know their own wives; Gratiano merrily declaring, in

a sort of rhyming speech, that

'While he lived, he'd fear no other thing

So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.'

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

'Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs, having remained behind with the grog-carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning, they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to kneel down and bow to the ground. The Sikhs obeyed; but the English soldier, declaring he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill.'

1.

Last night, among his fellows rough,

He jested, quaffed, and swore—
A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's* place—
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

2.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered and alone-

A heart with English instinct fraught,

He yet can call his own.

*Lord Elgin was then commander-in-chief of the British forces in China.

Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame;

He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

3.

Low Kentish hop-fields round him seemed
Like dreams to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleamed
One sheet of living snow ;

The smoke above his father's door

In gray soft eddyings hung:
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?

4.

Yes; honour calls! with strength like steel,

He put the vision by

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel,

An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knees to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

5.

Vain, mightiest fleet of iron framed-
Vain those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep unstained
The strong heart of her sons.
So let his name through Europe ring-
A man of mean estate,

Who died as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

* The Buffs, or West Kent Regiment.

MULY MOLUC.

When Don Sebastian, king of Portugal, invaded the territories of Muly Moluc, emperor of Marocco, in order to dethrone him, and set his crown upon the head of his nephew, Moluc was wearing away with a distemper which he himself knew was incurable. However, he prepared for the reception of so formidable an enemy. He was, indeed, so far spent with his sickness, that he did not expect to live out the whole day; but, knowing the the fatal consequences that would happen to him and his people, in case he should die before he put an end to that war, he commanded his principal officers, that, if he died during the engagement, they should conceal his death from his army, and that they should ride up to the litter in which his corpse was carried, under pretence of receiving orders as usual. Before the battle began, he was carried through all the ranks of his army in an open litter, as they stood drawn up in array, encouraging them to fight valiantly in defence of their religion and country. Finding afterwards the battle to go against him, though he was very near his last agonies, he threw himself out of his litter, rallied his army, and led them on to the charge, which afterwards ended in a complete victory on the side of the Moors. He had no sooner brought his men to the engagement, than finding himself utterly spent, he was again replaced in his litter, where, laying his finger on his mouth to enjoin secrecy to his officers who stood about him, he died a few moments after in that posture.

K

THE VICAR

1.

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 shewn across the Green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.

2.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,

Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipped rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour-steps collected,

Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say:
'Our master knows you; you're expected.'

3.

Up rose the Reverend Doctor 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.

4.

If, when he reached his journey's end,
And warmed himself in court and college,
He had not gained an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge; If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor, Good sooth, the traveller was to blame, And not the vicarage, or the vicar.

5.

His talk was like a stream which runs, With rapid change from rooks to roses; It slipped from politics to puns;

It passed from Mahomet to Moses. Beginning with the laws which keep The planets in their radiant courses; And ending with some precept deep, For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage.
At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled;

The level lawn, the trickling brook,

The trees I climbed, the beds I rifled!