That is, there's something in this gin
That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing,

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little.-Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms, you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!-
Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!-

Some brandy!-thank you!-there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant,

That my poor stomach 's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,
I'd sell out heaven for something warm
To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,

A dear girl's love, but I took to drink ;-
The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,—
You needn't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,
Whose head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!

She's married since,-a parson's wife:

'Twas better for her that we should part,Better the soberest, prosiest life

Than a blasted home and a broken heart.
I have seen her? Once: I was weak and spent
On the dusty road, a carriage stopped:

But little she dreamed, as on she went,

Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped!
You've set me talking, sir; I'm sorry;

It makes me wild to think of the change!
What do you care for a beggar's story?
Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me!
'Twas well she died before-

Do you know

If the happy spirits in heaven can see
The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another glass, and strong, to deaden
This pain; then Roger and I will start.
I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden,
Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could,
No doubt, remembering things that were,-

A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food,

And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that glass was warming,—
You rascal! limber your lazy feet!
We must be fiddling and performing

For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead, you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free,

And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ;-
The sooner, the better for Roger and me!

CARDINAL WOLSEY, ON BEING CAST OFF BY KINA HENRY VIII.-SHAKSPEARE.

Nay, then, farewell!

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness,
And, from that full meridian of my glory,

I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
Like a bright exhalation in the evening,
And no man see me more.

So farewell to the little good you bear me.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!
This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow, blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And, when he thinks-good, easy man-full surely
His greatness is a ripening, nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye!
I feel my heart new opened. Oh, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!
There is, betwixt that smile he would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and his ruin,
More pangs and fears than wars or women have,
And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again!

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear

In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.

Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;

And when I am forgotten, as I shall be,

And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention

Of me must more be heard of,-say, then, I taught thee,—
Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor,
Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in ;
A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
Mark but my fall, and that which ruined me!
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition!
By that sin fell the angels: how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?

Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee,~-
Corruption wins not more than honesty;

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not.

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's: then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,

Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;

And, -Prithee, lead me in:

There, take an inventory of all I have,

To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,

And my integrity to heaven, is all

I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!

Had I but served my God with half the zeal

I served my king, he would not, in mine age,
Have left me naked to mine enemies!

DEATH OF JOHN Q. ADAMS.--I. E. HOLMES.

Mr. Speaker: The mingled tones of sorrow, like the voice of many waters, have come unto us from a sister state--Massachusetts, weeping for her honored son, The state I have

G*

the honor in part to represent once endured, with yours, a common suffering, battled for a common cause, and rejoiced in a common triumph. Surely, then, it is meet, that in this the day of your affliction, we should mingle our griefs.

When a great man falls, the nation mourns; when a patriarch is removed, the people weep. Ours, my associates, is no common bereavement. The chain which linked our hearts with the gifted spirits of former times has been suddenly snapped. The lips from which flowed those living and glorious truths that our fathers uttered are closed in death. Yes, my friends, Death has been among us! He has not entered the humble co'tage of some unknown, ignoble peasant; he has knocked audibly at the palace of a nation! His footstep has been heard in the halls of state! He has cloven down his victim in the midst of the councils of a people. He has borne in triumph from among you the gravest, wisest, most reverend head. Ah! he has taken him as a trophy who was once chief over many statesmen, adorned with virtue, and learning, and truth; he has borne at his chariot wheels a renowned one of the earth.

How often we have crowded into that aisle, and clustered around that now vacant desk, to listen to the counsels of wisdom as they fell from the lips of the venerable sage, we can all remember, for it was but yesterday. But what a change! How wondrous! how sudden! 'Tis like a vision of the night. That form which we beheld but a few days since is now cold in death!

But the last Sabbath, and in this hall, he worshiped with others. Now his spirit mingles with the noble army of martyrs and the just made perfect, in the eternal adoration of the living God. With him, “this is the end of earth." He sleeps the sleep that knows no waking. He is gone-and forever! The sun that ushers in the morn of that next holy day, while it gilds the lofty dome of the capitol, shall rest with soft and mellow light upon the consecrated spot beneath whose turt forever lies the PATRIOT FATHER and the PATRIOT Sage.

THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.-BYRON.

Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust;
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below;
Is the spot marked with no colossal bust?
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler se

As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men:
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!

No sleep till morn when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet!— But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before. Arm! arm! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound the first amid the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear: And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star;