"I cannot smile, the tide of scorn, That rolled through every bleeding vein, Comes kindling fiercer as it flows "Again in every quivering leaf That moment's agony I feel, When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. "A curse upon the wretch who dared Lie like a bullet in his maw. "In every julep that he drinks, May gout, and bile, and headache be; And when he strives to calm his pain, May colic mingle with his tea. "May nightshade cluster round his path, And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; May blistering ivy scorch his veins, And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. "On him may never shadow fall, When fever racks his throbbing brow, And his last shilling buy a rope To hang him on my highest bough!” the morning's herald beam Sprang from the bosom of the sea, And every mangled sprite returned In sadness to her wounded tree.1 She spoke ; THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR. There was a rush along the aisles, — And on, like Ocean's midnight wave, He was a dark and swarthy man, A faded coat of bottle-green Was buttoned round his breast. There was not one among them all Could say from whence he came ; Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man, Could tell that stranger's name. All silent as the sheeted dead, In spite of sneer and frown, From out the tutor's eyes; The stranger did not rise! A murmur broke along the crowd, Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair, The long procession poured, Till all were gathered on the seats Around the Commons board. That fearful stranger! down he sat, THERE was a sound of hurrying feet, And on his lip a rising smile A tramp on echoing stairs, 1 A little poem, on a similar occasion, may be found in the works of Swift, from which, perhaps, the idea was borrowed; although I Of scorn or pleasure played. He took his hat and hung it up, With slow but earnest air; was as much surprised as amused to meet with He stripped his coat from off his back, it some time after writing the preceding lines. And placed it on a chair. Then clouds were dark on many a brow, And the blue-eyed violet starts aside; Fear sat upon their souls, And, in a bitter agony, They clasped their buttered rolls. But the lily may flaunt, and the tulip stare, For what does the honest toadstool care? A whisper trembled through the She does not glow in a painted vest, crowd, Who could the stranger be? And some were silent, for they thought A cannibal was he. What if the creature should arise, For he was stout and tall, And swallow down a sophomore, Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all! All sullenly the stranger rose; They sat in mute despair; He took his hat from off the peg, His coat from off the chair. Four freshmen fainted on the seat, There is full many a starving man, And she never blooms on the maiden's breast; But she comes, as the saintly sisters do, In a modest suit of a Quaker hue. And, when the stars in the evening skies Are weeping dew from their gentle eyes, The toad comes out from his hermit cell, The tale of his faithful love to tell. O there is light in her lover's glance, That flies to her heart like a silver lance; His breeches are made of spotted skin, His jacket is tight, and his pumps are thin; In a cloudless night you may hear his song, As its pensive melody floats along, fair, The trembling form of the toad is there. And he twines his arms round her slen der stem, In the shade of her velvet diadem; But she turns away in her maiden shame, | It was the savage butcher then, And will not breathe on the kindling flame; He sings at her feet through the live long night, That made a mock of sin, And swore a very wicked oath, He did not care a pin. And creeps to his cave at the break of It was the butcher's youngest son, light; And whenever he comes to the air above, His throat is swelling with baffled love. THE SPECTRE PIG. A BALLAD. IT was the stalwart butcher man, That knit his swarthy brow, And said the gentle Pig must die, And sealed it with a vow. And oh! it was the gentle Pig Lay stretched upon the ground, And ah! it was the cruel knife His little heart that found. They took him then, those wicked men, And round and round an oaken beam Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man, For if his sprite should walk by night, It better were for thee, That thou wert mouldering in the ground, Or bleaching in the sea. His voice was broke with sighs, And with his pocket-handkerchief He wiped his little eyes; The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath Fast fled the darkness of the night, heard; Thou wast the victor, and all nature shrunk Before the thunders of thine awfu wrath ; The steel-armed hunter viewed thee | The Rose is cooling his burning cheek from afar, In the lap of the breathless tide; Fearless and trackless in thy lonely The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair, path! That would lie by the Rose's side; The famished tiger closed his flaming He would love her better than all the rest, eye, And he would be fond and true;· And crouched and panted as thy step But the Lily unfolded her weary lids, went by ! Thou art the vanquished, and insulting man Bars thy broad bosom as a sparrow's wing; And looked at the sky so blue. Remember, remember, thou silly one, His nerveless arms thine iron sinews "O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold, bind, And lead in chains the desert's fallen king; Are these the beings that have dared to twine 66 And he lives on earth," said she; "But the Star is fair and he lives in the air, And he shall my bridegroom be." Their feeble threads around those limbs But what if the stormy cloud should of thine ? So must it be; the weaker, wiser race, the sea, Even in the stillness of thy solitude thee; And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child! THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY. THE sun stepped down from his golden And lay in the silent sea, Why crisp the waters blue? |