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Deep read in stratagems, and wiles of courts.
Now vain their treaty-skill: Death scorns to treat.
Here the o'erloaded slave flings down his burden
From his galled shoulders; - and when the stern tyrant,
With all his guards and tools of power about him,
Is meditating new unheard-of hardships,
Mocks his short arm, - and quick as thought escapes
Where tyrants vex not, and the weary rest.
Here the warm lover, leaving the cool shade,
The tell-tale echo, and the babbling stream,
(Time out of mind the fav’rite seats of love,)
Fast by his gentle mistress lays him down,
Unblasted by foul tongue. Here friends and foes
Lie close; unmindful of their former feuds.
The lawn-robed prelate and plain presbyter,
Erewhile that stood aloof, as shy to meet,
Familiar mingle here, like sister streams
That some rude interposing rock has split.
Here is the large-limbed peasant:- Here the child

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Of a span long, that never saw the sun,
Nor pressed the nipple, strangled in life's porch.
Here is the mother with her sons and daughters :
The barren wife, and long-demurring maid,
Whose lonely unappropriated sweets
Smiled like yon lot of cowslips on the cliff,
Not to be come at by the willing hand.
Here are the prude, severe, and gay coquette,
The sober widow, and the young green virgin,
Cropped like a rose before 'tis fully blown,
Or half its worth disclosed. Strange medley here!
Here garrulous old age winds up his tale;
And jovial youth, of lightsome vacant heart,
Whose ev'ry day was made of melody,
Hears not the voice of mirth.— The shrill-tongued shrew,
Meek as the turtle dove, forgets her chiding.
Here are the wise, the generous, and the brave;
The just, the good, the worthless, and profane,
The downright clown, and perfectly well bred;
The fool, the churl, the scoundrel, and the mean,
The supple statesman and the patriots stern;
The wrecks of nations, and the spoils of time,
With all the lumber of six thousand years.

Poor man! how happy once in thy first state !
When yet but warm from thy great Maker's hand.
He stamped thee with his image, and, well pleased,
Smiled on his last fair work. Then all was well.

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Sound was the body, and the soul serene;
Like two sweet instruments, ne'er out of tune,
That play their several parts. — Not head, nor hearty
Offered to ache: nor was there cause they should ;
For all was pure within: no fell remorse,
Nor anxious castings up of what might be,
Alarmed his peaceful bosom, summer seas
Show not more smooth, when kissed by southern winds
Just ready to expire, - scarce importuned,
The generous soil, with a luxurious hand,
Offered the various produce of the year,
And everything more perfect in its kind.
Blessed, thrice blessed days!- But oh! how short!

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Blest as the pleasing dreams of holy men;
But fugitive like those, and quickly gone. . .

Can naught compound for the first dire offense Of erring man? — Like one that is condemned, Fain would he trifle time with idle talk, And parley with his fate. - But 'tis in vain. Not all the lavish odors of the place, Offered in incense, can procure his pardon, Or mitigate his doom. - A mighty angel, With flaming sword, forbids his stay, And drives the loiterer forth; nor must he take One last and farewell round. — At once he lost His glory and his God. — If mortal now, And sorely maimed, no wonder. — Man has sinned. Sick of his bliss, and bent on new adventures, Evil he would needs try: nor tried in vain. (Dreadful experiment! destructive measure ! Where the worst thing could happen is success.) Alas! too well he sped :— the good he scorned Stalked off reluctant, like an ill-used ghost, Not to return; - or if it did, its visits, Like those of angels, short and far between : Whilst the black dæmon, with his hell-scaped train, Admitted once into its better room, Grew loud and mutinous, nor would be gone; Lording it o'er the man: who now too late Saw the rash error, which he could not mend: An error fatal not to him alone, But to his future sons, his fortune's heirs. Inglorious bondage ! - Human nature groans Beneath a vassalage so vile and cruel, And its vast body bleeds through every vein.

POEMS OF JOHN BYROM.

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[JOHN BYROM was born near Manchester, England, in 1691, educated at Trinity, Cambridge ; studied medicine at Montpellier, and became a convert to Jacob Boehme's mysticism, being an unusual mixture of broad humor and deep enthusiasms; gave up medicine and worldly prudence for a penniless marriage ; was member of the Royal Society, and loved science; invented a method of short-hand, and taught it for a living till he fell heir to an estate; died 1763. He wrote vast quantities of verse, partly collected in 1773; but is remembered for the wit and point of a few skits.]

EPIGRAM GOD BLESS THE KING.
God bless the King – I mean the faith's defender!
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender!
But who pretender is, or who is king-
God bless us all ! — that's quite another thing.

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THE THREE BLACK CROWS.
(For the original of this, see “Gesta Romanorum,” Vol. 10, page 62.)

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand :
“Hark ye,” said he, “'tis an odd story this,
About the crows!— “I don't know what it is,"
Replied his friend. — “No? I'm surprised at that:

.
Where I come from, it is the common chat;
But
you

shall hear: an odd affair indeed !
And that it happened, they are all agreed:
Not to detain you from a thing so strange,
A gentleman that lives not far from 'Change,
This week, in short, as all the alley knows,
Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows."
“Impossible!” –“Nay, but it's really true:
I had it from good hands, and so may you."
“From whose, I pray?So having named the man,
Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran.
“Sir, did you tell —” relating the affair.
“ Yes, sir, I did ; and if it's worth your care,
Ask Mr. Such-a-one, he told it me:
But, by the bye, 'twas two black crows, not three."
Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,
Whip to the third the virtuoso went.
“Sir -” and so forth. — “Why, yes; the thing is fact,
Though in regard to number not exact:
It was not two black crows, 'twas only one;
The truth of that you may depend upon,

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The gentleman himself told me the case." “Where may I find him ?" Why, in such a place." Away he goes, and having found him out“Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt." Then to his last informant he referred, And begged to know if true what he had heard : “Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?” – “Not I!" -“Bless me! how people propagate a lie!

! Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one, And here I find at last all comes to none ! Did you say nothing of a crow at all ? " “Crow — crow — perhaps I might, now I recall

The matter over.” “ And pray, sir, what was't ?". “Why, I was horrid sick, and at the last, I did throw up, and told my neighbor so, Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."

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THE NIMMERS.

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Two foot-companions once in deep discourse “ Tom," says

the

one, “let's go and steal a horse." “Steal!" says the other in a huge surprise, “He that says I'm a thief, I say he lies." “Well, well,” replies his friend,“ no such affront! I did but ask ye. If you won't, you won't." So they jogged on, till in another strain The querist moved to honest Tom again: “Suppose,” says he, “ for supposition's sake ('Tis but a supposition that I make !) — Suppose that we should filch a horse, I say?" “Filch? filch ?” quoth Tom, demurring by the way, “That's not so bad as downright theft, I own, But yet — methinks 'twere better let alone. It soundeth something pitiful and low. Shall we go filch a horse, you say? Why, no! I'll filch no filching; - and I'll tell no lie: Honesty's the best policy, say I!”

Struck with such vast integrity quite dumb, His comrade paused. At last, says he, “Come, come, Thou art an honest fellow, I

agree. Honest and poor.

- Alas, that should not be! And dry into the bargain! And no drink ! Shall we go nim a horse, Tom ? What dost think ?"

How clear are things when liquor's in the case ! Tom answers quick, with casuistic grace,

“Nim ? yes, yes, yes! Let's nim, with all my heart
I see no harm in nimming, for my part.
Hard is the case, now I look sharp into't,
That honesty should trudge i' th' dirt afoot!
So many empty horses round about,
That honesty should wear its bottoms out!
Besides, shall honesty be choked with thirst ?
Were it my Lord Mayor's horse, I'd nim it first!
And, by the bye, my lad, no scrubby tit!
There is the best that ever wore a bit
Not far from hence." _“I take ye," quoth his friend,
“Is not yon stable, Tom, our journey's end?
Good wits will jump; both meant the very steed,
The top o' the country both for shape and breed.
So to't they went, and with a halter round
His feathered neck they nimmed him off the ground.

'Twixt right and wrong how many gentle trimmers Will neither steal nor filch, but will be plaguy Nimmers !

PHYLLIS.

BY WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

(1714-1763.)

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SINCE Phyllis vouchsafed me a look,

I never once dreamt of my vine:
May I lose both my pipe and my crook,

If I knew of a kid that was mine!
I prized every hour that went by,

Beyond all that had pleased me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh;

And I grieve that I prized them no more.

But why do I languish in vain;

Why wander thus pensively here?
Oh! why did I come from the plain

Where I fed on the smiles of my dear?
They tell me, my favorite maid,

The pride of that valley, is flown;
Alas, where with her I have strayed

I could wander with pleasure, alone.

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