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Go where I will, to me thou art the sameA loved regret which I would not resign. There yet are two things in my destiny, A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

II.

The first were nothing-had I still the last
It were the haven of my happiness;
But other claims and other ties thou hast,
And mine is not the wish to make them less.
A strange doom is thy father's son's, and past
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress;
Reversed for him our grandsire's fate of

yore,

He had no rest at sea, nor I on shore.

III.

If my inheritance of storms hath been
In other elements, and on the rocks
Of perils, overlook'd or unforeseen,

I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks,
The fault was mine; nor do I seek to screen
My errors with defensive paradox;

I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe.

IV.

Mine were my faults, and mine be their re

ward.

My whole life was a contest since the day That gave me being, gave me that which

marr'd

The gift,-a fate, or will, that walk'd astray;
And I at times have found the struggle hard,
And thought of shaking off my bonds of clay;
But now I fain would for a time survive,
If but to see what next can well arrive.
V.

Kingdoms and empires in my little day
I have outlived, and yet I am not old;
And when I look on this the petty spray
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away:
Something I know not what-does still up-

hold

A spirit of slight patience ;-not in vain, Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain.

VI.

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir
Within me, or perhaps a cold despair,
Brought on when ills habitually recur,-
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air,
(For even to this may change of soul refer,
And with light armour we may learn to bear.)
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was

not

The chief companion of a calmer lot.

Admiral Byron was remarkable for never making a voyage without a tempest. He was known to the sailors by the facetious name of "Foul-weather Jack." "But though it were tempest-tost, Still his bark could not be lost." He returned safely from the wreck of the Wager, (in Anson's voyage,) and subsequently circumnavigated the world, many years after as commander of a similar expedition.

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RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM was born at Canter- | bury, December 6, 1788. He was educated at Oxford, and studied law. But afterward he devoted himself to theology, took orders, and was settled at Ashford in Kent, afterward at Westwell. He had inherited a small estate from his father, and married in 1814. He became successively rector of Snargate, canon of St. Paul's, rector of St. Mary Magdalene and St. Gregory by St. Paul, London, and president of Sion College. In 1802 his right arm was shattered by the overturning of a mail-coach, and a dozen years later he was thrown from a gig and had his leg broken. While he was laid up by this

INGOLDSBY LEGENDS.

A LEGEND OF A SHIRT.

I SING of a Shirt that never was new!

accident, he wrote "Baldwin," a novel, and af terward "My Cousin Nicholas," also a novel. From this time he was a frequent contributor to periodicals, of both prose and verse, but always anonymously. In 1837 he began the "Ingoldsby Legends" in Bentley's Miscellany, under the nom de plume of Thomas Ingoldsby, which attracted wide attention. He was intimate with Sydney Smith and Theodore Hook, was a good diner-out, and told a story capitally, but always attended faithfully to his clerical duties. He died on June 17, 1845. A complete edition of the "Ingoldsby Legends,” with a memoir by his son, was published in three volumes in 1847.

To her grief and dismay She discovered one day Cornet Jones of the Tenth was a little too gay; For, besides that she saw him-he could not

say nay

In the course of the year Eighteen hundred and Wink at one of the actresses capering away

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In a Spanish bolero, one night at the play,
She found he'd already a wife at Cambray;
One at Paris-a nymph of the corp de ballet;
And a third down in Kent, at a place called Foot's
Cray.

He was "viler than dirt!"
Fanny vowed to exert

All her powers to forget him—and finish my
Shirt.

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"I care not a whit, He's not grown a bit," Says my aunt; "it will still be a very good fit." So Janet and She,

Now about thirty-three, (The maid had been jilted by Mr. Magee,) Each taking one end of the Shirt" on her knee,

Again began working with hearty good-will, Felling the seams," and "whipping the frill," For twenty years since, though the ruffle had vanished,

A frill like a fan had by no means been banished; People wore them at playhouses, parties, and churches,

Like overgrown fins of overgrown perches.

Now, then, by these two thus laying their caps Together, my "Shirt" had been finished, perhaps,

But for one of those queer little three-cornered straps,

Which the ladies call "Side-bits," that sever the 'Flaps; "

Here unlucky Janet

Took her needle and ran it

Right into her thumb, and cried loudly, "Ads cuss it!

I've spoiled myself now by that 'ere nasty Gusset!"

For a month to come

Poor dear Janet's thumb

The button-holes now were at length" overcast."
Then a button itself was sewn on-'twas the last!
All's done!

All's won!

Never under the sun

Was Shirt so late finished, so early begun!
The work would defy

The most critical eye.

It was "bleached"-it was washed-it was
hung out to dry-

It was marked on the tail with a T, and an I!
On the back of a chair it
Was placed-just to air it,

In front of the fire. - "Tom to-morrow shall
wear it!"

Was in that sort of state vulgar people call O cæca mens hominum !-Fanny, good soul,

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Left her charge for one moment--but one--a

vile coal

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The tear-drop in his little eye again began to spring,

His bosom throbbed with agony-he cried like anything!

I stooped, and thus amidst his sobs I heard him
murmur-"Ah!

I haven't got no supper! and I haven't got no
Ma!"-

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