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The Toper and Resolution.
'Tis very right-exactly so; Nor will I for a twelvemonth go ; Hip! hip!- I've made a vow you know.' • Keep, keep to that-bravissimo!' Cries Resolution—come away'* Stay' said the Toper-stay-stay-stay Our bargain made-now don't you think We might just take a little drink? 'Tis mostly done on such occasions' • Nay but attend to my persuasions ; My friend---my friend-your vow-your vow,' *Oh! I will keep it never fear ; But then I feel so thirsty nowI don't think I included beer.
• You did ---you did - nay, tarry not
But only just a parting pot'
• It must not be'
Well come away
That's right-there's danger in delay.'
I say-d'ye hear-my sober sir,
"We then must part, • I see we must'
• With all my heart,
* I'll keep my promise my dear friend,
I feel just up-and gay and mellow
I'll drink your health, my noble fellow,
Song.-Lindor's answer to Alcestas.
For he was form'd by fate's design
So little to inherit,
Could pardon such demerit.
Nor his the gift designed to lie
Mid rarities, till rotten,
When he who gave 's forgotten.
It came from one who deem d thee
To tell how he esteem'd thee!
Oh, fly with me, love !—from those desolate shores,
To some distant land, far away from the
may taste all the sweets of peace, freedom, and love!
Oh, we'll love with that exquisite tone of delight That the blest ever feel in the mansions of light; And our lives, like the close of a long summer's day, Shall pass amid glory and calmness away!
LINDOR'S ANSWER TO ALCESTUS.
From growing indolence I start, and wake,
Roused by ihy once well-known—now stranger pen, And from a cloud of mental stupor break
To tempt life's whirlwind, trying if again Its varying gales of happiness and woe
Can bring forth former feelings to my soul
Lindor's answer to Alcestas.
In full remembrance of the past as though
Time's self had stood, and bowed to the control Of all the incidents o'er which it rules,
Fooling mankind, who never deem the end Will shew that nothing but misfortune schools The ignorant in craft, or proves the friend,
The world goes round us, and our fleeting years
Roll onward to the goal of time, whose stream Ruffled by sighs of woe, and swelled with tears
Runs chill and gloomy still ;-joy's waning beam, Nor warms, nor lights the impenetrable flood.
Pleasures may seem to cheer us, and we smile; But, like the workings of the fevered blood,
They end. -We dreamt-it may be, rared the while.
For this life happiness was never made
We must look further-else we look in vain. While hopes unrealized in visions fade,
Sorrows their dread disast'rous summit gain.
By passions oft our tortured souls are riven;
Love rules a tyrant of despotic sway;
its power by leading men astray, We'd fly ourselves—the self-tormentor shun
We sigh for peace ; yet wearied, seeking rest, We headlong to the giday vortex run,
Where froth, and nothingness, and nonsense, drest In all the pomp of jewels, lace, and pride,
Reigo self-important, and with vacant gaze Betraying ignorance they fain would hide
In fashion's trammels stalk through fully's maze.
Say then shall this our firmer souls dismay?
No-hearts, that friendship hath so closely bound, Despise the light, unsentimental play
Of feeling's levity, or the empty sound
We hate the absence of Promethean fire,
Too loathsome this. We'll to ourselves retire.
Whether the sun-light or the taper's rays Shall guide us in a loftier range to climb,
And from life's death redecin our future days.
Elegiac Lines to the Irish Harp- The Dramatic Cbserver.
ELEGIAC LINES TO THE IRISH HARP.
Peerless thy strains, sweet Harp of Erin, flow
To wipe the bursting tear from sorrow's eye,
Or wrap the soul in extacies on high!
Round thee each gentler passion hovers nigh;
How pity hails thy heart-entrancing sigh!
And sorrow pour'd her viol thro' the air,
And left thee, charmer! to beguile our care!
That strikes the ear nor more essays to do,
That charms the ear and melts the bosom too !
To bless the lyre of some more happy shore,
And pensive melancholy as before !
As oft it wails poor Erin's glories gone,
The morn that dawns when hope inspires thy song.
Full many a link siill binds thee to each heart
Thou stripp'st of half its keenness misery's smart.
That left thee victim to misfortune's train,
And fame and wisdoni's song be thine again!
The production of “ Mirandola," a tragedy, by Barry Cornwall, is the earliest novelty that comes under our observation this month. Our opinion of the merits of this play will be found in another part of this number— we have only to speak of the performance here. In commenting on Mr. Young on a former occasion, we remarked the cold precision and chaste excellence of his acting, but we had not at that iime witnessed his exertions in Mirandola ; he has since convinced us