic sleep stole over him-his head fell upon his bosom-confused images crowded into his mind-he babbled to himself -was silent-and when his servant entered the room alarmed by a noise which he heard, he found his master stretched upon the carpet at the foot of an easy chair, out of which he had fallen in an apoplectic fit. He never spoke again, nor once opened his eyes, though the vital spark was not extinct till the following day. And this was THE LAST DINNER.

ORATOR PUFF.-THOMAS Moore.

Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,

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,

66

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

One voice for an orator's surely enough!

Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tripped 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 exclaimed, 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!

MY LAMBS.

I loved them so,

That when the Elder Shepherd of the fold
Came, covered with the storm, and pale and cold,
And begged for one of my sweet lambs to hold,
I bade him go.

He claimed the pet

A little fondling thing, that to my breast
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest-
I thought, of all my lambs, I loved him best,
And yet-and yet―

I laid him down

In those white, shrouded arms, with bitter tears;
For some voice told me that, in after years,
He should know naught of passion, grief, or fears,
As I had known.

And yet again

That Elder Shepherd came. My heart grew faint.
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint;
Another! She who, gentle as a saint,
Ne'er gave me pain.

Aghast I turned away!

There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream,
Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam,
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam:
I knelt to pray:

"Is it Thy will?

My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given?
Oh! Thou hast many such, dear Lord, in heaven!"
And a soft voice said: “Nobly hast thou striven;
But-peace, be still."

Oh! how I wept,

And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild
And yearning love-my lamb, my pleasant child!
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled,
And slept.

"Go! go!" I cried:

For once again that Shepherd laid His hand
Upon the noblest of our household band.
Like a pale spectre, there He took His stand,
Close to his side,

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