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its most ardent admirer. The mellow verdure of the meadows, intermingled here and there with the sombre appearance of ploughed land, the cattle reclining in the shade, the cottage of the rustic peeping from behind the screen of a luxuriant hedge, formed a tout-ensemble which every eye must admire, but which few pens can describe. “A delightful landscape!” said Charles ; “ A rich soil,” said Jonathan. “ What scope for description !" cried the first; “ What scope for improvement!” returned the second.

As we returned, we passed the cottage of the peasant, whom we had seen at his plough in the morning. The family were busily engaged in their several domestic occupations. One little chubby-faced rogue was conducting Dobbin to his stable, another was helping his sister to coop up the poultry, and a third was incarcerating the swine, who made a vigorous resistance against their youthful antagonist. “ Tender !” cried Rhyme ;-he was listening to the nightingale. Very tender !” replied Reason ;he was looking at the pigs.

As we drew near home, we met an old gentleman walking with his daughter, between whom and Charles a reciprocal attachment was said to exist. The lateness of the evening prevented much conversation, but the few words which were spoken again brought into contrast the opposite tempers of my friends. fine evening, Madam," said the man of sense, and bowed;~"I shall see you to-morrow, Mary!” said the lover, and pressed her hand. We looked back upon her as she left us. After a pause, “ She is an angel!” sighed Charles ;“ She is an heiress," observed Jonathan. “She has ten thuosand perfections !” cried Rhyme ;-“She has ten thousand pounds,” said Reason.

We left them the next morning, and spent some days in speculations on the causes which enabled such union of affections to exist with such diversities of taste. For ourselves, we must confess, that while Reason has secured our esteem, Rhyme has run away with our hearts ; we have sometimes thought with Jonathan, but we have always felt with Charles.

P.C.

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The eve of Battle.

“ It is not yet near day. Come, go with me

Under our tents. I'll play the eaves-dropper."-SAAKSPEARE.

The night comes on, and o'er the field
The moon shines bright on helm and shield;
But there are many on that plain,
That shall not see her light again :
She looks serene on countless bands
Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands;
And shows a thousand faces there,
Of courage high, and dark despair ;
All mingled as the legions lie,
Wrapt in their dreams of Victory.
A lowering sound, of doubt and fear,
Breaks sudden on the startled ear,
And hands are clench’d, and cheeks are pale,
And from bright blade and ringing mail
A thousand hands, with busy toil,
Clean off each ancient stain or soil ;
Or spots of blood, where truth may read
For every drop a guilty deed.

Survey the crowds, who there await,
In various mood, the shock of fate;
Who burn to meet, or strive to shun,
The dangers of to-morrow's sun.
Look on the husband's anxious tears,
The hero's hopes, the coward's fears,
The vices that e'en here are found,
The follies that are hovering round;
And learn, that (treat it as you will)
Our life must be a mockery still.
Alas! the same caprices reign,
In courtly hall, or tented plain;
And the same follies are reveal’d,
In ball-room, and in battle-field.

Turn to yon open tent, and see
Where, drunk with youth and Burgundy,
Reclines, his midnight revel o'er,
The beau of battle, Theodore.-

Before him, on his desk, he lays
The billet-doux of other days;
And while he reads, his fancy lingers
On those white hands and witching fingers,
That traced the darling signatures-
The “ yours till death” and “ truly yours :”—
And, as by turns they meet his eye,
He looks, and laughs, and throws them by,
Until perchance some magic name
Lights up a spark of former flame;
And then he ponders, in his trance,
On Mary's love-inspiring glance,
On Chloe's eye of glittering fire,
And Laura's look of fond desire.
Poor Theodore ! if valiant breast,
And open heart, and song, and jest,
And laughing lip, and auburn hair,
And vow sent up by lady fair,
Can save a youthful warrior's life,-
Thou fall'st not in to-morrow's strife.

Look yonder-on the dewy sward
Tom Wittol lies—a brother bard;
He lies, and ponders on the stars,
On virtue, genius, and the wars;
On dark ravines, and woody dells,
On mirth and muses, shot and shells;
On black mustachios, and White Surrey,
On rhyme and sabres-death and Murray;
Until at last his fancy glows,
As if it felt to-morrow's blows;
Anticipation fires his brain,
With fights unfought, unslaughter'd slain ;
And on the fray that—is to be,
Comes forth a Dirge or Elegy
And if he meets no heavier harm
To-morrow from a foeman's arm,
Than crack'd cuirass, or broken head,
He'll hasten from his fever's bed,
And, just broke loose from salve and lint,
Rush, like a hero, into print;
Heading his light and harmless prattle-
“ Lines—written on a field of battle.”
Thou favour'd bard—go boldly on,-
The Muse shall guard her darling son;

:

And when the musquet's steady aim
Is levell’d at the pet of fame,
The Muse shall check the impious crime,
And shield thee with a ream of rhyme ;-
But if 'tis doom'd, and fall thou must,
Since bards, like other men, are dust,
Upon the tomb where thou shalt sleep,
Phæbus and Mars alike shall

weep; And he that lov'd, but could not save, Shall write “ Hic jacet” o'er thy grave.

What wight is that, whose distant nose Gives token loud of deep repose ? What! honest Harry on the ground! I'faith thy sleep is wond'rous sound, For one who looks, upon his waking, To sleep “ the sleep that knows not breaking.” But rest thee, rest! thou merriest soul That ever lov'd the circling bowl ; I look upon his empty cup, And sudden tears uncall’d spring up; Perchance, in this abode of pother, Kind Harry may not drain another. But still our Comrades at the Bell Of Harry's prowess long shall tell ; And dignify with well-earn'd praise The revelry of other days. And then the merry tale will run On many a wager lost and won, On many a jest, and many a song, And many a peal of laughter long, That from our jovial circle broke At Harry's toast or Harry's joke. Again, at Fancy's touch restor'd, Our old sirloin shall grace the board ; Again at Fancy's touch shall flow The tap we drain’d an age ago, And thou, the soul of fun, the life Of noisy mirth and playful strife, May'st sleep in honour's worm-worn bed The dreamless slumber of the dead. But oft shall one sad heart at least Think on the smile, that never ceas'd Its catching influence, till the earth Clos'd o'er the lips that gave it birth.

I'll pour upon thy tranquil rest
The hallow'd bowl of Meux's best;
And recollect, with smile and sigh,
Thy“ beer with E, and bier with I."*

Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see +
Two glorious Suns of Chancery?
The pride of Law appears the first,
And next, the pride of Moulsey Hurst.
Faithless and feelless, from the bar
Tim Quill is come to practise war :
Without a rival in the ring,
Brown Harry "peels" for Church and King.
Thus ever to your country's fights
Together go, ye kindred knights!
Congenial arts ye aye pursued;

Daylightye studied to exclude ;
And both of old were known to Crib,
And both were very apt to fib.
Together go; no foe shall stand
The vengeance of our country's brand,
When on his ranks together spring
Cross-buttocks—and Cross-questioning.

Sir Jacob arming! what despair
Has snatch'd him from his elbow-chair?
And hurried from his good old wine
The bachelor of fifty-nine ?
What mighty cause has torn him thus
Unwilling from “ suburban rus,"
Bade him desert his one-horse chaise,
His old companions and “ old ways ;'
Give up his Baccalaurean tattle,
And quit the bottle--for the battle?
Has he forgot, in martial ardour,
His wig, his teapot, and his larder ?
Has he forgot-ungrateful Sub.
Champagne, backgammon, and—the club?
Has he forgot his native earth,
His sofa, and his decent hearth?
Has he forgot his homely fare,

And her, the maid with yellow hair, * Suum cuique :“So that day I still hail with a smile and a sigh, For his beer with an E, and his bier with an I."'-CANNING. + " Edw. Dazzle mine eyes? or do I see three suns ! Rich. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sün."-SHAKSPEARE.

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