CARACTACUS.

BEFORE proud Rome's imperial throne,

In mind's unconquered mood,

As if the triumph were his own,

The dauntless Captive stood:

None, to have seen his freeborn air,
Had fancied him a prisoner there.

Through all the crowded streets of Rome,
With slow and stately tread,

Far from his own loved island-home
That day in triumph led,-
Unbow'd his head, unbent his knee,
Undimm'd his eye, his aspect free.

A free and fearless glance he cast
On temple, arch, and tower,
By which the long procession pass'd
Of Rome's victorious power;
And somewhat of a scornful smile
Upcurl'd his haughty lip the while.

And now he stood with brow serene,
Where slaves might prostrate fall;
Bearing a Briton's manly mien
In Cæsar's palace hall;

Claiming, with kindling brow and cheek,
The privilege even there to speak.

Nor could Rome's haughty Lord withstand
The claim that look preferr'd;
But motion'd, with uplifted hand,
The suppliant should be heard,-

If he, indeed, a suppliant were,

Whose glance demanded audience there.

Deep stillness fell on all the crowd,
From Claudius on his throne,

Down to the meanest slave that bow'd
At his imperial tone;

Silent his fellow-captives' grief,

As fearless spoke the Island Chief:

"Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome,
And master of the world,

Though victory's banner o'er thy dome
In triumph now is furl'd,

I would address thee as thy slave,-
But as the bold should greet the brave.

"I might perchance, could I have deign'd
To hold a vassal's throne,

Even now in Briton's isle have reign'd
A king, in name alone :-

Yet holding, as thy meek ally,
A monarch's mimic pageantry.

"Then through Rome's crowded streets this day,

I might have rode with thee;

Not in a captive's base array,

But fetterless and free ;

If freedom he could hope to find

Whose bondage is of heart and mind.

"But canst thou marvel that,-freeborn,
With heart and hope unquell'd,

Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn,
By thy permission held?

Or that I should retain my right,

'Till wrested by a conqueror's might?

"Rome, with her palaces and towers,
By us un-wish'd and un-reft,
Her homely huts, and woodland bowers,
To Britain might have left ;-
Worthless to you their wealth must be,
But dear to us-for they were free!

"I might have bow'd before-but where
Had been thy triumph now?

To my resolve no yoke to bear

Thou owest thy laurell'd brow;
Inglorious victory had been thine,
And more inglorious bondage mine.

"Now I have spoken,-do thy will;
Be life or death my lot,-
Since Briton's throne no more I fill,
To me it matters not;-

My fame is clear: but on my fate

Thy glory, or thy shame must wait."

He ceased. From all around up-sprang

A murmur of applause;

For well had Truth and Freedom's tongue
Maintain'd their holy cause:

The conqueror was their captive then;

-He bade the slave be free again.

THE GERMAN AND THE WIDOW.

ABOUT the year 1794, a German recently imported into Bristol, happened to hear of Mrs. B., a wealthy widow, and thought it would be a good speculation to offer himself to the lady's notice, as well qualified to succeed the late Mr. B. He accordingly waited on the lady with that intention; but having no great familiarity with English, he provided himself with a copy of a German and English dictionary, and on being announced to the lady, determined to open his proposal, with this introductory sentence—“Madam, having heard that Mr. B., late your husband, is dead;" but coming to the last word, "gestorben" dead, he was at a loss for the English equivalent; so hastily pulling out his dictionary, (a huge octavo), he turned to the word "sterben," to die, and there found- -But what he found will be best collected from the dialogue which followed, as reported by the lady :

German. Madam, haafing heard that Mein Herr B., late your man, is-[these words he kept chiming as if to himself, until he arrived at No. 1 of the interpretation of "sterben," when he roared out in high glee at his discovery] is-dat is, has kicked de bucket.

Widow. (With astonishment.) Kicked the bucket, sir. What? German. Ah, mein Gott! alway Ich make mistake. I vou'd haaf said [beginning again with the same solemnity of tone] since that Mein Herr B., late your man, haaf-hopped de twig. Which words he screamed out with delight, certain that he had now hit the nail upon the head.

Widow. Upon my word, sir, I am at a loss to understand you; "kicked the bucket," and "hopped the twig !"

German. (Perspiring with panic.) Ah, madam, von, two, three, ten thousand pardon! Vat sad, wicket dictionary I haaf, dat always bring me in trooble; but now you shall hear, [and then recomposing himself solemnly for the third effort, he began as before] madam, since I did hear, or vas hearing, dat Mein Heer B., late your man, haaf [with a triumphant shout] haaf, I say, gone to Davy's locker.

Further he would have gone; but the widow could stand no

more.

A PEEP AT A PLAY.

TUNE---Bartholomew Fair.

COME, come, my boys away,
Let us hasten to the play:

We'll reach the house before
The opening of the door;
By goles but this is prime!
For we are just in time,

The doors are being opened, I declare, O!
And the boys begin to bawl,

And the girls begin to squall,
"Don't push so, if you please;"

"Oh, curse you, how you squeeze!
"I'm almost press'd to death!"
"I'm nearly out of breath!"

"It's enough to make a parson swear, O!"
Push the door-in pour,
Sour churls-pretty girls,
Queer gabies-little babies,
What a rush!-Don't push!
Come, my dear, pay here,
Cup, cup, tumble up.

Don't grumble. Don't tumble.

shall be killed.

Spoken.]-O dear, O dear! don't push so. I shall be squeezed to death. I will try to squeeze out again. Come along, you fool, would you be squeezed inside out? Oh, faith that's my own toe you are treading upon. I beg pardon Och! I wouldn't mind, if you didn't hurt me. Oh lud! do you want to squeeze all the breath out of my body? Shut your mouth, my dear fellow, you can't suffer more by it than I do. Billy, my boy, where are you? Here I am, father, keeping up this fat gentleman's belly. Aye, it's a good thing that I am fat, else my bones would be pressed to pieces. Well, I do declare this, I never was so scroudged in my whole life before. Oh my back! Don't back, ma'am, push on. Here we are, up at last. Now for a good place. Halloo! you are coming down head foremost. Yes, he is determined to have a front seat. I say, where are you crowding to, across the benches? O gad! it's enough to make me cross, I've split my inexpressibles. Never mind, let them be seated. Take care of your pockets, here's a punster. Throw him over. It's all over with me, if you do. Well, a punster is a dose of salts to me. Yes, and I have been just squeezed to death, and now I've got into purgatory. Well, now I don't care how soon that there green curtain draws up. Father, I think that green curtain is an iron one. Why, my dear? Because it looks so rusty. There's a sensible child for you. Bless us! what is the matter, the seat is all wet. Dear me! I do declare, my poor dear brandy bottle is all broken, and let all the liquor run

Hey down, ho down,
Derry derry down,

Whilst pushing to the play so rare, O!

(ENCORE DIALOGUE.)

What a trouble it is for an old woman to get up and down this gallery! I declare it brings on my old cough. (coughing.) What does an old woman want in a gallery; people at your age ought to be in the pit. Ah, I wish I were there. (coughing.) Aye, I think you ought to be pitted, you are already in your coffin: I wish you would undertake to cure it. Ma'am, I am no undertaker; but I perceive my jest is palling, you begin to look grave. He's a punster, ma'am, give him a punch. Oh, hang him! I thought he was a rogue, but I shall live to read his dying speech I know. He's got the gibbet in his face now. Gad! you have choked him there. Yes, she's got him in a line. He looks a fit subject for Surgeons'-hall. All go it, cut him up. Put him in spirits, or he won't keep here. Keep, what is he going? He looks alter'd. Then let him be interred, there let the punster rest till his finale punishment,

In gallery, boxes, pit,
The people snugly sit,

Hey down, ho down, &c.

The lads with lively grins,
The maids with dimpled chins,
Though pretty tightly squeezed,
Are determined to be pleased,
Whilst waiting for the play to begin, O!
Play up music, cry the boys,
Then begin the fun and noise,
Stage-lights begin to blaze up,
Then the music plays up,
Up the curtain draws,

And draws down loud applause,

Then the play puts an end to the din, O!
Cat-calls-music squalls,

Now, Dosy-play up, Nosy,
Elbow shakers-catgut-scrapers,
All in rows-rosin bows,

Fiddles grunt-down in front,

Now, my masters, doff your castors,
Silence, silence-no vi'lence.

Spoken.]-I say, you Mounseer Parlour-vow, I wish you'd doff your noddle-cover. Do my vhat, sair? Doff your sconcer.