And then but to endure the pangs of agony

intense;

For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone, The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.

My heart was still-my pulses stopp'd-midway 'twixt life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,

Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble

sigh,

Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let

me die.

Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of

life

But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his labouring breast?

Why any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

LOVE LANE.

IF I should love a maiden more,
And woo her ev'ry hope to crown,
I'd love her all the country o'er,
But not declare it out of town.

One even, by a mossy bank,
That held a hornet's nest within,

To Ellen on my knees I sank,—
How snakes will twine around the shin!

A bashful fear my soul unnerved,
And gave my heart a backward tug;
Nor was I cheer'd when she observed,
Whilst I was silent,-" What a slug!"

At length my offer I preferr'd,
And Hope a kind reply forebode-
Alas! the only sound I heard
Was, "What a horrid ugly toad!"

I vow'd to give her all my heart,
To love her till my life took leave,
And painted all a lover's smart—
Except a wasp gone up his sleeve!

But when I ventured to abide
Her father's and her mother's grants-
Sudden, she started up, and cried,
"O dear! I am all over ants!"

Nay when beginning to beseech
The cause that led to my rebuff,
The answer was as strange a speech,
A "Daddy-Longlegs sure enough!"

I spoke of fortune-house,—and lands,
And still renew'd the warm attack,-
'Tis vain to offer ladies hands
That have a spider on the back!

"Tis vain to talk of hopes and fears,
And hope the least reply to win,
From any maid that stops her ears
In dread of earwigs creeping in!

'Tis vain to call the dearest names
Whilst stoats and weasels startle by—
As vain to talk of mutual flames,
To one with glowworms in her eye!

What check'd me in my fond address, And knock'd each pretty image down? What stopp'd my Ellen's faltering Yes? A caterpillar on her gown!

To list to Philomel is sweet

To see the Moon rise silver-pale,—
But not to kneel at Lady's feet
And crush a rival in a snail!

Sweet is the eventide, and kind
Its zephyr, balmy as the south;
But sweeter still to speak your mind
Without a chafer in your mouth!

At last, embolden'd by my bliss,
Still fickle Fortune play'd me foul,
For when I strove to snatch a kiss
She scream'd-by proxy, through an owl!

Then, Lovers, doom'd to life or death,
Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats,
Lest
you should have in self-same breath
To bless your fate-and curse the gnats!

DOMESTIC POEMS.

"It's hame, hame, hame."-A. CUNNINGHAM.
"There's no place like home."—CLARI.

I.

HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!

When I look back at Hymen's dear day, Not a lovelier bride ever changed to a wife, Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate!

But as liquid as stars in a pool;

Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,

Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair; Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now,

As if Time, when those furrows were made by the share,

Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!