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A country bumpkin the great offer heard;

Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad, black beard, That seemed a shoe-brush, stuck beneath his nose. With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, And proudly to himself in whispers said, "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose.

"No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave;

It certainly will be a monstrous prize."

So home the clown with his good fortune went,
Smiling, in heart and soul content,

And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.

Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began, with grinning pain, to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze :

'Twas a vile razor! then the rest he tried; All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, "I wish my eighteen pence was in my purse."

In vain, to chase his beard and bring the graces,

He cut, and dug, and whined, and stamped, and swore, Brought blood and danced, blasphemed and made wry faces, And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er.

His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds.

Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods.

"Razors! a vile, confounded dog! Not fit to scrape a hog!"

Hodge sought the fellow, found him, and begun : "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue! to you 'tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives.

You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave

To cry up razors that can't shave."

"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave.

As for the razors you have bought,

Upon my soul, I never thought

That they would shave!"

"Not think they'd shave!" quoth Hodge, with wondering

eyes,

And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;

"What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. "Made?" quoth the fellow, with a smile-" to sell."

WALCOT.

XVI. MISCELLANEOUS.

TIME NOT TO BE RECALLED.

MARK that swift arrow, how it cuts the air, -
How it outruns the following eye!

Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.

That way it went; but thou shalt find
No track is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou!
Of all the time thou'st shot away,

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

REASONS FOR HUMILITY.

ONE part, one little part, we dimly scan,
Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream,
Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan,
If but that little part incongruous seem;
Nor is that part, perhaps, what mortals deem.
Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise:
O, then renounce that impious self-esteem
That aims to trace the secrets of the skies;

For thou art but of dust. Be humble and be wise.

BEATTIR,

SEEING AND NOT SEEING.

THE one with yawning made reply:

"What have we seen? Not much have I!
Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams,
Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams."

The other, smiling, said the same;

But with face transfigured and eye of flame: "Trees, meadows, mountains, groves, and streams!

Blue sky and clouds, and sunny gleams!"

C. T. BROOKS.

HAMLET TO HIS MOTHER.

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Look here, upon this picture, and on this;
The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.
See what a grace was seated on this brow:
Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself;
An
eye like Mars', to threaten and command;
A station like the herald Mercury,
New-lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;
A combination, and a form, indeed,
Where every god did seem to set his seal,
To give the world assurance of a man.

This was your husband. Look you, now, what follows:
Here is your husband; like a mildewed ear,
Blasting his wholesome brother. Have you eyes?
Could you on this fair mountain leave to feed,
And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes?
You cannot call it love, for at your age

The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble,
And waits upon the judgment; and what judgment
Would step from this to this?

SHAKSPEARE.

CATILINE'S DEFIANCE.

BANISHED from Rome! What's banished but set free

From daily contact of the things I loathe?
"Tried and convicted traitor!" Who says this?
Who'll prove it, at his peril, on my head?
Banished? I thank you for't. It breaks

my

chain !

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I held some slack allegiance till this hour;

But now my sword's my own.

Smile on, my lords! I scorn to count what feelings, withered hopes, Strong provocations, bitter, burning wrongs,

I have within my heart's hot cells shut up,
To leave you in your lazy dignities.

But here I stand and scoff you: - here I fling

Hatred and full defiance in your face.

XVII. THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered:

Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

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