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And such is man ; soon from his cell of clay
To burst a seraph in the blaze of day.

ROGERS.

THE BELLE OF THE BALL.–AN EVERY.

DAY CHARACTER. YEARS—years ago-ere yet my dreams

Had been of being wise or witty; Ere I had done with writing themes,

Or yawn'd o'er this infernal Chitty : Years—years ago-while all my joy

Was in my fowling-piece and filly; In short, while I was yet a boy,

I fell in love with Laura Lily. I saw her at the county ball

There, when the sound of flute and fiddle
Gave signal sweet in that old hall,

Of hands across and down the middle,
Hers was the subtlest spell by far
Of all that set young

hearts romancing, She was our queen, our rose, our star;

And then she danced—oh, heaven! her dancing! Dark was her hair; her hand was white;

Her voice was exquisitely tender; Her eyes were full of liquid light;

I never saw a waist so slender; Her every look, her every smile,

Shot right and left a score of arrows; I thought’t was Venus from her isle,

And wonder'd where she left her sparrows. She talk'd of politics or prayers;

Of Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets; Of danglers, or of dancing bears;

Of battles, or the last new bonnets.

By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,

To me it matter'd not a tittle;
If those bright lips had quoted Locke,

I might have thought they murmur'd Little. Through sunny May, through sultry June,

I loved her with a love eternal ; I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. My mother laugh'd; I soon found out

That ancient ladies have no feeling; My father frown'd; but how should gout

Find any happiness in kneeling ? She was the daughter of a dean,

Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; She had one brother, just thirteen,

Whose colour was extremely hectic; Her grand-mother, for many a year,

Had fed the parish with her bounty ; Her second cousin was a peer,

And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles, and the three per cents,

And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents,

Oh, what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,

Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses ; He cares as little for the stocks,

As Baron Rothschild for the muses.

She sketch'd; the vale, the wood, the beach,

Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: She botanized; I envied each

Young blossom in her boudoir fading: She warbled Handel; it was grand

She made the Catalani jealous; She touch'd the organ, I could stand

For hours and hours to blow the bellows.

She kept an album, too, at home,

Well fill'd with all an album's glories: Paintings of butterflies and Rome,

Patterns for trimming, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo,

Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Leboo,

And recipes for elder water.

And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored;

Her steps were watch'd, her dress was noted; Her poodle dog was quite adored;

Her sayings were extremely quoted,
She laugh’d, and every heart was glad,

As if the taxes were abolish'd;
She frown'd, and every look was sad,

As if the opera were demolish'd.
She smiled on many, just for fun-

I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one

Her heart had thought of for a minute: I knew it, for she told me so,

In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand ; and, oh!

How sweetly ail her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves

A little glow, a little shiver; A rosebud and a pair of gloves,

And “Fly not yet” upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted ; A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, and then we parted. We parted-months and years roll'd by;

We met again four summers after ;Our parting was all sob and sigh

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter;

For, in my heart's most secret cell,

There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's belle,

But only Mrs. Something Rogers.”

ANON.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an interesting portion of the annals of the American revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the irregular warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fighting, to use their expression, “like a gentleman and a Christian."

Our band is few, but true and tried,

Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles

When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green-wood,

Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery,

That little dread us near!
On them shall light, at midnight,

A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire

They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to-face us

Are beat to earth again;

And they who fly in terror, deem

A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

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Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil :
We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gather'd

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber, long and sweetly,

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.
"T is life our fiery barbs to guide

Across the moonlit plains;
"Tis life to feel the night-wind

That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment in the British camp-

A moment—and away
Back to the pathless forest,

Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,

Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,

For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,

With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,

And tears like those of spring.

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