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Churchill. Hail, Independence !-by true reason taught, How few have known and priz'd thee as they ought ! Some give thee up for riot; some, like boys, Resign thee in their childish moods for toys; Ambition some, some avarice, misleads, And in both cases Independence bleeds. Abroad in quest of thee how many roam, Nor know they had thee in their reach at home! Some, though about their paths, their beds about, Have never had the sense to find thee out : Others, who know of what they are possest, Like fearful misers lock thee in a chest, Nor have the resolution to produce In these bad times, and bring thee forth for use. Hail, Independence !—though thy name's scarce known, Though thou, alas ! art out of fashion grown, Though all depise thee, I will not despise, Nor live one moment longer than I prize Thy presence, and enjoy. By angry Fate

, Bow'd down, and almost crush'd, thou cam’st though late, Thou cam'st upon me like a second birth, And made me know what life was truly worth. Hail, Independence ! never may my cot, Till I forget thee, be by thee forgot.


Sir Qualter Scott.
PALE Brussels ! then what thoughts were thine,
When ceaseless from the distant line

Continued thunders came !
Each burgher held his breath, to hear
These forerunners of havoc near,

Of rapine and of flame.
What ghastly sights were thine to meet,
When rolling through thy stately street,
The wounded show'd their mangled plight
In token of the unfinish'd fight;
And from each anguish-laden wain,
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain !
How often in the distant drum,
Heard'st thou the fell invader come,
While ruin shouting to his band,
Shook high her torch and gory



Cheer thee fair city! From yon stand,
Impatient Bonaparte's stretched hand

Points to his prey in vain;
While maddening in his eager mood,
And all unwont to be withstood

He fires the fight again.
“ On! On!” was still his stern exclaim,
Confront the battery's jaws of flame !

Rush on the levell’d gun.-
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance !
Each Hulan, forward with his lance !
My guard, my chosen, charge for France !

France and Napoleon !”
Loud answer'd their acclaiming shout,
Greeting the mandate, which sent out
Their bravest and their best, to dare
The fate their leader shunn'd to share.
But he, his country's sword and shield,
Great Wellington, ne'er known to yield,
Still in the battle-front revealed,

Came like a beam of light; In action prompt, in sentence brief, “Soldiers stand firm,” exclaim'd the chief,

England shall tell the fight!” On came the whirlwind-like the last, But fiercest sweep of tempest blast On came the whirlwind-steel gleams broke Like lightning through the rolling smoke,

The war was waked anew; Beneath their fire in full career, Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier ; The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear, And hurrying as to havoc near, The Cohorts' eagles flew. In one dark torrent broad and strong, The advancing onset roll'd along ; For harbinger'd by fierce acclaim, That from the shroud of smoke and flame, Peal'd wildly the imperial name. But, on the British heart, were lost The terror of the charging host, For not an eye, the storm that view'd, Changed its proud glance of fortitude; Nor was one forward footstep staid As dropp'd the dying and the dead. Fast as their ranks the thunder tear, Fast they renew'd each serried square ; And on the wounded and the slain, Closed their diminish'd files again ;

Till from their line, scarce spears' length three,
Emerging from the smoke they see
Helmet, and plume, and panoply.

Then waked their fire at once ;
Each musketeer's revolving knell
As fast, as regularly fell,
As when they practice to display
Their discipline on festal day;

Then down went spear and lance ;
Down were the Eagle's banners sent,
Down reeling steeds and riders went,
Corslets were pierced and pennons rent;

And to augment the fray,
Wheel'd full against their staggering flanks,
The English horsemen's foaming ranks

Forced their resistless way.
Then to the musket knell succeeds
The clash of swords, the neigh of steeds.
As plies the smith his clanging trade,
Against the cuirass rang the blade.
And while amid their close array
The well-serv'd cannon rent their way ;
And while amid their scattered band
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand,
Recoiled in common rout and fear,
Lancer and guard and cuirassier ;
Horsemen and foot a mingled host,
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost.


“ Seven's the main.”—Crockford.

Hood. Of all the agitations of the time and agitation is useful in disturbing the duckweed that is apt to gather on the surface of human affairs—the ferment of the assistant shopmen in the metropolis is perhaps the most beneficial. Many vital queries have lately disturbed the public mind; for instance, ought the fleet of the Thames Yacht Club to be reinforced, in the event of a war with Russia, or should the Little Pedlington Yeomanry be called out, in case of a rupture with Prussia ? But these are merely national questions; whereas the Drapers' movement suggests an inquiry of paramount importance to mankind in generalnamely, “When ought we to leave off ?”

It is the standard complaint against jokers, and whist-players, and children, whether playing or crying—that they never know when to leave off.”

It is the common charge against English winters and flannel waist


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coats-it is occasionally hinted of rich and elderly relations--it is constantly said of snuff-takers, and gentlemen who enjoy a glass of good wine—that they do not know when to leave off."

It is the fault oftenest found with certain preachers, sundry poets, and all prosers, scolds, parliamentary orators, superannuated story-tellers, she-gossips, morning callers, and some leave-takers, that they “ do not kuow when to leave off.” It is insinuated as to gowns and coats, of which waiting-men and waiting-women have the reversion.

It is the characteristic of a 'Change Alley speculator-of a beaten boxer—of a builder's row, with his own name to it—of Hollando-Belgic protocols—of German metaphysics--of works in numbers—of buyers and sellers on credit—of a theatrical cadence—of a shocking bad hatand of the Gentleman's Magazine, that they “ do not know when to leave off.”

A romp-all Murphy's frosts, showers, storms and hurricanes—and the Wandering Jew, are in the same predicament.

As regards the Assistant Drapers, they appear to have arrived at a very general conclusion, that their proper period for leaving off is at or about seven o'clock in the evening; and it seems by the following poetical address that they have rhyme, as well as reason, to offer in support of their resolution.


Pity the sorrows of a class of men,

Who, though they bow to fashion and frivolity;
No fancied claims or woes fictitious pen,

But wrongs ell-wide, and of a lasting quality.
Oppress’d and discontented with our lot,

Amongst the clamorous we take our station;
A host of Ribbon Men—yet is there not

One piece of Irish in our agitation.
We do revere Her Majesty the Queen,

We venerate our Glorious Constitution ;
We joy King William's advent should have been,

And only want a Counter revolution.

By Tax or Tithe our murmurs are not drawn ;

We reverence the Church—but hang the cloth!
We love her ministers—but curse the lawn !

We have, alas! too much to do with both !
We love the sex: to serve them is a bliss !

We trust they find us civil, never surly ;
All that we hope of female friends is this,

That their last linen may be wanted early.
Ah! who can tell the miseries of men

That serve the very cheapest shops in town?
Till faint and weary, they leave off at ten,

Knock'd up by ladies beating of 'em down!

But has not Hamlet his opinion given

O Hamlet had a heart for Drapers' servants ! “ That custom is” say custom after seven

More honour'd in the breach than the observance."

O come then, gentle ladies, come in time,

O’erwhelm our counters, and unload our shelves ! Torment us all until the seventh chime,

But let us have the remnant to ourselves !

We wish of knowledge to lay in a stock,

And not remain in ignorance incurable ;
To study Shakspeare, Milton, Dryden, Locke,

And other fabrics that have proved so durable.
We long for thoughts of intellectual kind,

And not to go bewilder'd to our beds ; With stuff and fustian taking up the mind,

And pins and needles running in our heads ! For oh! the brain gets very dull and dry,

Selling from morn till night for cash or credit; Or with a vacant face and vacant eye,

Watching cheap prints that Knight did never edit. Till sick with toil, and lassitude extreme,

We often think, when we are dull and vapoury, The bliss of Paradise was so supreme,

Because that Adam did not deal in drapery.


Richardson. The foe has fled the fearful strife has ceased And shouts arose of mockery and joy, As the loud trumpet's wild exulting voice Proclaimed the victory! With weary tread, But spirit undepress'd, the victors passed On to the neighbouring citadel, nor deemed, Nor recked they, in that moment's pride, of aught But glory won. Or if a transient thought Recalled the fallen brave, 'twas like the cloud That flits o'er summer's brow—a passing shade! Yet on the battle-plain how many lay In their last dreamless sleep! And there were those Who vainly struggled in the mighty grasp Of that stern conqueror-Death. The fitful throes Of parting life, at intervals, would ring, E'en from the proudest heart, the piercing cry


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