As a young Lobster roamed about,
Itself and mother being out,
Their eyes at the same moment fell
On a boiled lobster's scarlet shell.
"Look," said the younger; "is it true
That we might wear so bright a hue?
No coral, if I trust mine eye,
Can with its startling brilliance vie ;
While you and I must be content
A dingy aspect to present."
"Proud heedless fool," the parent cried;
"Know'st thou the penalty of pride?
The tawdry finery you wish,
Has ruined this unhappy fish.
The hue so much by you desired,
By his destruction was acquired—
So be contented with your lot,
Nor seek to change by going to pot."
He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet;
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone-
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.
A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore;
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again.
I saw it but a moment-and I wish I saw it now-
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.
And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair:
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He cannot liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.
"THE proper study of mankind is man,"
The most perplexing one, no doubt, is woman;
The subtlest study that the mind can scan,
Of all deep problems, heavenly or human!
But of all studies in the round of learning,
From nature's marvels down to human toys,
To minds well fitted for acute discerning,
The very queerest one is that of boys!
If to ask questions that would puzzle Plato,
And all the schoolmen of the middle age,-
If to make precepts worthy of old Cato,
Be deemed philosophy,―your boy's a sage!
If the possession of a teeming fancy,—
(Although, forsooth, the younker doesn't know it,)
Which he can use in rarest necromancy,
Be thought poetical, your boy's a poet!
If a strong will and most courageous bearing,
If to be cruel as the Roman Nero;
If all that's chivalrous, and all that's daring,
Can make a hero, then the boy's a hero!
But changing soon with his increasing stature,
The boy is lost in manhood's riper age,
And with him goes his former triple nature,-
No longer Poet, Hero, now, nor Sage!
THE RAILWAY TRAVELLER'S FAREWELL.
'Twas business called a Father to travel by the Rail;
His eye was calm, his hand was firm, although his cheek was pale. He took his little boy and girl, and set them on his knee;
And their mother hung about his neck, and her tears flowed fast and free.
I'm going by the Rail, my dears-Eliza, love, don't cry—
Now, kiss me both before I leave, and wish Papa good-by.
I hope I shall be back again, this afternoon, to tea,
And then, I hope, alive and well, that your Papa you'll see.
I'm going by the Rail, my dears, where the engines puff and hiss;
And ten to one the chances are that something goes amiss;
And in an instant, quick as thought-before you could cry "Ah!"
An accident occurs, and-say good-by to poor Papa!
Sometimes from scandalous neglect, my dears, the sleepers sink,
And then you have the carriages upset, as you may think.
The progress of the train, sometimes, a truck or coal-box checks,
And there's a risk for poor Papa's, and everybody's necks.
Or there may be a screw loose, a hook, or bolt, or pin-
Or else an ill-made tunnel may give way, and tumble in ;
And in the wreck the passengers and poor Papa remain
Confined, till down upon them comes the next Excursion-train.
If a policeman's careless, dears, or if not over-bright,
When he should show a red flag, it may be he shows a white;
Between two trains, in consequence, there's presently a clash,
If poor Papa is only bruised, he's lucky in the smash.
Points may be badly managed, as they were the other day,
Because a stingy Company for hands enough won't pay;
Over and over goes the train-the engine off the rail,
And poor Papa's unable, when he's found, to tell the tale.
And should your poor Papa escape, my darlings, with his life,
May he return on two legs, to his children and his wife--
With both his arms, my little dears, return your fond embrace,
And present to you, unaltered, every feature of his face.
I hope I shall come back, my dears—but, mind, I am insured—
So, in case the worst may happen, you are so far all secured.
An action then will also lie for
you and your Mamma-
And don't forget to bring it-on account of poor Papa.
THE RICH MAN AND THE POOR MAN.
So goes the world:-if wealthy, you may call
This, friend, that, brother;-friends and brothers all
Though you are worthless-witless-never mind it;
You may have been a stable-boy-what then?
'Tis wealth, good sir, makes honorable men.
You seek respect, no doubt, and you will find it.
But if you are poor, Heaven help you! though your sire
Had royal blood within him, and though you
Possess the intellect of angels too,
'Tis all in vain ;-the world will ne'er inquire
On such a score:-Why should it take the pains?
'Tis easier to weigh purses, sure, than brains.
I once saw a poor fellow, keen and clever,
Witty and wise:-he paid a man a visit,
And no one noticed him, and no one ever
Gave him a welcome.
"Strange," cried I, "whence is it?”
He walked on this side, then on that, He tried to introduce a social chat; Now here, now there, in vain he tried; Some formally and freezingly replied,
Said by their silence-" Better stay at home."
A rich man burst the door,
As Croesus rich, I'm sure
He could not pride himself upon his wit,
And as for wisdom he had none of it;
He had what's better; he had wealth.
What a confusion!-all stand up erectThese crowd around to ask him of his health, These bow in honest duty and respect;
And these arrange a sofa or a chair,
And these conduct him there.
"Allow me, sir, the honor;"-Then a bow
Down to the earth-Is't possible to show
Meet gratitude for such kind condescension?
The poor man hung his head,
And to himself he said,
"This is indeed beyond my comprehension:"
Then looking round,
One friendly face he found,
And said "Pray tell me why is wealth preferred
To wisdom?"-"That's a silly question, friend!"
Replied the other—“ have you never heard,
A man may lend his store
But wisdom none can borrow, none can lend ?"
SOME years ago, ere Time and Taste
Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket,
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;
Fair Margaret in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path,
Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle:
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagged all their tails and seemed to say,
"Our master knows you; you're expected!"
Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,
Up rose the Doctor's "winsome marrow;"
The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrow;
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court or college,
He had not gained an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge;
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