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And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dream

ing,

And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor,

Shall be lifted-nevermore.

Ex. CXXXIX.-PHAETHON.

JOHN G. SAXE.

DAN PHAETHON— -so the histories run-
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus-but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora !

Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,

Drove a very fast coach by the name of "The Sun;"
Running, they say,
Trips every day

(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way,)
And lighted up with a famous array

Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay,"
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now Phaethon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally sun of a gun,

To darken the brow of the son of the Sun!
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,

I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!”
"Then by my head,"

The youngster said,

"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive, Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!" "Nay, Phaethon, do n't

I beg you wont—

Just stop a moment, and think upon 't!
You 're quite too young," continued the sage,
"To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be

Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,

And when their mettle is thorougly' riled,'
Depend upon 't, the coach 'll be spiled'-
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,

You'll rue the day

So mind, and do n't be foolish, Pha !”
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,

'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd-
He'd have the horses and would n't be cowed!

In vain the boy was cautioned at large,

He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force,
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now Phoebus felt exceedingly sorry

He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt,
He was in for it now, and could n't back out.
So calling Phaethon up in a trice,

He

gave the youth a bit of advice:

"Parce stimulis, utere loris!'
(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip-they're ticklish things-
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
'Medio tutissimus ibis'

(As the judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!)
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,

Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
"Crack-whack-

Whack-crack"

Resounded along the horses' back !—
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On-on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole " establishment" went to smash!
And Phaethon, he,
As all agree,

66

Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORA L.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses-
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses!
Don't swear by the Styx!-

It's one of Old Nick's

Diabolical tricks

To get people into a regular "fix,"
And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

Ex. CXL.-THE SONG OF THE BELL.

WAKE, wake, wake!

BUFFALO ADVERTISER.

Up, sluggard, up! the sun appears:

Awake, awake,-thy bed forsake

Before the flowers have dried their tears!

Before the last star sinks away,

Lost in the golden Les of day :

Hark! the matin bell

Sounds o'er hill and dell!

Bread, bread, bread!

Merchant, scholar, and artisan,

Hasten, hasten!-the board is spread:Thank the Giver, thou thankless man! How many poor ones hear my voice, Yet never, never like thee rejoice At the dinner bell,

With its peal and swell.

One, two, three !

Hark the numbering of the hours!
Mark, mark the moments swiftly flee:
The past the present still devours.
Seven and eight, nine and ten;-
They never will return again :
Mark the hourir bell

Its oft-told story tell!

Fire, fire, fire!

Hurry the engine, hearts of oak!

For the flame is rising,-higher, higher! Man on the ladder, mind your stroke! Dash in the window,-grasp that child,Pass him along ;-the mother is wild! Peal, peal! the fire bell!

Crash, crash!-who was it fell?

Toll, toll, toll!

As the dark hearse moves o'er the lea.
Toll, toll-toll for the passing soul,
Whose earthly house dissolved must be!
Dust
goes to dust, and earth to earth ;-
Cease, careless trifler, cease thy mirth;
For the funeral bell

Soon will ring thy knell!

Peal, peal, peal!

The merry, merry marriage bell!—

Two hearts are joined, for woe and weal,

Together, while life lasts, to dwell.

Peal out!-the golden knot is tied :—
Who would not bless that fair young bride?
List the merry bell

The joyful tidings tell!

Hurra, hurra, hurra!

The battle's done, the town is won;
The thunder notes of victory
Drown the cry of the desolate one:
Fathers, husbands, children, are slain ;-
Who heeds the dead? Who heeds the pain,
While the pealing bell

The victor-notes swell?

Hurry, hurry!-Hark away!
The steamship vomits fire and smoke;
'Gainst wind and tide she moves to-day,
With hundred arms and giant stroke,—
Like a fiery steed she pants and springs;-
Let go there, men;-the last bell rings!
Run, run! The ship bell!

Rush on board, pell-mell.

Pray, pray, pray!

The Sabbath bell rings solemnly

For thy soul's good. Oh! come away,
Visit the house of prayer to-day;
Listen to the gospel, given

To guide thee on the road to heaven!
Hark! the Sabbath bell,

To win thy soul from hell!

Rest, rest, rest!

Weary laborer!-go to thy bed,
Under the eye of the Ever-blest,
Who watches thy defenceless head;
Sleep, while the gay, the rich, the proud,
Weave in the dance an early shroud,
Though the vesper bell
Hath warned them well.

Ex. CXLI.-PLEASURES OF MEMORY.

SWEET Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, up the stream of time I turn my sail

Oft

To view the haunts of long-lost hours,

ROGERS.

Blessed with far greener shades, far fresher bowers.

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