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This done, they thought they certainly should please,
Escape reproaches, and be both at ease;
For having tried each practicable way,
What could be left for jokers now to say ?
Still disappointed, by succeeding tone,

Is that ass your own ?
Get off, for shame! or one of you at least;
You both deserve to carry


poor Ready to drop down dead upon the road, With such a huge unconscionable load."

ye, you fellows !


On this they both dismounted; and, some say,
Contrived to carry, like a truss of hay,
The ass between 'em; prints, they add, are seen
With man and lad, and slinging ass between;
Others omit that fancy in the print,
As overstraining an ingenious hint.

The copy

that we follow, says,—The man Rubbed down the ass, and took to his first plan, Walked to the fair and sold him, got his price, And

gave his son this pertinent advice : “Let talkers talk; stick thou to what is best; To think of pleasing all—is all a jest.”



If thou shouldst ever come to Modena,
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And numerous fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain thee! but, before thou go,
Enter the house-prythee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.


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'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth :-
She sits inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
As though she said, “ Beware!"—her vest of gold
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot-
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-
It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody !-Alone it hangs
Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An oaken chest, half-eaten by the worm.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire.
Her mother dying of the gift she gave-
That precious gift—what else remained to him ?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety ;
Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come-

e—the day, the hour ;
And in the lustre of her youth she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.



Great was the joy; but at the bridal feast,
When all sat down, the bride was wanting there-
Nor was she to be found ! Her father cried,
66 Tis but to make a trial of our love !"-
And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back, and flying still,

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Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas ! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not! Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long might'st thou have seen
An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find—he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless—then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery,
That mouldering chest was noticed ; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra,

Why not remove it from its lurking place ?"
'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way
It burst-it fell; and lo! a skeleton ;
And here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring,
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both-
“ GINEVRA.”—There then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself,
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there,
Fastened her down for ever!



AUSPICIOUS Hope! in thy sweet garden grow Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe: Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour, The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ;


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There, as the wild bee murmurs on the wing,
What peaceful dreams thy hand-maid spirits bring !
What viewless forms the Æolian organ play,
And sweep the furrow'd lines of anxious thought away!

Angel of life! thy glittering wings explore
Earth's loneliest bounds, and ocean's wildest shore.
Lo! to the wintry winds the pilot yields
His bark, careering o'er unfathom'd fields;
Now on Atlantic waves he rides afar,
Where Andes, giant of the western star,
With meteor standard to the winds unfurl'd,
Looks from his throne of clouds o'er half the world.

Now far he sweeps, where scarce a summer smiles
On Behring's rocks, or Greenland's naked isles ;
Cold on his midnight watch the breezes blow,
From wastes that slumber in eternal snow;
And waft across the waves' tumultuous roar
The wolf's long howl from Oonalaska's shore.

Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shatter'd bark delay:
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.

But Hope can here her moonlight vigils keep,
And sing to charm the spirit of the deep :
Swift as yon streamer lights the starry pole,
Her visions warm the watchman's pensive soul :
His native hills that rise in happier climes,
The grot that heard his song of other times,
His cottage home, his bark of slender sail,
His glassy lake, and broomwood blossom’d vale,
Rush on his thought; he sweeps before the wind,
Treads the lov'd shore he sigh’d to leave behind;
Meets at each step a friend's familiar face,
And flies at last to Helen's long embrace;
Wipes from her cheek the rapture-speaking tear,
And clasps with many a sigh his children dear !



So work the honey bees; Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach The art of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king, and officers of sorts ; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home; Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad; Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; Which pillage they with merry march bring home, To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold; The civil citizens kneading up the honey ; The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o'er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone.



How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—dreadful trade ! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminished to her cock; her cock, a buoy, Almost too small for sight: the murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high :—I'll look no more, Lest

my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong.


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