Ah! mercy on my soul! What is that?— My old friend's... ghost? They say none but wicked folks w-a-lk... I wish I were at the bottom of a coal-pit. La! how pale and long his face is grown since his death: he never was handsome: and death has improved him very much the wrong way. Pray... do not come near me! I wished you very well when you were alive;- but I could never abide a dead man cheek-by-jowl with me... Ah Ah-mercy on us!... No nearer, pray! If it be only to take leave of me that you are come back, I could have excused you the ceremony with all my heart.- Or if you...mercy on us! no nearer-pray—or if you have wronged any body, as you always loved money... a little, I give you the word of a frighted Christian, I will pray as long as you please for the deliverance or repose of your departed soul. My good -- worthy -- noble friend, do pray disappear.. ... as ever you would wish your old friend to come to his senses again.

TERRORS OF DEATH.-
-

Shakespeare.

To die, and go... we know not where:-
To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot:-
This sensible warm - motion, to become
A kneaded clod; and the delightful spirit
To bathe in fiery floods. or to reside
In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice;-
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds,
And blown with restless violence about

The pendent world; or... to be... worse than worst
Of those, that lawless and uncertain thoughts
Imagine howling! O, 'tis too horrible!
The weariest and most loathed worldly life—
That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment
Can lay on nature, is a Paradise
To what we fear of Death.

THREATENED REVENGE.—

If they speak but truth of her...

Shakespeare.

These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,

The proudest of them shall well hear of it.

Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,

Nor age so ate up my invention,

Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
Nor my bad life 'reft me so much of friends,
But they shall find awak'd in such a kind.
Both strength of limb, and policy of mind,
Ability in means, and choice of friends -
To quit me of them thoroughly.

I loved her, for that she was beautiful;
And that she seemed to be... all Ñature,
And all varieties of things in one;

Would set at night in clouds of tears, and rise
All light and laughter in the morning; fear
No petty customs or appearances,

But think what others only dreamed about,
And say what others did but think, and do
What others would but say, and glory in
What others dared but do. So pure withal
In soul; in heart and act such conscious, yet
Such careless innocence, she made round her
A halo of delight!-'twas these which won me;
And that she never schooled within her breast
One thought, or feeling, but gave holiday
To all; and she made all even mine

In the communion of love; and we
Grew like each other.

UNTOLD LOVE.- 7. A. Hillhouse.
The soul, my lord, is fashioned like the lyre;
Strike one chord suddenly, and others vibrate.
Your name abruptly mentioned, casual words
Of comment on your deeds, praise from your uncle,
News from the armies, talk of your return,..
A word let fall touching your youthful passion,
Suffused her cheek, called to her drooping eye
A momentary lustre; made her pulse

Leap headlong, and her bosom palpitate.
I could not long be blind, for love defies
Concealment, making every glance and motion
Speech - and silence a tell-tale.

These things, though trivial in themselves, begat
Suspicion. But long months elapsed

Ere I knew all. She had, you know, a fever.
One night, when all were weary and at rest,
I. sitting by her couch, tired and o'erwatched,
Thinking she slept, suffered my lids to close.
Waked by a voice, I found her Never signor,
While life endures, will that scene fade from me!-

A dying lamp winked on the hearth, that cast

And snatched the shadows.-Something stood before me In white. My flesh began to creep. I thought

I saw a spirit. It was my lady risen

And standing with clasped hands like one in prayer.
Her pallid face, in the dim light, displayed

Something, methought, surpassing mortal beauty.

She presently turned round, and fixed her large wild eyes Brimming with tears upon me; fetched a sigh

As from a riven heart, and cried, "He's dead!
But, hush!-weep not;- I've bargained for his soul;
That's safe in bliss!" Demanding who was dead,-
Scarce yet aware she raved,- she answered quick,
Her Cosmo, her beloved! for that his ghost,
All pale and gory, thrice had passed her bed.
With that, her passion breaking loose, my lord,
She poured her lamentation forth in strains
Pathetical beyond the reach of reason.

"Gone, gone, gone to the grave, and never knew
I loved him!" I'd no power to speak or move.—
I sat stone-still.-A horror fell upon me.
At last, her little strength ebbed out: she sank;
And lay, as in death's arms, till morning.

UPBRAIDING WITH WANT OF DUTY.

Shakespeare.

Fie, fie! unknit that threatening, unkind brow;
And dart not scornful glances from those eyes.—
To wound thy lord... thy king...thy Governor.
It blots thy beauty, as frosts bite the meads;
Confounds thy fame, as whirlwinds shake fair buds;
And in no sense is meet, or amiable.

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;
And, while it is so, none so dry or thirsty
Will deign to sip, or touch one drop of it.
Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance: commits his body
To painful labour, both by sea and land;
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
While thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands,
But love, fair looks, and true obedience;—
Too little payment for so great a debt.
Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such —a woman oweth to her husband.
And when she's froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving Lord?—
I am ashamed that women are so simple

To offer war where they should kneel for peace
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,

When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.

He read their thoughts... they were his own.
What! while our arms can wield these blades,
Shall we die tamely? die alone?...

Without one victim to our shades-
One Moslem heart, where, buried deep,
The sabre from its toil may sleep?
No!... God of Iran's burning skies!
Thou scorn'st the inglorious sacrifice.
No!... though of all earth's hope bereft,
Life, swords, and vengeance, still are left!
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves

Live in the awe-struck minds of men,
Till tyrants shudder, when their slaves
Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen.-
Follow, brave hearts! this pile remains
Our refuge still... from life and chains;
But his the best, the holiest bed,

Who sinks entombed in Moslem dead!

VENGEANCE.- - Dugald Moore.

There is an order in the race of men,

I... was not

Who, being smit by fortune's shafts, sit down,
And like a statue on a pedestal—
Seem chill'd to marble! or, they whine away
Their manhood-like sick maidens.
Made of such moping matter! I was not
Fashion'd to walk the earth, and bear about
A rainy eyeball and a nerveless heart!...
The wild materials that are gathered here

Could only yet be quench'd in showers of blood....
Not smothered in salt rheum! -- I have been wrong'd,
Ay, trampled on!-- but they who smote me, yet
May feel when least expected- the keen tooth

The adder's fang,- sharp, cutting, edg'd with death,-
In what they deem'd a worm.

VIRTUE.- Rowe.

Yes! to be good is to be happy: -- angels

Are happier than mankind, because they're better.

Guilt is the source of sorrow: 'tis the fiend,

The avenging fiend, that follows us behind

With whips and stings. The blest know none of this;
But rest in everlasting peace of mind,

And find the height of all their heaven is goodness.

WARNING.

To-morrow, didst thou say?

Cotton.

Methought I heard Horatio say, To-morrow.

Go to I will not hear of it. To-morrow!

'Tis a sharper, -- who stakes his penury

Against thy plenty; who takes thy ready cash,

And pays thee nought,... but wishes, hopes and promises, The currency of idiots: injurious bankrupt,

That gulls the easy creditor!-- To-morrow!
It is a period no-where to be found

In all the hoary registers of Time,--
Unless, perchance, in the fool's calendar!
Wisdom disclaims the word, nor holds society
With those who own it. No, my Horatio,
'Tis Fancy's child, and Folly is its father;
Wrought of such stuff as dreams are, and baseless
As the fantastic visions of the evening.

But, soft, my friend; arrest the present moments;
For, be assured, they all are arrant tell-tales:
And though their flight be silent, and their path
Trackless as the winged couriers of the air-
They post to heaven, and there record thy folly.
Because, though stationed on the important watch,
Thou, like a sleeping, faithless sentinel,
Didst let them pass, unnoticed, unimproved.
And know, for that thou slumberedst on the guard,
Thou shalt be made to answer at the bar

For every fugitive; and when thou thus
Shalt stand impleaded at the high tribunal

Of hood-winked Justice, who shall tell thy audit!
Then, stay the present instant, . . . dear Horatio!
Imprint the marks of wisdom on its wings;

'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious
Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain !—
O! let it not elude thy grasp; but-like

The good old patriarch upon record, —

Hold the fleet angel fast, until he bless thee!