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Still as they forward pulled the boat along,
Still onward danced the bark trimmed out so gay,
Now social conversation 'gan to roll
Among my heroes, puns and wit went round; They seemed quite happy-"'twas the flow of soul And feast of reason' 'gan now to abound.
Says one, "My vig! I vish a rope vas tied
And thus the charms of nature they pass by,
Nor heeds the hook that's fastened to the thong.
For hark! a voice comes thundering from the bows,
"To row a bit, the steam boat is a-head,
But cruel Fate anticipated that.
For, ere the unlucky steersman turned the helm,
Which sent them to the bottom of the Thames,
Oh! "seeing what I've seen and what I see!"
On board the dire machine which caused this rout; Some run and call, and some they faint away, Whilst others help to pull the cocknies out. Their cause humane at length they do achieve, And nearly drowning pull the cocknies out; But that they're dead the most of them believe, 'Till some one kindly pulls them by the snout. They now with shame and indignation burn, And curse each other for the unlucky blow, Which prematurely causes their return,
In such a dripping state, to Mary Bow.
"And ah!" says one, "if it hadn't been for you,
At length the unlucky steam boat reached Queenhithe,
The sad adventure of their joyless day. Paul Street, Bath,
Aug. 16, 1818.
W. F. B
A LOVER'S HEART.
A LOVER'S heart hangs on a sigh,
THE WOODMAN TO THE ROBIN REDBREAST.
O COME, thou sweetest warbler here!
Though poor and humble is my fare,
Here, far from worldly strife and care,
Why still look round with eye so keen?
O fly from yonder drifting snow,
When spring once more adorns the land,
Then, with thy rosy-bosomed band,
In joyous freedom live.
Then build again thy mossy nest
Where safe thy chirping brood may rest,
But when thou seest thy toiling friend,
SARAH MARIA H.
J. Arliss, Printer, London.
FOR THE POCKET MAGAZINE.
ROSALBA, A SICILIAN TALE.
From the French of Chev. de Florian.
SINCE that it has become the custom in our France to philosophise, and for every one to meddle with reasoning, and to disbelieve all that cannot be proved to be true, magic and many other things have fallen greatly in estimation. Charms, philtres, and enchantments, so celebrated of old, and so dreaded by our ancestors, have nearly lost all their credit. The gipsies who tell fortunes, and the dealers in spells, are ridiculed; no one visits now the old women who predict from the cards; and even those more skilful practitioners, who read the future in the white of an egg or the grounds of coffee, are contemptuously laughed at.Others may laugh; for my part I do not. Without bringing forward here a crowd of histories, which are attested by a thousand witnesses, I every day see events happen which prove to me the truth of magic. For example, when two lovers, whom absence, persecution, and obstacles of all kinds, have served but to render more dear to each other, have at length, by their continued constancy, succeeded in tying the hymeneal knot, and then, all at once, mutually disgusted, they become unfaithful at the very moment when fidelity is a duty, will any one say that there is nothing of magic in the case? When a broken-hearted widow, ready to VOL. II. No. V.
die of grief on the tomb of her husband, and who makes her friends fear that her despair will at last wholly deprive her of her senses, is in a moment restored to reason by the sight of a handsome young man, and that, drying up the tears in which she was drowned, she puts into the hands of her consoler, her fortune, of which he takes good care, and her happiness, about which he cares nothing, is it not evident that this must be the effect of some magical potion? There can be no doubt of it; and a hundred similar instances may be cited in support of my assertion. Besides, Spain, Italy, and Sicily, still have a tribunal whose business it is severely to punish magicians; an additional proof that their art is not so chimerical as some would induce us to believe. A judgment, too, may be formed upon this head, from the following very true anecdote, which I had from those who were eye witnesses of the fact.
Rosalba was born at Palermo, of an illustrious and powerful family. Fortune did much for her; nature did still more. From her infancy, her growing beauty, her grace, her sweetness, her sense, made her the idol of a father, of whom she was the only child. The most careful education, the most able masters, unfolded the talents which heaven had bestowed upon Rosalba. At the age of fourteen she already eclipsed all the Sicilian beauties; she understood and spoke the language of Racine, that of Pope, that of Cervantes, and even somewhat of that of Gessner; she made verses which she showed only to her father, but which would have delighted others than her father; she sung the airs of Leo, with a voice more affecting than that of the famous Faustina; and when she accompanied herself on the harp, the cardinals and prelates who had the best taste in music unanimously agreed that Rosalba could not be surpassed by the angels of heaven.
To so many charms, and so many accomplishments, Rosalba joined a fortune of a hundred thousand ducats a year. It may easily be believed that she was sought after by the first nobles of Sicily. The old Count de Scanzano, her father, wise enough to know that a splendid marriage is not always a happy one, took especial care not to look merely to the titles and riches of those who aspired to the hand of his daughter. He