Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone ;

Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge gray rock at length

Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength

My time was come! that granite heap my monument of death!

She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller breath;

Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of her spring,

I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wingBut oh! the crash!-the hideous shock !-the million sparks around!

Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headland Desert-Born-or else 'twas demons' mirth,

One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to

sense,

And then but to endure the pangs of agony in

tense;

For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone, The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.

My heart was still-my pulses stopp'd-midway 'twixt life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,

Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble

sigh,

Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me

die.

Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of lifeBut who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his labouring breast?

Why any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

LOVE LANE.

IF I should love a maiden more,
And woo her ev'ry hope to crown,
I'd love her all the country o'er,
But not declare it out of town.

One even, by a mossy bank,
That held a hornet's nest within,
To Ellen on my knees I sank,—
How snakes will twine around the shin!

A bashful fear my

soul unnerved,
And gave my heart a backward tug;
Nor was I cheer'd when she observed,
Whilst I was silent,-" What a slug!"

At length my offer I preferr'd,
And Hope a kind reply forebode-
Alas! the only sound I heard
Was, "What a horrid ugly toad!"

I vow'd to give her all my heart,
To love her till my life took leave,
And painted all a lover's smart—
Except a wasp gone up his sleeve !

But when I ventured to abide
Her father's and her mother's grants—
Sudden, she started up, and cried,
"O dear! I am all over ants!"

Nay when beginning to beseech
The cause that led to my rebuff,
The answer was as strange a speech,
A "Daddy-Longlegs sure enough!"

I spoke of fortune-house,—and lands
And still renew'd the warm attack,--
"Tis vain to offer ladies hands
That have a spider on the back!

'Tis vain to talk of hopes and fears,
And hope the least reply to win,
From any maid that stops her ears
In dread of earwigs creeping in!

"Tis vain to call the dearest names
Whilst stoats and weasels startle by-
As vain to talk of mutual flames,
To one with glowworms in her eye!

What check'd me in my fond address,
And knock'd each pretty image down?
What stopp'd my Ellen's faltering Yes?
A caterpillar on her gown!

To list to Philomel is sweet-
To see the Moon rise silver-pale,—
But not to kneel at Lady's feet
And crush a rival in a snail!

Sweet is the eventide, and kind
Its zephyr, balmy as the south;
But sweeter still to speak your mind
Without a chafer in your mouth!

At last, embolden'd by my bliss,
Still fickle Fortune play'd me foul,
For when I strove to snatch a kiss
She scream'd-by proxy, through an owl!

Then, Lovers, doom'd to life or death,
Shun moonlight, twilight, lanes, and bats,
Lest you should have in self-same breath
To bless
your fate-and curse the gnats!

DOMESTIC POEMS.

"It's hame, hame, hame."-A. CUNNINGHAM.
"There's no place like home."—CLARI.

I.

HYMENEAL RETROSPECTIONS.

O KATE! my dear Partner, through joy and through strife!

When I look back at Hymen's dear day, Not a lovelier bride ever changed to a wife, Though you're now so old, wizen'd, and gray!

Those eyes, then, were stars, shining rulers of fate But as liquid as stars in a pool;

Though now they're so dim, they appear, my dear Kate,

Just like gooseberries boil'd for a fool!

That brow was like marble, so smooth and so fair; Though it's wrinkled so crookedly now,

As if Time, when those furrows were made by the share,

Had been tipsy whilst driving his plough!

Your nose, it was such as the sculptors all chose,
When a Venus demanded their skill;
Though now it can hardly be reckon❜d a nose,
But a sort of Poll-Parroty bill!

Your mouth, it was then quite a bait for the bees,
Such a nectar there hung on each lip;

Though now it has taken that lemon-like squeeze, Not a blue-bottle comes for a sip!

Your chin, it was one of Love's favourite haunts, From its dimple he could not get loose; Though now the neat hand of a barber it wants, Or a singe, like the breast of a goose!

How rich were those locks, so abundant and full, With their ringlets of auburn so deep! Though now they look only like frizzles of wool, By a bramble torn off from a sheep!

That neck, not a swan could excel it in grace, While in whiteness it vied with your arms: Though now a grave 'kerchief you properly place,

To conceal that scrag-end of your charms!

Your figure was tall, then, and perfectly straight, Though it now has two twists from uprightBut bless you! still bless you! my Partner! my Kate!

Though you be such a perfect old fright!

II.

"THE SUN WAS SLUMBERING IN THE WEST."

The sun was slumbering in the West,

My daily labours past;

On Anna's soft and gentle breast