"Let's meet by nine, at Ninus' tomb,
Under the mulberry tree:

The moon that lights the sunless gloom
Shall light my love to me."

'Tis night-the moon has flung her beam
Far down the glowing wave,

Where rolls Euphrates' silent stream
Fast by the monarch's grave.

The night-wind bids the forest groan,
And leafy branches reel;

But, law! Who's this-and all alone-
In such a déshabille?

"Tis Thisbe! Hear it, wise mammas,
The lesson's told concisely-
Don't bother Love by bolts and bars,
Or you'll be diddled nicely;

For though her mother-cross old cat-
Had safely locked her in,

She knew a trick worth two of that,
And didn't care a pin.

She soon escaped-no matter how-
And ere the bell tolled nine,
Sat trembling where the forest bough
Danced in the pale moonshine.

She sat and watched the waters roll,
And more impatient grew:

At last she heard a horrid growl.
"Oh dear, what shall I do?

"Speak, Pyramus! Where are you? Oh! I hear that growl again!

How can you leave your Thisbe so?
You must-you must be slain!"

She'd hardly done, when, trotting by,
A lion fresh from slaughter,

With black blood drenched, and savage cye,
Came from the woods to water.

Poor Thisbe shuddered at the sight,
Not relishing his "ivory;
Besides especially to-night-
It's very hard to die-very!

"I'll run and hide behind an oak.
My stars, just hear him swallow.
I'd better first throw off my cloak.
I wonder if he'll follow?"

The lion on a hawthorn spray,
Descried the mantle dangling.
She'd washed it out that very day.

He stopped-and did the mangling.

But ah! the brute was hardly gone
When Pyramus drew near.

"My Thisbe! Where's my love-my own?
Good gracious me! what's here?

Oh, Thisbe, dearest, are you dead?
Can this torn robe say true-

All pawed and clawed and bloody red ?
My love, I'll follow you!"

Then out he drew his shining blade—
"Grim Death, a friend art thou:
My folly's slain earth's fairest maid!
I'll not survive-so now!"

With that he gave a deadly dig,
Another, and one more;
Then kicked and hollo'd like a pig,
And his short life was o'er.

Poor Thisbe! fancy how she cried
To find her lover stuck:

"Great gods! I'll slumber by his side,
The darling, darling duck!"

She snatched the weapon from the wound,
And bared her snowy breast;

Once gazed in maddening grief around,
And then-we know the rest!

Punch.

MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DEFENCE.

(By permission of the late Lord Lytton.)

PAULINE, by pride

Angels have fallen ere thy time; by pride-
That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould-
The evil spirit of a bitter love

And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee.
From my first years my soul was filled with thee:
I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy
Tended, unmarked by thee-a spirit of bloom,
And joy, and freshness, as if spring itself
Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape!
I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man
Enter'd the breast of the wild, dreaming boy;
And from that hour I grew-what to the last
I shall be-thine adorer! Well, this love-
Vain, frantic-guilty, if thou wilt-became
A fountain of ambition and bright hope:

I thought of tales that by the winter's hearth

Old gossips tell; how maidens sprung from kings

Have stoop'd from their high sphere; how Love, like Death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook

Beside the sceptre. Thus I made my

home

In the soft palace of a fairy future!
My father died; and I, the peasant-born,
Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise
Out of the prison of my mean estate;

And, with such jewels as the exploring mind

Brings from the caves of Knowledge, buy my ransom
From those twin gaolers of the daring heart-
Low Birth and iron Fortune. Thy bright image,
Glass'd in my soul, took all the hues of glory,
And lured me on to those inspiring toils
By which man masters men! For thee I grew
A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages!
For thee I sought to borrow from each grace
And every Muse such attributes as lend
Ideal charms to Love. I thought of thee,
And passion taught me poesy-of thee,
And on the painter's canvas grew the life

Of beauty! Art became the shadow

Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes!
Men call'd me vain-some, mad. I heeded not;
But still toil'd on-hoped on; for it was sweet,
If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee!

At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour
The thoughts that burst their channels into song,
And sent them to thee-such a tribute, lady,
As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest.
The name appended by the burning heart
That long'd to show its idol what bright things
It had created-yea, the enthusiast's name,

That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn!
That very hour-when passion, turn'd to wrath,
Resembled hatred most; when thy disdain
Made my whole soul a chaos-in that hour
The tempters found me a revengeful tool

For their revenge! Thou hadst trampled on the worm-
It turned, and stung thee!

From Bulwer Lytton's "Lady of Lyons."

ABOU BEN ADHEM.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,

"What writest thou?" The vision raised its head,

And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. Nay, not so,"

66

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,

But cheerly still, and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

G

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night

It came again with a great wakening light,

And showed the names of those whom God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt.

WHAT IS NOBLE?

(By permission of the Author.)

WHAT is noble ?-to inherit

Wealth, estate, and proud degree?
There must be some other merit
Higher yet than these for me!
Something greater far must enter
Into life's majestic span,
Fitted to create and centre
True nobility in man.

What is noble? "Tis the finer
Portion of our mind and heart
Linked to something still diviner
Than mere language can impart ;
Ever prompting-ever seeing
Some improvement yet to plan
To uplift our fellow-being,

And, like man, to feel for man!
What is noble? Is the sabre
Nobler than the human spade?
There's a dignity in labour

Truer than e'er pomp arrayed.
He who seeks the mind's improvement
Aids the world in aiding mind.
Every great commanding movemen
Serves not one, but all mankind.

O'er the forge's heat and ashes,
O'er the engine's iron head,
Where the rapid shuttle flashes,
And the spindle whirls its thread,
There is labour, lowly tending
Each requirement of the hour-
There is genius, still extending
Science, and its world of
power.