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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
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, hut 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,
Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
In costly sheen, and gaudy cloak array'd,
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,
His first attack, wide waving to and fro
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; Dart follows dart; lance, lance ; loud bellowings
speak his woes.
is fixed : away,
One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse ;
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears ; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he
bears. Foild, 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 płay, Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : Once more through all he bursts his thundering
wayVain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye'tis pasthe 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
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 fruitThou 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 dream Of 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 !