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While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks,
Trying to break away from 'em;
They must keep the Tub turned over his back,
And never let his long tail get slack,
For fear he should win the day from 'em.
Yes, yes, they must hold him tight,
From night till morning, from morn till night,-
Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep,
Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleey), -
No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub,
Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub,
Till the animal dies,
To his own surprise,
With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel,
And his tail thrust through the hole of a barrel.
Oh dear! oh dear! it's
They can't live so; but they dare n't let go-
Fate for a pitying world to wail,
Starving behind a Tiger's tail.
If Invention be Necessity's son,
Now let him tell them what's to be done.
What 's to be done! ha! I see a grin
Of joy on the face of Tall-and-thin,
Some new device he has hit in a trice,
The which he is telling all about
To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout.
What 's to be donel what precious fun!
Have n't they found out what 's to be done!
Seel see! what glorious glee!
Notel mark! what a capital lark !
Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all,
Baffled by what is about to befall.
Excellent! marvelous! beautiful! O!
Is n't it now an original go!
What, stop! I'm ready to drop.
Hold! stay! I 'm fainting away.
Laughter I 'm certain will kill me to-day;
And Short-and-stout is bursting his skin,
And almost in fits is Tall-and-thin,
And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail,
Though temper has all gone wrong with him.
No! they ’ve tied a knot in the Tiger's tail,
And he carried the Tub along with him;
He's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint,
And has made his last climax a true knotty point.
FREDERICK W. N. BAYLEY.
Nigu to a grave that was newly made,
Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.
A relic of by-gone days was he,
And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
“I gather them in—I gather them in-
Gather-gather-I gather them in.
“I gather them in; for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,
I've builded the houses that lie around
nook of this burial ground.
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude one by one;
But come they stranger, or come they kin,
I gather them in- I gather them in.
“Many are with me, yet I 'm alone;
I’m King of the Dead, and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold
My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold.
Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,
Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all !
May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.
"I gather them in, and their final rest
Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!” And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train Wound mutely over that solemn plain ; And I said to myself: When time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din ; “I gather them in- I gather them inGather-gather-gather them in.”
The Private of the Buffs.
Last night among his fellow-roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore;
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,
A heart with English instinct fraught
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord or axe or flame,
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father's door
In gray soft eddyings hung;
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young ?
Yes, honor calls!—with strength like steel
He put the vision by;
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep untamed
The strong heart of her sons;
So let his name through Europe ring, –
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.
SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE.
From the quickened womb of the primal gloom
The sun rolled black and bare,
Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast
Of the threads of my golden hair;
And when the broad tent of the firmament
Arose on its airy spars,
I penciled the hue of its matchless blue,
And spangled it round with stars.
I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers,
And their leaves of living green,
And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes
Of Eden's virgin queen;
And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart
Had fastened its mortal spell,
In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear
To the trembling earth I fell.
When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd
Their work of wrath had sped,
And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true,
Came forth among the dead;
With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams,
I bade their terrors cease,
As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll,
God's covenant of peace !
Like a pall at rest on a senseless breast,
Night's funeral shadow slept;-
Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains
Their lonely vigils kept-
When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright
Of Heaven's redeeming plan,
As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born-
Joy, joy to the outcast man!
Equal favor I show to the lofty and low,
On the just and unjust I descend;
E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears,
Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend.
Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced,
As the rose in the garden of Kings;
At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear,
And lol the gay butterfly wings.
The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn,
Conceals all the pride of her charms,