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And join'd the shout; the windows gleam'd with
lights, The bells rang forth rejoicingly, the paths Were fill'd with people; even the lone street Where the poor widow dwelt was roused, and sleep Was thought upon no more that night. Next dayA bright and sunny day it was
high flags Waved from each steeple, and green boughs were
hung In the gay market-place; music was heard, Bands that struck up in triumph; and the sea Was cover'd with proud vessels; and the boats Went to-and-fro the shore, and waving hands Beckon'd from crowded decks to the glad strand Where the wife waited for her husband,-maids Threw the bright curls back from their glist’ning eyes, And look'd their best ;—and as the splashing oar Brought their dear ones to the land, how every voice Grew musical with happiness !
And there Stood that old widow woman with the rest, Watching the ship wherein had sail'd her son. A boat came from the vessel,--heavily It toil'd upon the waters, and the oars Were dipp'd in slowly. As it near'd the beach, A moaning sound came from it, and a groan Burst from the lips of all the anxious there, When they look'd on each ghastly countenance; For that lone boat was fill'd with wounded men, Bearing them to the hospital—and then That aged woman saw her son. She pray'd, And gain'd her prayer, that she might be his nurse, And take him home. He lived for many days. It soothed him so to hear his mother's voice, To breathe the fragrant air sent from the roses, The roses that were gather'd one by one For him, by his fond parent nurse; the last Was placed upon his pillow, and that night, That very night, he died! And he was laid In the same church-yard where his father lay,
Through which his mother as a bride had pass'd.
SMALL TALK. SMALL talk is indispensable at routs,
But more so at a little coterie,
Meet to enjoy loquacity and tea.
If ladies would survive to fifty-three;
What changes there would be, if no tongues ran
Except in sober sense and conversation; There's many a communicative man
Would take to silence and to cogitation. "T would stop old maids (if aught that's earthly can)
And cut the thread of many an oration :
Old bachelors would daudle through the day,
Lean down their heads, and whisper in their pews; Those at the play who give themselves such airs,
Careful each celebrated speech to lose ?
For small snug parties which he can't refuse?
While waiting for their turn to point the toe;
Over their juice of grape, or juice of sloe :
England and Wales—and they in fact might go
Lovers would think it very hard, I fear,
If sober sense they were condemn'd to speak; Husbands and wives a voice would seldom hear,
Unless it happen'd to be washing week; The language of the eyes, I think, 't is clear,
Old married people very seldom seek: (Couples oft disagree, I'm told)—but this Is just by way of a parenthesis.
How very peaceable we should be then,
The fame of certain wits would prove a hum ; Tatlers, deprived of speech, would seize a pen,
They are a nuisance not to be o'ercome; Schemers the credulous no more would balk, For schemes would very rarely end in talk.
These changes are not all ;- I'll not proceed,
I've mention'd quite enough in my narration; They'd be so universal, that indeed
They'd baffle any man's investigation. To calculate them all-I must exceed
George Bidder, who is famed for calculation : Arithmetic to him's a pleasant game“He lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came !"
T. H. BAILEY.
Papa wants a new razor-strop,
And while you are there, you may stop
And while you are there, 't were as well
EPISTLE TO A COUNTRY COUSIN. This morning I sent by the coach
Your basket of various wants; And I trust that I shall not encroach,
By inclosing a shawl of your aunt's. It was sent to be dyed a deep blue,
But could not-you need not say whyFor the fact is, (I only tell you,)
'Twas too old and too shabby to dye.
All your excellent pickles are done;
I am glad that the season draws near, When you think of your dear absent one,
Who cannot partake of your cheer,
A turkey, or basket of game,