Grumb.-Poor thing! It is almost a pity to make her rich-what is it but tying a bag of gold about the neck of her imagination? It will never soar again!

Flora.-I'll tell you what, Mr. Grumblethorpe, I have a long while suspected that—vous n'etes pas tant diable comme vous etes noir-not by a great deal; and now that I look better at you, I am really of opinion that if you would only pull off that odious Turkish sort of affair you choose to wear upon your head and oil the hinges of your neck a little — and turn out your toes—you would absolutely be I rather a personable-looking, queer, oldish man. declare there is something amiable in your eyes; will positively make you my confidant, and while I curl my hair, you shall read a sonnet to me brimfull of love and lies. There.

I

Grumb. (reads).—“The following is a list of - hum-" the my worldly possessions,” — hum whole of which, being in sound mind and body, hereby give and bequeath —”

Flora.-Well

Grumb. To my daughter, Flora —

Enter Vesper.

I

Oh, you-you - you philosopher! how dare you look an honest man in the face?

Vesper. How !

Grumb. Rascal, thief, oppressor

you are discovered; there is the will there, in the hands of the heiress! Flora, your uncle is a villain.

Flora.- What! my uncle- my dead father's brother! Wretch—it is false! (tears the will in

pieces).

Grumb. Hold-hold! - noble spirit! you can

afford to live without a fortune.

Vesper (approaching). — Flora

Flora (with dignity, but shrinking back). It is enough, sir; the honour of my father's family is still untarnished.

Vesper. Untarnished indeed, my admirable girl, for your virtue has wiped out the blot. Forgive me! (she throws herself into his arms).

Enter Charles.

Charles.-Flora, I have come for an answer to my love-letter.

Flora (giving her hand). - -There. Not a word! Grumb. That young jade-zounds, I am not crying!-I!-Come, this will never do. The dream is ended-and now, let us go back to Plato and philosophy.

THE WILD-BEE.

BY THOMAS GENT, ESQ.

I SAW a little wanton bee,

That rifled every honied flower,

And sucked-and sucked, with sportive glee, 'Till on him came the whelming shower:

For bees don't reason, though they sting,
Nor always fly when prudence tells them ;
The little rakes will have their fling,—

Like men, the draught of pleasure spells them.

There lies the bee-to hum no more,
To fill his trunk no more with honey-
I'll show you mortals, by the score,
As mad as he, for love and money.

So, men, take warning by his fate,
Or you may rue it, ere 'tis long;
And, women, ere you 're out of date,
Come, kiss your Poet, for his song!

THE TRUANT.

BY RICHARD HOWITT.

I NEVER, On the forest's edge,
Pass the ruined cottage door,
But comes the vision o'er my mind
Of what it was before.

I dream again the Widow's wheel
Is humming in my ears,

And when I think of what has been,

I scarce refrain from tears.

I think how often there,

When the weary day was done,

I sat beside her cheerful fire,

And nursed her little son:

How he would pluck me by the coat,
And earnestly would teaze,
To tell him tales of woful men,

Who perished on the seas:

R

Of gypsies in the glens and wolds;
Of desperate robber bands;
Of savage beasts, and men as wild,
That herd in foreign lands.

And it was joy to see

His blue eyes sparkling bright, When I had filled his little heart With tales of wild delight.

As thence he onward grew,
And left his infant years,

The more his mother's love increased,
The more increased her fears.

For, of a bold and active mind,
No danger did he dread;
And the most fearless of his mates

He in adventures led.

No trees about their native fields
So tall and thin were found,
But he would climb them for a nest,
And bring it to the ground.

A daring swimmer in the stream,
He dashed through waters clear;
And then, for vigour in the race,

The boy had not his peer.