and to every of them, greeting." Here he paused to shout and wave his cap, while the herald, who had followed them to humor the joke, raised his embroidered trumpet to his lips, and blew a blast so loud and shrill, that the very rafters shook with it. To this clamor Og added his stunning laughter, while his brethren, who were leaning over a screen behind, and highly diverted with the incident, joined in a lusty chorus. Almost deafened by the noise, Dame Trusbut, by way of putting an end to it, raised her own voice to its utmost pitch, and threatened to turn Xit, whom she looked upon as the principal cause of the disturbance, out of the house. Unfortunately, in her anger, she forgot that she was engaged in dressing the prisoner's wounds, and while her left hand was shaken menacingly at the dwarf, her right convulsively grasped the poor fellow's head, occasioning him such exquisite pain, that he added his outcries to the general uproar. The more Dame Trusbut scolded, the more Og and his brethren laughed, and the louder the herald blew his trumpet-so that it seemed as if there was no likelihood of tranquillity being speedily restored-nor, in all probability would it have been so without the ejectment of the dwarf, had it not been for the interference of Ribald, who at length, partly by cajolery, and partly by coercion, succeeded in pacifying the angry dame. During this tumult, the two mysterious personages, who, it has been stated, had planted themselves at the doorway, approached the young couple unobserved, and one of them, after narrowly observing the features of the young man, observed in an under-tone to his companion, "It is Cuthbert Cholmondely-You doubted me, my lord Pembroke, but I was assured it was Lord Guilford's favorite esquire, who had conveyed the note to his master, warning him of our scheme." "You are right, M. Simon Renard," replied the earl. bow to your superior discernment."

"I

"The young man is in possession of our secret," rejoined Renard," and though we have intercepted the missive, he may yet betray us. He must not return to the palace."

He never shall return, my lords," said a tall dark man, advancing towards them, "if you will entrust his detention

"Who are you?" demanded Renard, eyeing him ciously.

set forth. Two ushers led the way through the long galle ries and passages which had to be traversed before they reached the White Tower; but on arriving at the room adjoining the council-chamber which had so lately been thronged with armed men, but which was now utterly deserted, Jane inquired from her attendants the way to the chapel, and on ascertaining it, commanded her little train to await her return there, as she had determined on entering the sacred structure alone. In vain her sisters remonstrated with her-in vain the ushers suggested that there might be danger in trusting herself in such a place at such an hour without protection-she remained firm-but promised to return in a few minutes, after which they could explore the chapel together.

Taking a lamp from one of the attendants, and pursuing the course pointed out to her, she threaded a narrow passage, similar to that she had traversed with the Duke in the morning, and speedily entered upon the gallery above the chapel. As she passed through the opening in the wall leading to this gallery, she fancied she beheld the retreating figure of a man, muffled in a cloak, and she paused for a moment, half-inclined to turn back. Ashamed, however, of her irresolution, and satisfied that it was a mere trick of the imagination, she walked on. Descending a short spiral wooden staircase, she found herself within one of the aisles of the chapel, and passing between its columns, entered the body of the fane. some time, she was lost in admiration of this beautiful structure, which, in its style of architecture-purely Norman-is without an equal. She counted its twelve massive and circular stone pillars, noted their various ornaments and mouldings, and admired their grandeur and simplicity. Returning to the northern aisle, she glanced at its vaulted roof, and was enraptured at the beautiful effect produced by the interweaving arches.

For

"Lawrence Nightgall, the chief jailor of the Tower. "What is your motive for this offer?" pursued Renard. "Look there!" returned Nightgall. "I love that damsel."

"I see;" replied Renard, smiling bitterly. planted you."

"He has sup"He has," rejoined Nightgall; but he shall not live to profit by his good fortune."

"Hum!" said Renard, glancing at Cicily, "the damsel is lovely enough to ruin a man's soul. We will trust you."

"Follow me, then, without, my lords," replied Nightgall, "and I will convey him where he shall not cause further uneasiness to any of us. We have dungeons within the Tower, from which those who enter them seldom return.'

"You are acquainted, no doubt, with the secret passages of the White Tower, friend?" asked Renard.

"With all of them," returned Nightgall. "I know every subterranean communication-every labyrinth-every hidden recess within the walls of the fortress, and there are many such-and can conduct you wherever you desire."

"You are the very man I want," cried Renard, rubbing his hands gleefully. "Lead on."

And the trio quitted the chamber, without their departure being noticed.

Half an hour afterward, as Cuthbert Cholmondeley issued from the postern with a heart elate with rapture at having elicited from the fair Cicely a confession that she loved him, he received a severe blow on the head from behind, and before he could utter a single outcry, he was gagged, and forced away by his assailants.

At this moment, her lamp was extinguished. [To be continued.]

THEY MET BUT ONCE....A SONG.

BY THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

They met but once, in Youth's sweet hour, And never since that day.

Hath absence, time, or grief, had power To chase that dream away. They've seen the suns of other skies,

On other shores have sought delight; But never more to bless their eyes

Can come a dream so bright. They met but once,-a day was all,

Of love's young hopes they knew, And still their hearts that day recall As fresh as then it flew.

Sweet dream of youth!-oh ne'er again
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth and smiling then,
Or see what it is now.

For, youth, the spell was only thine.

From thee alone th' enchantment flows That makes the world around thee shine With light thyself bestows.

They met but once-oh ne'er again
Let either meet the brow
They left so smooth aud smiling then,
Or see what it is now.

THE FANCY BALL.

As float the fancies of a gorgeous dream
That vanished with the morning's earliest beam;
As haunts the ear some half-remembered strain
It once hath heard, and seems to hear again;
As flowers whose beauty and whose bloom have fled,
Each bright leaf withered and each green one dead,
A grateful, an undying fragrance bear,

To tell what blushing beauty once was there;
So turns my memory to that brilliant sight
When wit and beauty held their festal night;

When the thronged rooms their glittering groups displayed
Of nature's loveliness, by arc arrayed;

Of graceful forms that mocked the sculptor's art,
And eyes whose glances reached the coldest heart,
Of all that beauty loves or taste admires,
Of all that valor warms or genius fires.

First raise yon curtain; view the scenes that pass
Like shadows floating o'er some magic glass.
No canvass here, no painter tries his skill
To fix the visions that his fancy fill;
But living pictures fast before us rise
And breathing loveliness salutes our eyes-
Behold that form, in queenly beauty, stand;
Two graceful maidens, kneeling at each hand,
Round her slight wrist the glittering jewels tie,
Jewels less brilliant than her own dark eye.
But change the scene. Blushing before us now
A Novice kneels to take her sacred vow.
Pure as the tear-drop glistening in her eye,
Fair as the roses at her feet that lie.
Close at her side a holy Friar stands,
And o'er his bosom clasps his aged hands.
The mitred Abbess, bending o'er her low,

Cuts the bright tresses clustering round her brow;
And, breathing to her patron Saint one prayer,
She gives to Heaven a maid for earth too fair.

A Scottish Maiden on a sofa lies;
NIGHT waves her sceptre o'er her slumbrous eyes.
Again the scene is changed. Stern Seyd behold,
Flashing with gems and glittering in gold,
Fiercely on Gulnare, turn his jealous eye
And speak the sentence, "Conrad sure shall die!"
The palace fades ;-the scene is changed again;
And Conrad, sleeping on the dungeon's chain,
Dreams of the island, o'er the deep blue sea,
Where dwell the lion-hearted and the free;
Dreams of the eye that watches every sail
To see his banner floating on the gale.
But other eyes are gazing on his sleep;
Gulnare, with purpose firm, with vengeance deep,
Bends o'er his couch, and whispers in his ear
A word, that, were he dead, he'd rouse to hear;
Raises a lamp unto his wildered sight-
Points to the dagger glittering in its light-
And says
"I come, captive, I come to save;
Death to the tyrant! freedom to the brave!"

Behold again the curtain slowly rise,

A fairer, softer scene now greets our eyes.
Two Lovers, from Albania's classic land
Are seated side by side, and hand in hand;
She, blushing as the rose she gazes on;
He, wondering how such beauty may be won.
Her hair is darker than the raven's hue,
Her eyes as soft as Heaven's own fount of blue.
Ne'er did Illissus' stream reflect a face

Of fairer beauty, more bewitching grace;

Nor Nymph nor Muse e'er tread with step more light
In Tempe's vale, or on Parnassus' height.

A Greek stands there, and kneeling at his side,
A fair Circassian, blooming as a bride.
Soft as the dying sunset's parting beam,
Bright as the visions of a Poet's dream.

With coat embroidered and with powdered hair, And dress of half a century gone by,

A Courtly crew assist with watchful eye The master of the mansion, standing there, With Knickerbocker hospitality,

Who greets each guest and bids the wine cup fly.

The banquet comes! and the broad tables groan
'Neath the heaped luxuries of every zone;
And wines and liquors bottled ere the flood,
Pour their rich tide and spill their purple blood.
Morning! and nothing of the scene remains,
Save the dull headache, throbbing in the veins.
And every bird, that dared the evening blaze,
Pales its false plumage in the sun's bright rays:
Hunter and Brigand, Turk and courtly Lord
Doff the gay plume and lay aside the sword;
Spaniard and Moslem meet, to ask the prices,
And talk and grumble at the present crisis.
Alas! alas! this week-day, work-day life—
That all that 's brightest, all that 's noblest, best,
All that consoles us for its weary strife,

And all that gives to time its little zest,
Should be, at most, but fancy's transient beam-
Fade in a tableau, vanish in a dream!

But changed again; once more the curtain raise,
Spain's loveliest Maiden meets the raptured gaze-
Demure she stands, while the Duenna reads
Many a long lesson that she never heeds-
Behind her chair, her listening Lover stands,
And hears, with beating heart and upraised hands,
Of broken vows and oaths the awful tale,
Of man deceived and woman ever frail.
But nothing cares she for his jealous pain,
Sure that one smile will win him back again.

Once more the curtain raise ;-be drab the hue;
Banish the gayer red, the gaudy blue,

Yea, verily, friend Obadiah see,

With broad brimmed hat, huge buckles on his knee,
Turning on Deborah many a loving glance,
Loath to recede, yet fearful to advance,
If outer signs the inner man' can prove-
Heaven save thee Obadiah, thee 's in love.

But hark! the music sounds-the dance! the dance!
The brilliant throngs, in glittering lines, advance-
And nodding plumes are mingling in the maze;
And knightly helmets shine and jewels blaze-
The Brigand, rousing from his wounded side,
Leads, in the merry reel his blooming bride.
The Pawnee Chieftain and the Naples Maid
Fly through the waltz or down the gallopade-
Spain's haughty Grandee seeks the Gipsey Girl,
And Greek and Moslem join the airy whirl.

Joy, joy beams bright on every face;
And manhood's strength and woman's grace
Are here, in all their pride-
And brighter is each sparkling eye,
And on each cheek, a deeper dye,

As rolls the living tide.

From every clime where beauty smiles ;-
From Scotia's hills-from Grecia's isles ;-
From India's spicy groves.-

From Cashmere's perfumed vale of flowers:-
From Russia's snows, from Persia's bowers ;-
The throng of beauty moves.

See yonder maid, with flashing eyes
That shame the diamond in its glow;
Lips with which not the ruby vies;
And polished brow, and neck of snow-
A Moorish maid from Spain's bright clime;
And never 'neath it's deep blue sky,
Though famed for beauty from all time,
Hath bloomed a flower with her to vie.

With Indian pouch o'er shoulder flung,
And knife and hatchet round him slung,
With rifle-frock, from forest-gloom
An aged hunter treads the room.

And I would be thine own true knight

See at his side a flower-girl stand,

A basket in her tiny hand,

With flowers of every hue

With every leaf that 's sweet or bright-
The rose's red, the lily's white,

The violet's modest blue;,

But none so sweet and none so fair

As she who holds the basket there!

Here stand the veteran Sons of Mars,
Marked with the honorable scars

Of inany a well-fought field;
And hearts that never bowed before,

To manhood's strength, to woman's power
At length have learned to yield.
The voice that paled the foe to hear,
Now whispers soft in Beauty's ear;
And Beauty's form leans light upon
The arm that urged the battle on.

Bold James Fitz James and Rhoderick Dhu

Meet in the circling dance;

Yet neither hostile weapon drew,
Nor cast one angry glance.

With powdered hair and stiff brocade,
In all the pride of dress arrayed

That won our grandsire's glance;
With stately look and statelier mien,
Fair Mistress Primrose views the scene,
And smiles upon the dance.
See at her side a maiden stand,
From bright Italia's classic land-
Her head-dress bending o'er a brow
Fair as the mountain's driven snow-
A peasant-girl whose lovely face
The noblest palace-halls might grace.
Yon dark-eyed maid, whose fairy foot,
Would scarce the opening violet crush,
Hair, darker than the raven's wing,

And cheek that mocks the rose's blush,
Hath come from Catalonia's shores;

And brighter than her own bright sun
The light that from her full eye pours,
The dazzling scene upon.

Hold, Charley! though thy cap of leather
And club may well consort together,
What dost thou in this scene of light-
"Ho! watchman, tell us of the night!"
A Cupid! gods! was Venus ever
That boy-god's mammy? never, never!
But oh, a muse like her of Teian,
Could only sing thee, lovely Dian!
Here Mantalini mutters "demmit,"
At frock and trowsers worn by E***t.

There Palmers masked said not "be off man,"
But mutely looked as much to H-n;
And next to Spaniard fresh from Leon,
A swarthy squaw stands J. Mc

There' Paul Pry' pushes his umbrella
Between a Turk and Cinderella,

And there too shines the Morning Star,'
Fairer than that which sparkles on
The wheel of Night's departing car
Before the dusky shades are gone.
But lo! a queenly shape appears—
The air of Siddons was not finer,
A schoolboy whispers in our ears
Behold how "incedit regina!"
The noble hostess smiles to see

That Queen of many Queens the paragon-
Receives her with deep courtesy;
And courtier's eye hath never seen
A pair of more majestic mien

Than were those lovely sisters Arragon! Sweet mistress of the Floral games,

Who crowned the minstrel Troubadour And, fairest 'mid Provençal dames,

Bestowed the wreath that heroes woreOh I would yield the greenest bays,

For one small leaf from hand of thine

If thou on my unheeded lays

Would let those orbs of beauty shine.

And at that beauty's shrine adore, And to the world proclaim the light

That beams from Clemence of Isaure. Beware! who struck his brother deadChild of Earth's first and fairest daughterBeware! for here is one, 'tis said,

Who bears that fearful name of slaughter, With such a pair of killing eyes,

That Abel's fate were nought to his

Who in this Paradise defies

The power of that bright sorceress!

And now observe a various throng

Of every tongue and clime and nation-
A few can only live in song,

Though all are worthy preservation-
A Normande see with wit and spirit
And soul that ne'er will know decay,-
May that fair daughter but inherit

Its mirth when it has passed away-
(Jack Downing, cease thy sentimentals
And take anew to regimentals,
And yet the muse is much beholden
To thee as well as Dd Cn.)
Pope Leo wearing such a look

As rests upon Italia's easel-
(You have the print in Roscoe's book)
Conversing with Sir Peter Teazle.

See, from the dark grove's sacred gloom,
Norma, the Druid priestess, come!
In vestal purity she stands,
With flowing robe and folded hands.
Bellini's self, when strains Elysian

Had swept o'er his inspired trance,
Never beheld so fair a vision.

She started-joined in the gay dance, And through its graceful mazes went, Like the sweet tune's embodiment.

Rowena! thou art very fair
With thy blue eyes and golden hair,
But, any day, I'd go to Mecca
To win a guerdon from Rebecca.
Hush! stay, and bow down, every one-
It is the Priestess of the Sun!
And sure those eyes caught not their fire
From any less celestial sire!

Ho, victims for the sacrifice!
Your funeral pile flames in those eyes!

Bold miner! hast thou worked thy way
Up from the nether world below,
To add thy lantern's glimmering ray
Unto this broad and general glow?
Or did the chimes of music here
Fall on thine ear so wildly well,
They lured thee from thy darksome sphere,
And robbed it of its favorite bell?

Lo! with dark hair and flashing eye,

Moustaches and whiskers fiercely curledThe brave Corsair comes dashing by

With step that might arrest a world.

How nobly in the battle strife,

When poured the hot and fiery rain,
That form would tower, instinct with life,
Upon the tall ship's oaken plain!
There's courage in his very smile,
And daring in his every motion-
He should be king of some far isle,

Alone amid his favorite ocean!

"She walks in beauty like the Night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that's best of dark and bright, Meet in her costume and her eyes, Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace That waves in every silken tress And softly lightens o'er that face,

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How soft, how pure their dwelling-place." "Alas! what perils do environ

The man that meddles with" Lord Byron;
But his rapt words so well display

The night, whose smiles outshone the day-
"Twere vain for feeble bard to tell
What he has pictured forth so well!

Jemina Jenkins, how d'ye do?

How are the folks in Orange county? To charming, pretty girls like you

The State should give a special bountyThere may be women, who may stand

With loftier brow and mein sublimer; But, as I guess, in all the land,.

There's none can knit like "our Jemina.” "What's that you say?" I' faith she's gone Perhaps to see her anxious ma

No! there again she moveth on

The Lady of the Polar Star.

Oh, sweet Anne Page! oh, sweet Anne Page! What! art thou here without a tender? There's many a man, I dare engage,

Who sighs for thee like Master SlenderAnd well he might; those smiles have power To melt the portliest Falstaff present,

And win for thee a goodly dower

Of love from poet, prince or peasant.

"Marchons, marchons, au victoire!"

Old veteran of Napoleon's guard, Yes! thou hast won la grande gloire,

And art wita wounds of honor scarredThus maimed and weak, fame's leaves surround That grey and honored head of thine, Leaves that grow green on every ground, Where thou wast in the charging line.

And there, there too was Lalla Rookh,
Just as you see her in the book
Which tells her sweet and tender story,
With eyes whose language melts the heart
Or spurs the hearer on to glory-

Some high achievement, mighty part Which, acted once, brings deathless fameWell she became her amorous name,

And well performed her venturous role, For from that crowd, so glad and gay, While whirled the waltzers-soft she stole Away, with Feramorz away!

Oh happy he! in that one night-
That night of mirth and wit and glee,
He gained the coveted delight
Of days and weeks-oh happy he!
Prometheus-like, he stole not fire
From heaven-but something brighter far!
His bosom's joy, his soul's desire,
His cynosure and worshipped star!

Here let me pause! for why pursue
A theme so long? I know full well
That I've neglected you and you,

This beau and that enchanting belle!
You all deserve to be enshrined

In better verse than I can master! Better, I'm sure-but you can't find A scribbler who could do it faster! Scarce half-a-day has passed since I

Took up my pen to weave this metre ! Yet here it is-and may Time fly

To all my lovely readers fleeter,
While on these rhymes their light eyes shine,
There incense-breathing curls are shaken;
More than one half of them are mine,
The rest were, I confess it, taken

From a sweet poem by another,
But, like as brother is to brother
Are Fancy Balls, when they are ended,
Though this than that may be more splendid.

Say, ladies, have I told of all

That flourished at your Fancy Ball?

No! and 't were vain attempt to trace
Such pictures in so short a space-
And there were things which happened there-
Unbreathed save to the silent air.

Secrets there are in silence sealed,
Secrets that may not be revealed;
But when some years have rolled away,
And they, who 're youths and maidens now,
See darkest tresses turned to gray

And wrinkles on the smoothest browWhen, seated round their own fireside,

They watch their children's gleeful sport And down Time's swelling current glide"When was it I began to court

You, Mary?" will some husband ask ;
And she, half blushing at the words,
Which could that blissful time recall,

Will look up from her evening task And say, in tones like some sweet bird's, "It happened at the Fancy Ball!"

A STRANGE COURT STORY.

QUEEN CAROLINE'S Protege.

There was a time when a most mysterious and fearful meaning was attached to the words, "The Book," which were for many months awfully whispered in the upper circles. It was, for a season, little known among the middle classes; but in time, the secret being too great to be kept, it was talked of all through the nation. Pretended copies of parts of it, and descriptions of the whole, were issued by unprincipled schemers; and where court matters were the subject of conversation, "The Book" was uppermost in every one's mind. It is now well known that "The Book" contained the examinations which took place in consequence of certain charges preferred against the late Queen Caroline, then Princess of Wales. When these were completed, it was thought fit to print them, and a copy was sent to each of the distinguished individuals who had assisted at what was called "The Delicate Investigation." Mr. Canning, clearly foreseeing what would follow, sent his copy back. "If," said he, "you print, you publish. By some means or other it will get before the world, and that it may not be supposed by any one I am the channel through which it passes, my copy is returned." It was soon found that copies had got abroad, and these were bought at a great price. We knew a gentleman connected with the newspaper press, who, for one of them, received a thousand pounds, and still larger sums were said to have been paid, but all in vain. In the end, the book and all that it had been wished to conceal, came out. The examinations, to which reference has been made, represented that a little boy who had been patronised by the Princess of Wales was, in truth, her own son. To this, however, a distinct negative was given by the commissioners, and they declared "it was beyond all doubt" that the child called Billy Austin was the son of poor

parents..

'Of late years little relating to this individual has transpired; but a few days ago a statement was, on the alleged authority of his brother, put forth, which is really most extraordinary. He says:

"Soon after her late Majesty's decease, in 1821, my brother went abroad till her affairs could be settled. On the 11th of July, 1823, he attained his majority, about which time he returned to England, when the executors paid or trausferred to him a sum of £4400, or thereabouts, the interest whereof be ing inadequate to maintain my brother in the manner in which he had been brought up and supported by the Queen, he again went to Italy until, as he informed his family, the Queen's affairs were finally settled, alleging that he could make his income go twice as far there as it would here. He came back to England in August, 1827, to see what was doing in her Majesty's affairs, and remained till December, 1828, when he again left England, the Queen's affairs, as he stated, being still

or mation respecting him, and continued to do so till July 1831, without receiving an answer from either of them. At length, on the 29th of that month, Dr. Lushington replied, stating, that my brother was in a state of lunacy, and had been for some time confined in a lunatic asylum, in Italy;' but, notwithstanding repeated applications from that period down to the month of January 1835 (upwards of six years from the time my brother last left England), his place of confinement in Italy was concealed from the family, when the executors gave me the desired information; since which time I have been corresponding with them to induce them to bring him to England, but without success, and upon my threatening to apply to the Court of Chancery, they indirectly insinuate that the individual in question is not my brother, for that her late Majesty, on her death bed, made an important communication to Dr. Lushington, which, in the event of an application to that Court, he should be obliged to divulge, and thereby deprive the family of the property, but that, if the family remained quiet, and permitted my brother (still calling him my brother) to remain where he is, they (the executors) would, in the event of his decease, divide his property amongst them, and would enter into any agreement, or sign any undertaking to do so.

"I can clearly prove the William Austin in question to be my brother, but, being in humble circumstances, am unable to compete with the executors, and it is only by bringing the matter before the public that I shall succeed."

It will of course be understood, the communication made by the dying Queen, was an admission that the suspicions formerly entertained with respect to "Billy Austin" were not unfounded. If this be so, strange discoveries may be looked for. After all the care taken to ascertain the fact by the learned and highly gifted individuals, to whom George the third thought fit to refer the matter in question-after the perfect conviction they expressed as to the birth of Austin, what stupendous efforts of wicked ingenuity must have been made, before such men could be imposed upon to such an extent! Then the obloquy heaped upon certain individuals, long the objects of public scorn and execratioo-we shudder at the thought-for stating what they knew to be the truth! We can scarcely believe it within the range of things possible, that in a country where morality and religion seem to be universally respected, the crime could be imagined, much less successfully perpetrated.

Had Queen Caroline possessed such a secret in her bosom, would she have dared to return to this country, as she did in 1820, having so much to lose and so little to gain? Would she not have preferred remaining in the splendid retirement she had chosen, with the largely augmented means about to be placed at her disposal on the accession of George the Fourth? It ought not to be forgotten, that in 1814, when offered £50,000, at the suggestion of Mr. Whitbread, that it would render her cause more popular among the people, she declined receiving more than £35,000. If she found this allowance insufficient the inconvenience was now at an end; for one of the first things intimated by Lord Castlereagh in the new reign was, that Ministers, anxious to keep things quiet, so long as her Majesty remained out of this country, and abstained from demanding to be received at foreign courts as Queen of England, would consent that she should receive the income of a Queen Consort-£100,000 per

annum.

HYMN TO THE CREATOR.
BY LORD BROUGHAM.

"There is a God," all nature cries;
A thousand tongues proclaim
His arm almighty, mind all-wise;
Then bid each voice in chorus rise
To magnify his name.

Thy name, great Nature's Sire divine,
Assiduous we adore,
Rejecting godheads at whose shrine
Benighted nations blood and wine

In vain libations pour.

Yon countless worlds, in boundless space,
Myriads of miles each hour

Their mighty orbs as curious trace
As the blue circlet studs the face
Of that enamell'd flower.

But thou too mad'st that floweret gay

To glitter in the dawn:
The hand that fired the lamp of day,
The blazing comet launch'd away,
Painted the velvet lawn.

"As falls a sparrow to the ground,
Obedient to thy will,"

By the same law those globes wheel round,
Each drawing each, yet all still found
In one eternal system bound,
One order to fulfil.

POOR JACK.*

BY CAPT. MARryat, author OF JACOB FAithful,' 'Peter simple,' 'JAPHET IN SEarch of a FATHER,' &C. &C.

PART II.

that I never give in harbor. If I catch you fishing again, you "No, my man, you must not fish without permission; and get two dozen at the gun; recollect that. You've got your duty to do, and I've got mine.'

"Well, Jack could not give up his habit, so he used to fish at night, and all night long, out of the fore-chains; but it so happened that the ship's corporal caught Jack in the middle watch, and reports him to the first lieutenant.

666

"So, you 've been fishing again, sir,' says Old Duty. 'No, sir,' replied Jack, not fishing-only laying night lines.' "Oh! that 's it,' replied the first lieutenant; only laying night lines! Pray, what's the difference?' 'Please, sir,' said Jack, touching his hat, 'the difference is that it's not the same thing.'

"Well, sir, I see but one difference, and I'll meet it accordingly. You 've your duty to do, and I 've got mine.' "The boys' heads and ears having been pulled about and examined by the master-at-arms, they were dismissed; and Jack thought that he had got off-but he was mistaken.

"After the hammocks had been piped down, and it was dark, the boys were ordered up by the master-at-arms; Jack was seized to to the gun, and had his two dozen. 'There, sir,' said Old Duty, as they cast the seizings off, if fishing at night is not fishing, punishment at night is not punishment.Now we 're quits. You've your duty to do, and I've got mine.'

"I don't think that Jack perceived any more difference in the two dozen at night-time that the first lieutenant did between day and night fishing; however, Jack did not fish for some time afterward. But it so happened, that the first lieutenant was asked on shore to dine with the port-admiral; and, although he seldom left the ship, he could not refuse such a compliment, and so he went. As soon as it was dark, Jack thought his absence too good an opportunity not to have a fish; so he goes into the mizen-chains, and drops his line. Well, he fished (but I don't know whether he caught any) till the boat was hailed in which the first lieutenant was coming on board, and Jack thought it time to haul in his line; but, just at that moment, there was a jerk; and Jack, who knew that a fish was at the bait, could not for the life of him pull up his line-for, you see, he was a fisherman heart and soul; so Jack trusted to Providence and the first lieutenant's going down below as soon as he came on deck.

"Now, you see, the ship was lying at the time 'cross the tide, the wind blowing against the current: the starboard side (being to leeward, as to the wind, but to windward, as to the tide) had been cleared away, and manned for the boat, and Jack made sure that the first lieutenant would pull to that side; but he was mistaken. Whether it was that the first lieutenant wished to have a look round the ship or not, I do not know, but he pulled across the bows, and went round the stern, passing the larboard side: as he passed, Jack shrunk under the lee of the dead eyes and laynyards, hoping he might not be seen; but the first lieutenant, having the clear horizon on the other side, perceived the line which Jack had half-hauled up, and, having an eye like a cat, makes out Jack also.

* Continued from page 175