.

Sir C.-Hear

me,

I

say- -Will you hear me ? Lady R.-I never heard the like in my life.

Sir C.-Why, then, you are enough to provoke the patience of a stoic—Very well, Madam !-you know no more of the game than your father's leaden Hercules on the top of the house-You know no more of whist than he does of gardening.

Lady R.--Ha! ha! ha!

Sir C.-You're a vile woman, and I'll not sleep another night under one roof with you.

Lady R.-As you please, Sir.

Sir C.-Madam, it shall be as I please. I'll order my chariot this moment. I know how the cards should be played as well as any man in England, that let me tell you; and when your family were standing behind counters, measuring out tape, and bartering for Whitechapel needles, my ancestors—my ancestors, Madam, were squandering away whole estates at cards; whole estates, my Lady Racket-[She hums a tune. ]-Why, then, by all that's dear to me, I'll never exchange another word with you, good, bad, or indifferent-Look’ye, my Lady Racketthus it stood—the trump being led, it was then my business

Lady R.–To play the diamond to be sure.

Sir C. I have done with you for ever; and so you may tell your father.

Lady R.-What a passion the gentleman is in; ha! ha! I promise him l’il not give up my judgment.

Sir C.--My Lady Racket-look'yee, Ma'am, once more out of pure good-nature

Lady R.-Sir, I am convinced of your good-nature.

Sir C.-That, and that only, prevails with me to tell you, the club was the play.

Lady R.-Well, be it so—I have no objection.
Sir C.-'Tis the clearest point in the world: we were nine, and-

Lady R.--And for that very reason, you know, the club was the best in the house.

Sir C.- There's no such thing as talking to you -You're a base woman-I'll part from you for ever. You may live here with your father, and admire his fantastical evergreens till you grow as fantastical yourself. -I'll set out for London this instant- -The club was not the best in the house.

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF THE HERMIT.

Home.
BENEATH a mountain's brow, the most remote
And inaccessible, by shepherds trod,
In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd ;-a melancholy man,
Who was the wonder of our wand'ring swains.
Austere and lonely, cruel to himself,

Did they report him : the cold earth his bed,
Water his drink, his food the shepherds' alms.
I went to see him; and my heart was touch'd
With reverence and pity. Mild he spake,
And, entering on discourse, such stories told,
As made me oft revisit his sad cell.
For he had been a soldier in his youth;
And fought in famous battles, when the peers
Of Europe, by the bold Godfredo led,
Against th' usurping infidels display'd
The blessed cross, and won the Holy Land,
Pleas’d with my admiration, and the fire
His speech struck from me, the old man would shake
His years away, and act his young encounters :
Then, having show'd his wounds, he'd sit him down,
And, all the live-long day, discourse of war.
To help my fancy, in the smooth green turf
He cut the figures of the marshall’d hosts,
Describ’d the motions, and explain’d the use,
Of the deep column, and the lengthen'd line,
The square, the crescent, and the phalanx firm ;
For all that Saracen or Christian knew
Of war's vast art, was to this hermit known,

THE B A RD,

Gray.
“ Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!

Confusion on thy banners wait;
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing,

They mock the air with idle state !
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,
Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride

Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow

Frowns o'er old Conway's foamy flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe,

With haggard eyes the Poet stood ; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air ;)

And with a master's hand and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre,
“ Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert-cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!
O'er thee, O king! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp or soft Llewellyn's lay.
“ Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main :
Brave Urien sleeps upon

his
craggy

bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain
Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale ; Far, far aloof, th' affrighted ravens sail ;

The famish'd eagle screams and passes by, Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land :
With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. “ Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding-sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room, and yerge enough,

The characters of hell to trace;
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, through Berkley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs

The scourge of Heav'n. What terrors round him wait; Amazement in his van, with Flight combin’d, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. Mighty victor, mighty lord,

Low on his fun'ral couch he lies !
No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies !
Is the sable warrior fled ?
The son is gone.

He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born!
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his ey'ning prey. “ Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare,
'Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast :

Close by the regal chair
Fell thirst and famine scowl
A baleful smile upon their baffled guest,

“ Heard ye the din of battle bray,
Lance to ce, and horse to horse ;
Long years of havock urge their destin'd course,

And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye tow’rs of Julius-London's lasting shame

With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,

And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow

Twin'd with her blushing foe we spread ;
The bristled boar, in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.
Now, brothers, bending oe'r the accursed loom,

Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom, “Edward, lo; to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus folorn Leave me unbless'd unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But, oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,

Descending slow, their glittring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory! spare my aching sight;

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul !
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail.
All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail !
Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear ;
And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old,

In bearded majesty appear.
In the midst a form diyine !
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line;
Her lion port, her awe-commanding face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air !

What strains of vocal transport round her play!

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-coloured wings.

“ The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest :
In buskin'd measures move

Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With horror, tyrant, of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir,
Gales from blooming Eden bear ;
And distant warblings lessen on my ear,

That lost in long futurity expire.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
Tomorrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.
Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care ;

To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
He spoke, and headlong, from the mountain's height,
Deep in the roaring tide, he plung'd to endless night,

THE NEW LODGER,

a

Hood. Poor Miss Hopkinson! She had been ill for a fortnight, of a disorder which especially affected the nerves; and quiet, as Dr. Boreham declared, was indispensably necessary for her recovery.

So the servants wore list shoes, and the knocker was tied up, and the street in front of number four was covered with straw.

In the meanwhile, the invalid derived great comfort from the unremitting attentions of her friends and acquaintance ; but she was particularly gratified by the constant kind inquiries of Mr. Tweedy, the new lodger, who occupied the apartments immediately over her head.

“If you please, ma'am,” said Mary, for the hundredth time, " It's Mr. Tweedy's compliments, and begs to know if you feel any better ?”

“I am infinitely obliged to Mr. Tweedy, I'm sure,” whispered the sufferer-"I'm a leetle easier-with my best thanks and compliments."

Now, Miss Hopkinson was a spinster lady of a certain age, and she was not a little flattered by the uncommon interest the gentleman above stairs seemed to take in her state of health. She could not help recollecting that the new lodger and a very smart new cap had entered the house on the same day. She had fortunately worn the novel article on her accidental encounter with the stranger; and, as she used to say, a great deal depended on first impressions.

a