While Tiger alternately roars and squeaks, Trying to break away from 'em; They must keep the Tub turned over his back, And never let his long tail get slack, For fear he should win the day from 'em. Yes, yes, they must hold him tight, From night till morning, from morn till night,— Must n't stop to eat, must n't stop to weep, Must n't stop to drink, must n't stop to sleep, No cry, no laugh, no rest, no grub, Till they starve the Tiger under the Tub, To his own surprise, With two Bengalese in a deadly quarrel, Oh dear! oh dear! it's very clear They can't live so; but they dare n't let goFate for a pitying world to wail, Starving behind a Tiger's tail. If Invention be Necessity's son, Now let him tell them what 's to be done. To the gratified gentleman, Short-and-stout. Note! mark! what a capital lark! Tiger and Tub, and bung-hole and all, Is n't it now an original go! What, stop! I 'm ready to drop. Hold! stay! I'm fainting away. Laughter I'm certain will kill me to-day; And Tiger is free, yet they do not quail, Though temper has all gone wrong with him. No! they 've tied a knot in the Tiger's tail, And he carried the Tub along with him; He's a freehold for life, with a tail out of joint, The Old Sexton. NIGH to a grave that was newly made, A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in-I gather them inGather-gather-I gather them in. "I gather them in; for man and boy, I've builded the houses that lie around every nook of this burial ground. Mother and daughter, father and son, But come they stranger, or come they kin, I gather them in-I gather them in. "Many are with me, yet I 'm alone; I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold My sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!" A mightier voice than that sexton's old, Will be heard o'er the last trump's dreadful din; "I gather them in-I gather them in Gather-gather-gather them in." PARK BENJAMIN. The Private of the Buffs. LAST night among his fellow-roughs, And type of all her race. Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, A heart with English instinct fraught He yet can call his own. Ay, tear his body limb from limb, He only knows that not through him Shall England come to shame. Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemed, Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed, One sheet of living snow; The smoke above his father's door In gray soft eddyings hung; Yes, honor calls!-with strength like steel Let dusky Indians whine and kneel, An English lad must die. And thus, with eyes that would not shrink, Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed, Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. Light. FROM the quickened womb of the primal gloom Till I wove him a vest for his Ethiop breast And when the broad tent of the firmament Arose on its airy spars, I penciled the hue of its matchless blue, 15* I painted the flowers of the Eden bowers, And mine were the dyes in the sinless eyes Of Eden's virgin queen; And when the fiend's art on the trustful heart Had fastened its mortal spell, In the silvery sphere of the first-born tear To the trembling earth I fell. When the waves that burst o'er the world accurs'd Their work of wrath had sped, And the Ark's lone few, the tried and true, With the wond'rous gleams of my bridal beams, I bade their terrors cease, As I wrote, on the roll of the storm's dark scroll, Like a pall at rest on a senseless breast, Where shepherd swains on the Bethlehem plains When I flashed on their sight the heralds bright Of Heaven's redeeming plan, As they chanted the morn of a Saviour born- Equal favor I show to the lofty and low, On the just and unjust I descend; E'en the blind, whose vain spheres roll in darkness and tears, Feel my smile, the blest smile of a friend. Nay, the flower of the waste by my love is embraced, As the rose in the garden of Kings; At the chrysalis bier of the worm I appear, The desolate Morn, like a mourner forlorn, Conceals all the pride of her charms, |