THE THREE WARNINGS.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,
He passed his hours in peace.

But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old time whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,
Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surprise,
"So soon returned!" old Dodson cries.
"So soon, d'ye call it ?" Death replies :
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest?
Since I was here before

'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined:

"To spare the aged would be kind :

However, see your search be legal;

And your authority—is't regal?

Else you are come on a fool's errand.

With but a secretary's warrant.

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings,

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Which I have looked for nights and mornings;

But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest;

But don't be captious, friend, at least;
I little thought you'd still be able
To stump about your farm and stable:
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, though, of your strength!"
"Hold!" says the farmer; "not so fast!
I have been lame these four years past."

"And no great wonder," Death replies :
"However, you still keep your eyes;
And sure to see one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends."

"Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."

"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you; Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news.”

"There's none," cries he;" and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear."

"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unjustifiable yearnings;

If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,

You've had your Three sufficient Warnings;

So come along; no more we'll part;"

He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now old Dodson turning pale,
Yields to his fate;—so ends my tale.

THE VOICE AND PEN.

D. F. M'CARTHY.

OH! the Orator's Voice is a mighty power
As it echoes from shore to shore,

And the fearless Pen has more sway o'er men
Than the murderous cannon's roar.

THE VOICE AND PEN.

What bursts the chain far o'er the main,
And brightens the captive's den?

'Tis the fearless Voice and the Pen of powerHurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Hurrah! hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

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The tyrant knaves who deny our rights,
And the cowards who blanch with fear,
Exclaim with glee, "No arms have ye―
Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear!
Your hills are ours; with our forts and towers,
We are masters of mount and glen."
Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear
Are the Voice and the fearless Pen!

Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,

And your sentinels walk around—

Though your matches flare in the midnight air
And your brazen trumpets sound;

Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among
These listening warrior men;

And they'll quickly say, "Why should we slay
Our friends of the Voice and Pen ?"

When the Lord created the earth and sea,
The stars and the glorious sun,

The Godhead SPOKE, and the universe woke—
And the mighty work was done!

Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,
Or a drop from the fearless Pen,

And the chains accurs'd asunder burst,
That fettered the minds of men!

Oh! these are the swords with which we fight,
The arms in which we trust!

Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,
Which time cannot dim or rust!

When these we bore, we triumphed before; With these we will triumph again;

And the world will say,

"No power can stay

The Voice and the fearless Pen!"

Hurrah! hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

THE REAPER.

W. WORDSWORTH.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain
And sings a melancholy strain;
Oh, listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers, in some shady haunt
Among Arabian sands:

No sweeter voice was ever heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD.

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending:
I listen'd till I had my fill;
And as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore
Long after it was heard no more.

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BATTLE OF FLODDEN FIELD AND DEATH OF MARMION.

SIR W. SCOTT.

BLOUNT and Fitz-Eustace rested still
With Lady Clare upon the hill;
On which (for far the day was spent),
The western sunbeams now were bent.
The cry they heard-its meaning knew,
Could plain their distant comrades' view.

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But lo! straight up the hill there rode
Two horsemen, drenched with gore;
And in their arms, a helpless load,

A wounded knight they bore.

His hand still strained the broken brand;
His arms were smeared with blood and sand;
Dragged from amidst the horses' feet,
With dinted shield and helmet beat-
The falcon-crest aud plumage gone-
Can that be haughty Marmion?

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air,

Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:

"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace, where ?

Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare?

Redeem my pennon-charge again!

Cry-Marmion to the rescue!' Vain!