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My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!”

11. With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread;
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;

And still with a voice of dol'orous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-

She sung this "Song of the Shirt!"

THOMAS HOOD.

THOMAS HOOD, humorist and poet, was born at London, in 1798. The best incident of his early boyhood was his instruction by a schoolmaster who appreciated his talents, and was so interested in teaching as to render it impossible not to interest his pupil. At this period he earned his first fee--a few guineasby revising for the press a new edition of " Paul and Virginia." In his fifteenth year, after receiving a miscellaneous education, he was placed in the countinghouse of a Russian merchant; but, soon after learned the art of engraving. In 1821, having already written fugitive papers for periodicals, he became subeditor of the "London Magazine," a position which at once introduced him to the best literary society of the time. "Odes and Addresses" soon after appeared. "Whims and Oddities," "National Tales," "Tylney Hall," a novel, and "The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies," followed. In these, the humorous faculty not only predominated, but expressed itself with a freshness, originality, and power, which the poetical element could not claim. There was, however, much true poetry in the verse, and much sound sense and keen observation in the prose of these works. After publishing several annuals, he started a magazine in his own name. Though aided by men of reputation and authority, this work, which he conducted with surprising energy, was mainly sustained by his own intellectual activity. At this time, confined to a sick-bed, from which he never rose, in his anxiety to provide for his wife and children, he composed those poems, too few in number, but immortal in the English language, such as the "Song of the Shirt," the "Bridge of Sighs," and the "Song of the Laborer" His death occurred on the 3d of May, 1845.

16. BROKEN HEARTS.

AN is the creature of interest and ambition. His nature

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Love is but the embellishment of his early life, or a song piped in the intervals of the acts. He seeks for fame, for fortune, for

space in the world's' thought, and dominion over his fellow-men. But a woman's whole life is a history of the affections. The heart is her world: it is there her ambition strives for empire; it is there her avarice seeks for hidden treasures. She sends forth her sympathies on adventure; she embarks her whole soul in the traffic of affection; and if shipwrecked, her case is hopeless-for it is a bankruptcy of the heart.

2. To a man, the disappointment of love may occasion some bitter pangs: it wounds some feelings of tenderness-it blasts some prospects of felicity; but he is an active being-he may dissipate his thoughts in the whirl' of varied occupation, or may plunge into the tide of pleasure; or, if the scene of disappointment be too full of painful associations, he can shift his abode at will, and taking as it were the wings of the morning, can "fly to the uttermost parts of the earth, and be at rest."

3. But woman's is comparatively a fixed, a secluded, and a meditative life. She is more the companion of her own thoughts and feelings; and if they are turned to ministers of sorrow, where shall she look for consolation? Her lot is to be wooed and won; and if unhappy in her love, her heart is like some fortress that has been captured, and sacked, and abandoned, and left desolate.

4. How many bright eyes grow dim-how many soft cheeks grow pale-how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness! As the dove will clasp' its wings to its side, and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying on its vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of wounded affection.

5. The love of a delicate female is always shy and silent. Even when fortunate, she scarcely breathes it to herself; but when otherwise, she buries it in the recesses of her bosom, and there lets it cower and brood among the ruins of her peace. With her the desire of the heart has failed. The great charm of existence is at an end. She neglects all the cheerful exercises which gladden. the spirits, quicken the pulses, and send the tide of life in healthful currents through the veins. Her rest is

'World (world).—B'åsts. — Whirl (wherl).—Earth (erth).— Whero (wh&r).—® None (nủa Cl&sp.—® Scarce ly.— Ruins (r8 inz).

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broken-the sweet refreshment of sleep is poisoned by melancholy dreams—“dry sorrow drinks her blood," until her enfeebled frame sinks under the slightest external injury.

6. Look for her, after a little while, and you will find friendship weeping over her untimely grave, and wondering that one who but lately glowed with all the radiance of health and beauty, should so speedily be brought down to "darkness and the worm." You will be told of some wintry chill, some casual indisposition that laid her low;-but no one knows of the mental malady that previously sapped her strength, and made her so easy a prey to the spoiler.

7. She is like some tender tree, the pride and beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the worm' preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be most fresh and luxuriant.' We see it drooping its branches to the earth' and shedding leaf by leaf; until, wasted and perished away, it falls even in the stillness of the forest; and as we muse over the beautiful ruin, we strive in vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with decay.

8. I have seen many instances of women running to waste and self-neglect, and disappearing gradually from the earth, almost as if they had been exhaled to heaven; and have repeatedly fancied that I could trace their death through the various declensions of consumption, cold, debility, languor, melancholy, until I reached the first symptom of disappointed love. But an instance of the kind was lately told to me: the circumstances are well known in the country where they happened, and I shall but give them in the manner they were related.

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VERY one must recollect the tragical story of young Emmett,' the Irish patriot: it was too touching to be soon forgotten.

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He was

'Worm (werm). — a Luxuriant (lug zu' re ant). — 3 Brånch. - . * Earth (erth). ROBERT EMMETT, the Irish patriot, was born in 1780 executed on the 20th of September, 1803.

During the troubles in Ireland he was tried, condemned, and executed, on a charge of treason. His fate made a deep impression on public sympathy. He was so young-so intelligent-so generous-so brave-so every thing that we are apt to like in a young man. His conduct under trial, too, was so lofty and intrepid! The noble indignation with which he repelled the charge of treason against his country-the eloquent vindication❜ of his name and his pathetic appeal to posterity, in the hopeless hour of condemnation-all these entered deeply into every generous bosom, and even his enemies lamented the stern policy that dictated his execution.

2. But there was one heart, whose anguish it would be impos sible to describe. In happier days and fairer fortunes, he had won the affections of a beautiful and in'teresting girl, the daughter of a late celebrated Irish barrister. She loved him with the disin'terested fervor of a woman's first and early love. When every worldly maxim arrayed itself against him; when blasted in fortune, and disgrace and danger darkened around his name, she loved him the more ardently for his very sufferings. If, then, his fate could awaken the sympathy even of his foes, what must have been the agony of her, whose whōle soul was occupied by his image? Let those tell who have had the portals of the tomb suddenly closed between them and the being they most loved on earth-who have sat at its threshold, as one shut out in a cold and lonely world, from whence all that was most lovely and loving had departed.

3. But then the horrors of such a grave! so frightful, so dishonored! There was nothing for memory to dwell on that could soothe the pang of separation-none of those tender though melancholy circumstances that endear the parting scene -nothing to melt sorrow into those blessed tears, sent, like the dews of heaven, to revive the heart in the parting hour of anguish.

1Treason (trè' zn), the offence of attempting to overthrow the government of the State to which the offender owes allegiance, or of betraying the State into the hands of a foreign power. In trêp' id. undaunted: fearless; brave.-- Vin di cà' tion, justification against censure, objections, or accusations; defence by proof, force, or otherwise.- JoHN PHILPOT CURRAN, celebrated for his eloquence, wit, and sarcasm, born near Cork, 1750, and died 1817. - Nothing (nåth'ing).

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4. To render her widowed situation more desolate, she had incurred her father's displeasure by her unfortunate attachment, and was an exile from the paternal roof. But could the sympathy and kind offices of friends have reached a spirit so shocked and driven in by horror, she would have experienced no want of consolation, for the Irish are a people of quick and generous sensibilities. The most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her love.

5. But it was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scath and scorch the soul-that penetrate to the vital seat of happiness, and blast' it, never again to put forth bud or blos som. She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but she was as much alone there as in the depths of solitude. She walked about in a sad reverie, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the charmer, charm he never so wisely."

6. The person who told me her story had seen her at a mas querade. There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking and painful than to meet it in such a scene. Το find it wandering like a specter, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay-to see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor heart into a momentary forgetfulness of sorrow. After strolling through the splendid rooms and giddy crowd with an air of utter abstraction, she sat herself down on the steps of an orchestra, and looking about for some time with a vacant air, that showed her insensibility to the gairish scene, she began, with the capriciousness of a sickly heart, to warble a little plaintive air. She had an ex'quisite voice; but on this occasion it was so simple, so touching, it breathed forth such a soul of

Blåst.- Haunts (håntz).- Pêr' son.- Masquerade (mås ker åd'), an evening assembly of persons wearing masks, and amusing themselves with dancing, conversation, and other diversions.- Orchestra (år' kestra), a place appropriated to musicians, or to the performers in a con cert; a band of musicians.- Gåir' ish, gaudy; showy; very fine.

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