THE SELFISHNESS OF DESPAIR.

'Twas summer, and the sea
Flowed tranquil and serene,
And not a breath disturbed

Its silver sheen.

I saw a fragile bark

The waters gently ride,

Though the Demon of the storm

Was at its side.

A father and a rosy boy,

And boatman were the crew,

But to fill the idle sail,

No zephyr blew.

The boatman plied the oars,

And they softly stole along,

While the merry boy let loose

His prattling tongue.

But a sudden squall arose,

And the waves dashed high and strong,

And a boisterous wind the little bark

Hurried along.

Unused to brave the storm,

Unfitted for a sea,

The maddened waves broke o'er the boat

Right furiously.

The father's cheek grew pale,

The boy in fear sat still,

While the wind with wayward breath,

Blew at its will.

But see! one reckless wave,

More cruel than the rest,

Dashed on the struggling bark

Its foaming crest.

It filled and, righting, sank,
But the father and the child
Were tossed amid the spray
By the tempest wild.

With "pliant arm" and steady nerve

The father swam away,

While the timid boy clung round his neck
In dread dismay.

Encumbered with the struggling weight,

Exhausted with the sea,

The father doubted what to do

In agony.

But life is dearer far than all

The feelings of the heart,

He soon determined from his child,
Himself to part.

The tiny arm, from round his neck,

He roughly tore away,

And soon was hushed the prattling tongue
That once was gay.

One piercing cry rose on the storm,

"Oh, father, father, save!"

But, louder than the infant's voice,
Thundered the wave.

Unfettered by the frightened child,
His strength returned once more,
And the last struggle of his arm

Brought him to shore.

But oh! what torture rent his soul

As he lay upon the ground

Though he was saved-yet awful thought!
His boy was drowned!

FREEDOM.

"Britons never shall be slaves."

NATIONAL AIR.

To the young man just stepping forth into the world-with the feelings and associations of his boyhood still fresh in his memory-his mind bent on the pursuit of expectations he has yet to find chimericand his every faculty awakening to freshness and vigour-there is a music in the word "Freedom" that thrills throughout his frame, and deafening would be the expression of his assent to the sentiment we have have taken as our motto.

On taking a philosophical view of the human race, he perceives that

while some are rolling in luxury, others are reduced to death's door by starvation. "How comes this?" cries he, "if the rich man's superfluity was given to the poor man's need-all would have enough-and surely reason dictates this as a proper course to be adopted?" And on further examination he finds him of purple and sumptuous fare laying down laws for the honest, free, noble-hearted peasant, who earns his daily bread by the sweat of his brow. "Preposterous!" he again exclaims, "the same blood trickles beneath a dirty shirt, as under the folds of your velvets and brocades. Freedom! say I"-and with a hearty sneer at the baubles of wealth and rank, he proclaims himself the champion of the working classes.

Ye would-be patriots! why is Freedom so dear a name? Ye, that are the slaves of circumstances, of habit, or of passion,-the impotent minions of sickness and of death;-ye, that wherever ye go, carry about with you the fetter of Mortality, clanking at every step,-and do ye speak of Freedom? Ye who have read the sacred prophecy, that the poor we shall always have with us; who have heard the solemn exhortation that we be subject to the higher powers-that we pay tribute to whom tribute, custom to whom custom, is due; who may see on the pages of history, the bloodshed and the tumults, the discontent and misery, the anguish and woe-which a populace incited to seek a state of things that never can exist, have inflicted upon themselves; who may then compare those scenes with the sufferings of poverty which, alas! must too often arise, and will arise, till a brighter kingdom shall come ;-and will ye seek to better the world?

Would ye teach Freedom? Tell of a God whose law is liberty, and point out a way of life that frees from sin and sorrow.

Do penury and want offend the sight? deny yourselves and help to alleviate their pains to the extent of your powers. Ye may be patriots without inflammatory harangues-without defying kings or sneering at your superiors-without making statesmen of artizans, or altering the constitution of your country-and heaven will not desert the efforts which itself suggests.

Iras. Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.

ANTONY ANd Cleopatra.

The waters of my native Nile but murmur sadly by,

All nature turns her face from me, in one reproachful sigh;
Vainly I bid the seers expound the dreams that haunt my sleep,
They but remind me of the past,-I turn aside and weep.
The spirits of my fathers come, and seem to point to where
The waters of that river flow-whose streams ne'er meet the air;

Where, dim, and cold, and passionless, those who have learnt to die,
Glide on, all heedless of the past, into eternity.

Shades of the dead, why frown ye thus, with brows of awful gloom?
Sure slumbers not the pride of kings, in peace within the tomb ;
Ambition dwells not with the dead; its vassals there are free;
And love, the God who ruled my fate, forgotten too must be.
I fear thee not, oh Death! 'tis well-for 'mid thine ancient halls,
Oh Alexandria! I have heard a voice which whispering calls
In the silence of my sleepless night, in the brightness of the day,
"The diadem thy sires wore, for e'er hath passed away;

Thy home is now with me, oh Queen, thy realm is now the grave,
The last of Egypt's royal line may never live a slave.

Though made of gold, thy chains would be the first thy race hath borne,
Though dauntless were thy heart, 't would break beneath the Roman's

scorn."

Then, maidens, put upon my brow the crown my father wore,
That I may meet him in the shades, as I was wont of yore;
And thou, too, in whose love was life-I dare not fear to die,
Since 'tis new life, to live in death, with thee, mine Antony.

F.

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED WIFE.

Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear

That mourns thine exit from a world like this;
Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here,
And stay thy progress to the seats of bliss.
No more confined to grovelling scenes of night,
No more a tenant pent in mortal clay;
Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight,
And trace thy journey to the realms of day.

IDEM LATINE VIX REDDITUM.
M. S.

Ne tibi displiceat quod terris flemus ademtam,
Ignoscas lacrimis, umbra beata, piis;
Ignoscas si cæca velint te vota tenere,

In cœlum impediant, atque morentur iter,
Ampliùs haud retinent te nigræ limina noctis,

Nec jam terreno carcere clausa gemis ;
Spectemus potius te jam super astra volantem,
Signat ubi longo limite flamma viam.

NO. VI.-VOL. III.

A.

T

In a crowded, and not over clean, quarter of the metropolis, may be observed,-when the sun is shining with peculiar lustre, and the atmosphere is unusually bright,-an ambiguous Square of considerable size and rather antiquated appearance-we say ambiguous-because there are to be found some who unblushingly deny that it is a square, and back this declaration, by confidently affirming that it possesses no shape whatever. Suffice it to say, however, that it has for centuries been honoured with the appellation, and consequently is, or ought to be, in every respect deserving of the title.

In one of its darkest angles totters a large decayed old mansion, which has now, for many a year, threatened loudly to descend upon the expecting heads of any who possess the boldness to pass that way; but it still stands, and, as if conscious of its vast importance and superiority, is detached slightly from the surrounding buildings. Within its walls once flourished the hero of the following tale.

But Peter Peepskin was by no means an individual calculated, as far as personal appearance went, to raise in the observer sentiments of respect or admiration, he was not a beauty, and by no means in the bloom of youth; add to which, he conducted himself upon more than one occasion, in a manner so extraordinary, as to give rise to the suspicion that he was, if not insane, at all events neither faultless nor divine-failings in themselves sufficient to preclude all hope of his ever shining in the character of a hero; but we will briefly describe him, and generously permit the reader to form his own opinion upon the subject. Peter was not a tall hero, not even, perhaps, a hero of ordinary size; on the contrary, there can be no doubt that he was an extremely diminutive hero, so small that, in high-heeled Clarence-boots, he is reported to have measured no more than five feet four, but Nature, as if grieving at her error, had fully compensated for any slight deficiency in point of stature, by bestowing upon him a most enormous head-it must have been designed, originally, for some corpulent giant, and placed on Peter's shoulders by mistake. His eyes were large, wild, and restless; and his nasal organ gazed into the clouds in a manner bordering on the sublime and beautiful. Not content with being the owner of a mouth which was too big even for his head, he increased its natural size by invariably keeping it open, a slight peculiarity of feature that, together with a superfluous