Half a dozen silken suitors followed pretty Lady Mabel, Smirking, simpering, bowing, prating, past each oriel and gable, Waving plumes and fluttering satins-one alone, now three, then two,

They paced the lozenge-paven terrace, by the close-clipp'd walls of yew.

One was fixing firm his feather, with a shrill uneasy laugh, One his scented glove was pulling, or was tying up his scarf; One was stooping, gay adjusting fluttering ribbons on his knee, Or was merry, disentangling chains and badges two or three.

One proposed full cups of clary; one cried out to "boot and horse;

The lawyer he was recommending "no eviction, if by force;
The fop was picking clove carnations for the Lady Mabel's
hair,
Vowing by "Sir Phoebus' chariot " that she was excelling

fair."

66

Far behind them, lone and musing, sober-garb'd and very sad,
Paced a poet-student, sunken-cheek'd and thin; the lad
By his mistress was unnoticed, by the pages held at scorn:
He stood upon that terrace walk the unhappiest creature born.

Careless the lady paced along, her train borne up by twice three pages;

The falcon on her little wrist fretted in pretty wanton rages. One cord of pearls alone she wore, twisted around her hair; Whene'er she moved, a breath of spring filled all the amorous air.

Suddenly beside a fountain; on her lovers Mabel turn'd,

A maiden blush was on her cheek, her eyes with anger burn'd. "Villain suitors!" cried the lady, "eating up my poor estate; I, Penelope unguarded, still for a deliverer wait.

"Is there no one really loves me? none to free me from these knaves?

From their insolence release me-none to chase away these slaves?

Smell-feasts, who with churlish clamour, seek my poor defenceless hand,

Only that they may the sooner gnaw into my gold and land?'

Silent stood that flock of suitors, not one sought to lead the

rest;

But each one, sullen, flung his cloak athwart his craven breast Then stepped the gentle student-boy before those recreant men, And drew his sword, and cried aloud, "BACK EACH ONE TO HIS DEN!"

Then every face grew black to hear that bitterness of speech, From every gilded sheath flash'd out the angry sword of each: "Let's whip this bookworm, poor and hungry, to his scurvy garret lair,

To read his Ovid's wanton songs, and pine and scribble there."

Then as a traveller would turn to brush the gnats away,
The lover strode, his eyes flash'd red, as royal stag at bay;
He would not draw his sword for fear to fright the lady fair,
But leapt and seized the foremost man, his strong hand in his
hair.

From one he tore his feather'd hat, from one he rent his cloak, Though blood ran out and daubed his face, still fell his angry stroke.

A wild bull goring could not drive with more impetuous horn Than he, the stripling so despised, when he arose in scorn.

They fled,—the cowards! every one, with gems the walks were strewn :

Here lay a broach of Indian pearl, and there an emerald

stone;

They threw their swords away and fled,-each pale as parted

corse,

They did not stay to rest or eat, but took at once to horse.

A moment pale and motionless the poet stood-nor spokeLook'd with fix'd eyes as in a trance-neither the silence broke.

He spurned the jewels with his foot, then knelt to kiss her hand

He the poor vagrant London poet, and she the lady of the land.

Humbly Mabel turned to thank him, with an almost tearful smile,

Looking at his breast and forehead, lest some wound should bleed the while.

Low he bow'd, and was departing, picking up a broken sword, Fearing ambush from the vengeance of some bruised and beaten lord.

Edward," said she, soft and gently, as a whisper in a dream: Like a prophet's revelation then upon him burst love's beam. He turn'd, and kiss'd her lips and forehead, and one long wind driven tress,

Then whispered, and a soft low murmur, scarcely syllabled, said, "YES." -All the Year Round.

THE LITTLE VULGAR BOY.

'Twas in Margate last July, I walked upon the pier,
I saw a little vulgar Boy-I said, "What makes you here?
The gloom upon your youthful cheek speaks anything but joy,"
Again I said, "What makes you here, you little vulgar Boy?"

He frowned, that little vulgar Boy-he deem'd I meant to scoff

"

And when the little heart is big, a little "sets it off;' 3
He put his finger in his mouth, his little bosom rose—
He had no little handkerchief to wipe his little nose.

"Hark! don't you hear, my little man?-it's striking Nine," I said,

"An hour when all good little boys and girls should be in bed.

Run home and get your supper, else your Ma' will scoldOh! fie!

It's very wrong indeed for little boys to stand and cry!”

The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,
His bosom throbb'd with agony-he cried like anything!
I stoop'd, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him murmur-
"Ah!

I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no Ma! !—

My father, he is on the seas-my mother's dead and gone! And I am here, on this here pier, to roam the world alone; I have not had, this live-long day, one drop to cheer my heart, Not even 'brown' to buy a bit of bread with-let alone a tart.

"If there's a soul will give me food, or find me in employ, By day or night, as I'm a sight," (he was a vulgar Boy;) "And now I'm here, from this here pier it is my fixed intent To jump, as Mister Levi did, from off the Monument!"

"Cheer up! cheer up! my little man-cheer up!" I kindly said, "You are a naughty boy to take such things into your head: If you should jump from off the pier, you'd surely break your legs,

Perhaps your neck--then Bogey'ud have you, sure as eggs are eggs!

Come home with me, my little man, come home with me and

sup;

My landlady is Mrs. Jones-we must not keep her up— There's roast potatoes at the fire-enough for me and youCome home, you little vulgar Boy-I lodge at Number 2."

I took him home to Number 2, the house beside "The Foy," I bade him wipe his dirty shoes—that little vulgar Boy— And then I said to Mistress Jones, the kindest of her sex, Pray be so good as go and fetch a pint of double X!"

But Mrs. Jones was rather cross, she made a little noise,
She said she "did not like to wait on little vulgar boys."
She with her apron wiped the plates, and, as she rubb'd the
delf,

Said I might "go to Jericho, and fetch my beer myself!"

I did not go to Jericho I went to get the beer,

I changed a shilling-but that's neither there nor here!
It was not so much for my myself as for that vulgar child-
And I said "A pint of double X, and please to draw it
mild!"-

When I came back I gazed about-I gazed on stool and chair

I could not see my little friend-because he was not there!
I peep'd beneath the table-cloth--beneath the sofa too—
I said, "You little vulgar Boy! why what's become of you?"

I could not see my table-spoons-I look'd, but could not see
The little fiddle-pattern'd ones I use when I'm at tea;

-I could not see my sugar-tongs-my silver watch-oh, dear! I know 'twas on the mantel-piece when I went out for beer.

I could not see my waterproof-it was not to be seen!Nor yet my best white beaver hat, broad-brimm'd and lined with green;

My carpet-bag-my cruet-stand, that holds my sauce and

soy

My roast potatoes!-ALL ARE GONE!-and so's that VULGAR Boy!

I rang the bell for Mrs. Jones, for she was down below,

Oh, Mrs. Jones! what do you think? ain't this a pretty go?

-That horrid little vulgar Boy whom I brought here tonight,

-He's stolen my things and run away! !"-Says she, “ AND SARVE YOU RIGHT!!"

-Ingoldsby.

"THE MERCHANT OF VENICE."

The DUKE, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SOLANIO,
SHYLOCK, PORTIA.

Duke. WHAT, is Antonio here?

Ant. Ready, so please your grace.

Duke. I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch

Uncapable of pity, void and empty

From any dram of mercy.

Ant.

I have heard

Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify

His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate,
And that no lawful means can carry me

Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose

My patience to his fury; and am armed
To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,

The very tyranny and rage of his.

Duke. Go one, and call the Jew into the court.
Solan. He's ready at the door; he comes, my lord.

'Enter SHYLOCK.

Duke. Make room, and let him stand before our face
Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
To the last hour of act: and then, 'tis thought