God to the matron all blessings will give,
If as God's maiden the young maiden live.

What will her future be? If she should die,
Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie;
Softly her body will sleep 'neath the sod,
While her pure spirit is safe with her God.




TURGIDUS ALPINUS.

My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year
To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear;
Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs
Imbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant fogs:
Ye know not with what transports the mad Alpine Clubman gushes,
When with rope and axe and knapsack to the realms of snow he rushes.
O can I e'er the hour forget--a voice within cries "Never!"--
From British beef and sherry _dear_ which my young heart did sever?
My limbs were cased in flannel light, my frame in Norfolk jacket,
As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient Calais packet.
"Dark lowered the tempest overhead," the waters wildly rolled,
Wildly the moon sailed thro' the clouds, "and it grew wondrous cold;"
The good ship cleft the darkness, like an iron wedge, I trow,
As the steward whispered kindly, "you had better go below"--
Enough! I've viewed with dauntless eye the cattle's bloody tide;
Thy horse, proud Duke of Manchester, I've seen straight at me ride;
I've braved chance ram-rods from my friends, blank cartridges from foes;