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Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed ;
Ye cannot soothe the dead.
The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,
The shades of evening came.
He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;
Wide yawned their mortal seams
The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard ;
He opened both his eyes,
To lash the feeding flies.
One quiver of the hempen cord,
One struggle and one bound, -
The Pig was on the ground !
And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended ;
On midnight wing attended.
And open swung the door,
Pat pat along the floor.
Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,
And two upon the bed ;
The living and the dead !
What makes thy cheek so pale?
To clasp a spectre's tail?
Untwisted every winding coil;
The shuddering wretch took hold;
So tapering and so cold.
“Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!”
He strives to loose his grasp,
Those twining spirals clasp.
And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim ;
They did not waken him.
Straight, straight towards that oaken beam
A trampled pathway ran;
It was the butcher man.
PARK BENJAMIN. [Born in 1809 at Demerara, of a New England family; died towards 1865 Practised as an attorney at Boston. Afterwards took to magazine-writing and general literature, and published a great number of compositions, in verse and prose. Two of his principal poems are satires, named Poetry and Infatua. tion).
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying ;
The wave unstirred about her huge sides lying,
Sailors recumbent, listless, stretched around
To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found
Some are asleep ; some whistle, try to sing ;
But every lubber there is lazy as a king.
MATTHEW C. FIELD. (Born in 1812, died in 1844. Irish by parentage, and a Londoner by place of birth, but living in the United States from four years of age. He published much verse, and much prose also, in journals of the Southern States, from 1834 onwards).
TO MY SHADOW.
Constant and close to friends while fortune's bright-
And stick to me as long as there is light.
But ready still to back me 1 have found you
And, while I never yet could get around you,
That you should leave me in the dark is mect
Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet,
JOHN GODFREY SAXE. [Born in 1816. A barrister and newspaper editor, highly popular in the States for his humorous or burlesque poems—some of them inodelled very closely on Hood, and others on Barham).
Tom GOODWIN was an actor man,
Old Drury's pride and boast
Especially the Ghost.
Of almost every sort,
From porter up to port.
For any man to sup;
It's sure to blow him up.
Who day by day was seen
He fairly lost his lean,
At length the manager observed
He'd better leave his post,
Whene'er he played the Ghost. 'Twas only 'tother night he saw
A fellow swing his hat, And heard him cry, “By all the gods !
The Ghost is getting fat !”. 'Twould never do, the case was plain ;
His eyes he couldn't shut ;
And Tom was quite a butt.
To cheer his drooping heart ; Though more than one was burning up
With zeal to “take his part.”
He said he didn't doubt
In years, a little stout.
And quite a proper plan,
A portly sort of man.
Said he was not in sport,
his forte. He'd do perhaps in heavy parts ;
Might answer for a monk,
To carry round his trunk ;
He'd never do for that ;
As plethoric and fat !
As stiff as any post.-
And given up the Ghost !