A very young flounder, the flattest of flats, (And they're none of them thicker than opera hats,) Was speaking more freely than charity taught

Of a friend and relation that just had been caught.

66

My! what an exposure! just see what a sight! I blush for my race, he is showing his white! Such spinning and wriggling, why, what does

he wish?

shoes;

Your brown side is up, - but just wait till you're

tried

And you'll find that all flounders are white on one

There's a slice near the PICKEREL'S pectoral fins, Where the thorax leaves off and the venter begins; Which his brother, survivor of fish-hooks and lines, Though fond of his family, never declines.

He loves his relations; he feels they 'll be missed;
But that one little titbit he cannot resist ;
So your bait may be swallowed, no matter how fast,
For you catch your next fish with a piece of the last.

And thus, O survivor, whose merciless fate
Is to take the next hook with the president's bait,
You are lost while you snatch from the end of his line
The morsel he rent from this bosom of mine!

SONG,

FOR A TEMPERANCE DINNER TO WHICH LADIES WERE INVITED (NEW YORK MERCANTILE LIBRARY ASSOCIATION, NOV. 1842).

HEALTH to dear woman! She bids us untwine,

From the cup it encircles, the fast-clinging vine;

But her cheek in its crystal with pleasure will glow, And mirror its bloom in the bright wave below.

A health to sweet woman! The days are no more When she watched for her lord till the revel was o'er, And smoothed the white pillow, and blushed when he came,

As she pressed her cold lips on his forehead of flame.

Alas for the loved one! too spotless and fair
The joys of his banquet to chasten and share;
Her eye lost its light that his goblet might shine,
And the rose of her cheek was dissolved in his wine.

Joy smiles in the fountain, health flows in the rills, As their ribbons of silver unwind from the hills; They breathe not the mist of the bacchanal's dream, But the lilies of innocence float on their stream.

Then a health and a welcome to woman once more!
She brings us a passport that laughs at our door;
It is written on crimson, its letters are pearls,
It is countersigned Nature. So, room for the

Girls!

THE ONLY DAUGHTER.

ILLUSTRATION OF A PICTURE.

HEY bid me strike the idle strings,
As if my summer days

Had shaken sunbeams from their wings

To warm my autumn lays;

They bring to me their painted urn,

As if it were not time

To lift my gauntlet and to spurn
The lists of boyish rhyme;
And, were it not that I have still
Some weakness in my heart
That clings around my stronger will
And pleads for gentler art,
Perchance I had not turned away

The thoughts grown tame with toil,
To cheat this lone and pallid ray,
That wastes the midnight oil.

Alas! with every year I feel

Some roses leave my brow;
Too young for wisdom's tardy seal,
Too old for garlands now;
Yet, while the dewy breath of spring
Steals o'er the tingling air,

And spreads and fans each emerald wing
The forest soon shall wear,

How bright the opening year would seem,
Had I one look like thine,

To meet me when the morning beam
Unseals these lids of mine!

Too long I bear this lonely lot,
That bids my heart run wild
To press the lips that love me not,
To clasp the stranger's child.

How oft beyond the dashing seas,
Amidst those royal bowers,
Where danced the lilacs in the breeze,
And swung the chestnut-flowers,
I wandered like a wearied slave

Whose morning task is done,
To watch the little hands that gave
Their whiteness to the sun;
To revel in the bright young eyes,
Whose lustre sparkled through
The sable fringe of Southern skies
Or gleamed in Saxon blue!
How oft I heard another's name
Called in some truant's tone;
Sweet accents! which I longed to claim,
To learn and lisp my own!

Too soon the gentle hands, that pressed
The ringlets of the child,

Are folded on the faithful breast

Where first he breathed and smiled;
Too oft the clinging arms untwine,
The melting lips forget,

And darkness veils the bridal shrine
Where wreaths and torches met;
If Heaven but leaves a single thread
Of Hope's dissolving chain,

Even when her parting plumes are spread, It bids them fold again;

The cradle rocks beside the tomb;
The cheek now changed and chill
Smiles on us in the morning bloom
Of one that loves us still.

Sweet image! I have done thee wrong

To claim this destined lay;
The leaf that asked an idle song

Must bear my tears away.

Yet, in thy memory shouldst thou keep
This else forgotten strain,

Till years have taught thine eyes to weep,
And flattery's voice is vain;

O then, thou fledgling of the nest,
Like the long-wandering dove,
Thy weary heart may faint for rest,
As mine, on changeless love;
And while these sculptured lines retrace

The hours now dancing by,
This vision of thy girlish grace
May cost thee, too, a sigh.

LEXINGTON.

LOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping,

Bright on the dewy buds glistened the

sun,

When from his couch, while his children were

sleeping,

Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun.