Loud fell the gate against the post!
Her heartstrings like to crack.
For much she feared the grizzly ghost
Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,
As it had done before :

Her strength and resolution spent,
She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised;
Out came her daughter dear:
Good-natured souls! all unadvised

Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night,
Some short space o'er the green;
And there the little trotting sprite

Distinctly might be seen.

An ass's foal had lost its dam
Within the spacious park ;
And, simple as the playful lamb,
Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he, no imp of sin;

No crimes had he e'er known:
They took the shaggy stranger in,
And reared him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round
Upon the cottage floor;

The matron learned to love the sound
That frightened her before.

A favourite the ghost became,

And 'twas his fate to thrive ;

And long he lived, and spread his fame,
And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale,
And some conviction too :

Each thought some other goblin tale

Perhaps was just as true.

Robert Bloomfield.

THE GAMBLER'S WIFE.

DARK is the night! how dark! no light—no fire!
Cold, on the hearth, the last faint sparks expire!
Shivering she watches by the cradle side

For him who pledged her love-last year a bride!

"Hark! 'tis his footstep! No-'tis past; 'tis gone.
Tick! tick! How wearily the time crawls on.

Why should he leave me thus? He once was kind;
And I believed 'twould last-how mad! how blind!

"Rest thee, my babe! rest on! 'Tis hunger's cry!
Sleep! for there is no food, the fount is dry.
Famine and cold their wearying work have done-
My heart must break! And thou!" The clock strikes one.

"Hush! 'tis the dice-box! Yes; he's there, he's there. For this for this he leaves me to despair!

Leaves love-leaves truth-his wife-his child-for what? The wanton's smile-the villain- and the sot!

"Yet, I'll not curse him! No! 'tis all in vain.
'Tis long to wait, but sure he'll come again!
And I could starve and bless him, but for you

My child! His child !-oh fiend!" The clock strikes two.

Hark! how the sign-board creaks! The blast howls by! Moan! moan! a dirge swells through the cloudy sky! Ha! 'tis his knock! he comes-he comes once more! 'Tis but the lattice flaps! Thy hope is o'er.

"Can he desert me thus? He knows I stay
Night after night in loneliness

To pray for his return, and yet he sees no tear!
No! no! it cannot be. He will be here.

"Nestle more closely, dear one, to my heart!

Thou'rt cold! thou'rt freezing! But we will not part.
Husband! I die! Father! It is not he !

Oh God! protect my child!" The clock strikes three.

They're gone! they're gone! the glimmering spark hath

fled,

The wife and child are number'd with the dead!

On the cold hearth, outstretched in solemn rest,
The child lies frozen on its mother's breast!
The gambler came at last, but all was o'er,
Dead silence reign'd around-the clock struck four.

Coates.

MARY AND LADY MARY;

OR, NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS.

(By permission of the Author.)

THE Lady Mary's placid eyes
Beam with no hopes, no memories;
Beneath their lids no tear-drops flow
For love or pity, joy or woe.
She never knows, too barren she,
The fruitfulness of sympathy;
She never weeps for others' pain,
Or smiles, except in her disdain.

Her face is pallid as the pearl,
Her hair is sleek, without a curl;
With finger-tip she condescends
To touch the fingers of her friends,
As if she feared their palms might braud
Some moral stigma on her hand;
Her pulse is calm, milk-white her skin,
She hath not blood enough to sin.

A very pattern, sage and staid,
Of all her sex-a model maid:
Clear star, bright paragon of men,
She breaks no law of all the ten ;
Pure to the sight as snow-peak'd hill—
As inaccessible and chill;

In sunshine-but repelling heat—
And freezing in her own conceit.

If ever known to breathe a sigh,
It was for lack of flattery.

Though coid, insensible, and dull,
Admirers call her beautiful.

She sucks their incense, breathes it, doats
On her own praise, that gently floats
On Fashion's wave, and lies in wait
To catch admirers of her state.

In published charities her name
Stands foremost, for she buys her fame;
At church men see her thrice a-week,
In spirit proud, in aspect meek;
Wearing devotion like a mask
So marble cold, that sinners ask,
Beholding her at Mercy's throne,
"Is this a woman or a stone?"

But different, far, the little maid
That dwells, unnoticed, in the shade
Of Lady Mary's pomp and power;
A Mary, too, a simple flower,

With face all health, with cheeks all smile,
Undarkened by one cloud of guile;

And ruddy lips that seem to say,

Come, kiss me, children, while ye may."

A cordial hand, a chubby arm,

And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm ;
Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust,
A look all innocence, all trust,
Lit up at times by sunny mirth,
Like summer smiling on the earth;
A ringing laugh, whose every note
Bursts in clear music from her throat.

A painter's daughter, poor, perchance,
But rich in native elegance.
God bless the maid--she may not be
Without some touch of vanity :
She twines red rosebuds in her hair,
And smiles to know herself so fair;
And quite believes, like other belles,
The pleasant tale her mirror tells.

A very woman, full of tears,

Hopes, blushes, tendernesses, fears,
Griefs, laughter, kindness, joys and sighs,
Loves, likings, friendships, sympathies;
A heart to feel for every woe,
And pity, if not dole, bestow;
A band to give from scanty store,
A look to wish the offering more.

In artless faith and virtue strong,
Too loving to do Love a wrong!
She takes delight in simple things,
And in the sunshine works and sings,
Sweet bird! so meekly innocent,
The foulest hawk that ever rent
A trusting heart, would gaze, and fly,
And spare her in her purity.

Take Lady Mary ye who will,
Her woods, her castle on the hill,
Her lands o'er half a county spread,
And wither in her loveless bed;
But give me Mary, frank and free,
Her beauty, grace, and modesty :
I pass my Lady in the mart—'
I take the Woman with the heart.

Charles Mackay.

SEEING'S NOT BELIEVING.

I SAW her, as I fancied, fair,
Yes, fairest of earth's creatures;
I saw the purest red and white
O'erspread her lovely features;
She fainted, and I sprinkled her,
Her malady relieving:

I washed both rose and lily off!
Oh! seeing's not believing!