Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,

Who think of something else besides the pen ; But for the children of the “ mighty mother's,"

The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily " tea is ready,” Snug coterie, and literary lady.

THE MUTINEERS OF THE BOUNTY AFTER

THEIR DEFEAT. Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread Along his cheek was livid now as lead; His light-brown locks so graceful in their flow Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. Still as a statue, with his lips comprest To stifle even the breath within his breast, Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute, He stood; and save a light beat of his foot, Which deepened now and then the sandy dint Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint. Some paces further Torquil leaned his head Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, Not mortally-his worst wourd was within : His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, And blood-drops sprinkled o'er his yellow hair Showed that his faintness came not from despair, But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, Ben Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe, And bind his wound-then calmly lit his pipe, A trophy which survived an hundred fights, A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights.

The fourth and last of this deserted group [stoop
Walked up and down-at times would stand, then
To pick a pebble up-then let it drop
Then hurry as in haste_then quickly stop-
Then cast his eyes on his companions- then
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again
And then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and trouble.
This is a long description, but applies
To scarce five minutes past before the eyes ;
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, No vacant space for lated wight is found: Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's soft archery.

Hush'd is the din of tongues, on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light poised
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance
And lowly bending to the lists advance ;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance :
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,

Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
In costly sheen, and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed :
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed
Alas ! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo ! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe :
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit

His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fixed : away,
Away thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear":
Now is thy time, to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croup the nimble coursers veer;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear :

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; Dart follows dart; lance, lance ; loud bellowings

speak his woes.
Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail,
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse;
Though man and man's avenging arms assail,
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse;
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears;
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he

bears.
Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last,
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay,
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast,
And foes disabled in the brutal fray:
And now the Matadores around him play,
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand :
Once more through all he bursts his thundering

way-
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, .
Wraps his fierce eyem'tis past-he sinks upon the

sand !

Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine,
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies.
He stops_he starts—disdaining to decline :
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries,
Without a groan, without a struggle dies.
The decorated car appears on high
The corse is piled_sweet sight for vulgar eyes

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy,
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

CAIN'S PRAISE OF ADAH'S BEAUTY. *Lucifer.

- What is that, Which being nearest to thine eyes is still More beautiful than beauteous things remote ?

Cain. My sister Adah..All the stars of heaven,

The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world
The hues of twilight-the sun's gorgeous coming-
His setting indescribable, which fills
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him
Along that western paradise of clouds
The forest shade the green bough-the bird's voice,
The vesper bird's which seems to sing of love,
And mingles with the song of cherubim,
As the day closes over Eden's walls ;-
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart,
Like Adah's face : I turn from earth and heaven
To gaze on it.

CAIN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SLEEPING CHILD.

He smiles and sleeps !--Sleep on And smile, thou little, young inheritor Of a world scarce less young : sleep on, and smile! Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering And innocent ! thou hast not pluck'd the fruit Thou know'st not thou art naked! Must the time Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, Which were not thine nor mine ? But now sleep on ! His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, And shining lids are trembling o'er his long Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er them ; Half open, from beneath them the clear blue Laughs out, although in slumber. He must dreamOf what? Of Paradise ? -Ay! dream of it, My disinherited boy ! 'tis but a dream ; For never more thyself, thy sons, nor fathers, Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy !