And to the hilt his vengeful sword
He plunged in Gelert's side.

His suppliant, as to earth he fell,
No pity could impart;

But still his Gelert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumberer wakened nigh:
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!

Concealed beneath a tumbled heap,
His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub-boy he kissed.

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread→
But the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah, what was then Llewellyn's pain!
For now the truth was clear:
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewellyn's heir.

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn's woe;
"Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic deed which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,
With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles storied with his praise,
Poor Gelert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass,
Or forester, unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewellyn's sorrow proved

And there he hung his horn and spear;
And, oft as evening fell,

In fancy's piercing sounds, would hear
Poor Gelert's dying yell!

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,

The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of " Gelert's Grave."

TEMPERANCE RHYME-ATION.

Ye friends of moderation,
Who think a reformation,
Or moral renovation,
Would benefit our nation;
Who deem intoxication,
With all its dissipation,
In every rank and station
The cause of degradation,
Of which your observation
Gives daily demonstration;
Who see the ruination,
Distress and desolation,
The open violation
Of moral obligation,
The wretched habitation,
Without accommodation,
Or any regulation,

For common sustentation;
A scene of deprivation,
Unequaled in creation;
The frequent desecration
Of Sabbath ordination,
The crime and depredation,
Defying legislation;
The awful profanation,
Of common conversation;
The mental aberration,
And dire infatuation,
With every sad gradation,
To maniac desperation;
Ye who, with consternation,
Behold this devastation,
And utter condemnation
Of all inebriation,

Why sanction its duration,
Or show disapprobation
Of any combination

For its extermination?

We deem a declaration,
That offers no temptation,
To any palliation
Of this abomination,
The only sure foundation;
And under this persuasion,
Hold no communication,
With noxious emanation
Of brewer's fermentation,

Nor any vain libation
Producing stimulation.
To this determination
We call consideration,
And without hesitation
Invite co-operation,
Not doubting imitation
Will raise your estimation,
And by continuation
Afford you consolation.
For in participation
With this association
You may, by meditation,
Insure the preservation
Of a future generation
From all contamination.
And may each indication
Of such regeneration

Be the theme of exultation

Till its final consummation!

THE BEGGAR'S PETITION.-THOMAS MOss.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,

Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel of a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!).
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold;
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
"Tis heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;
But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;
My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.
'My daughter-once the comfort of my age-
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam!

My tender wife-sweet soother of my care--
Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, lingering fell, a victim of despair,

And left the world to wretchedness and me!

Then pity the sorrows of a poor old man!

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and heaven will bless your store.

PAT'S CORRESPONDENCE.-W. M. GIFFIN.

Whist now! till I relate to you my-well yer what now? Oh! I hev it, me--no I heven't it thin. letter writing any how-now what do ye

What is it? Its call it? Ah! ha!

now I hev it-correspondence, that's the wourd.

You know I wrote a letter to Tim Flanagin, Tim wrote a letter to me-Tim lives in the ould country, I live in the new. That's the difference between Tim and me; the difference did I say? Well now! that wourd makes me think of something I can't but tell till ye. It was the other day whin I was walking up Broad street, I heard some one a calling out, "Pat," seys he; "What do ye want," sed I; "I want till talk to ye," sed he; "Well talk away, thin," sed I; "Come along here, why don't ye thin?" "Where air ye that I may

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come?" But jist thin I see a big red-nosed fellow peaking from behint a lamp-post. "Well, now," sed I to meself; "I don't know who thet fellow is at all at all. I'll go over any how and see what he wants o' the likes of me." So over I wint, and as I got within speaking distance he seys to me, seys he; "How air ye, Pat?" "What's thet to a mon I don't know?” sed I. "Oh well, Pat, me boy," sed he,“ niver mind thet, I hev a skanumdrum for ye." "A what,” said I. “A skanumdrum," sed he; "I'm going to ask-" "Ask nothing," sed I; "but give me thet--what do ye call it ?-the first thing ye do." "Yer not understanding me," sed he; "I mean by thet a riddle." ‘Oh, ho! a riddle is it? Out wid it thin; for its many a wone I guessed in the ould country." "Thin guess me this. What is the difference between yourself and a pig?" "Air ye joking?" sed I. "Not a bit of it, Pat, can ye tell?" Well jist thin one of the durty bastes passed us wid his [Grunting like a pig]. "Hear thet," sed I; "it's not in the voice any how." After scratching me head awhile, I sed to him, "I'll give it up." "Why, Pat, me boy, there is no difference at all." "Ain't there! Look a here young man thet may be what ye call a skanumdrum in Ameriky, but I give ye to understand thet in the ould country it would be a signal for the sudden dislocation of yer big red nose, and so it would." He didn't stop to hear it all, and it was well for him or me name's not Pat.

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After looking at him awhile, I turned once more on me way, end I hed not gone far before I heard another cry of "Pat." 'Oh, ho!" sed I to meself; "here is another one of thim skanumdrums I suppose. Who air ye? Where air ye? And what do ye want?" sed I; all in a breath. "I'm here, and it is a speaking to ye I want," sed a green looking fellow over the way. "Well," sed I to meself," I'll go over and see what the blackguard wants wid me." So over I wint and the very first thing was, "Pat, I hev a skanumdrum for ye." "I thought so," sed I to meself; thin sed to him, "Well, what is it thin?" "Tell me, Pat, the difference between yourself and a pig?" "Me boy that is ould," sed I in a whisper; thin I sed to him, "Repeat it." He did. "Look me in the eye,” sed I. "I'm looking," sed he. "Now, ye want to know the difference between me and a pig?" "That's it," sed he. I

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