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Attish hu! attish hu !
You brute, how I wish you
Dear Mrs. O'Grady,
powers! I thought he was taking alarm at the flowers; But it luckily seems, his gigantic invention Has at once set them down as a little attention On Irmengard's part,—done by way of suggestion That she means to say “Yes," when he next pops the
question. There ! he's down ! now he yawns, and in one minute
moreI thought so, he's safe-he's beginning to snore; He is wrapped in that sleep he shall wake from no more. From his girdle the knight takes a ponderous key; It fits—and once more is fair Irmengard free.
From heel to head, and from head to heel,
No billing and cooing,
You must up and be doing. Depend on't, Sir Knight, this is no time for wooing; You'll discover, unless you progress rather smarter, That catching a giant's like catching a Tartar: He still has some thirty-five minutes to sleep. Close to this spot hangs a precipice steep, Like Shakspeare's tall cliff which they show one at
Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll
As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,
“Pull him, and haul him ! take care of his head !
Lives there a man so thick of head
Defend us from his company!
THE FALL OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.
(Considered the most elegant Passage in BURKE'S"Reflections on
the French Revolution.") It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to nove in; glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendour, and joy. Oh, what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant man, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers; I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone : that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished for ever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage while it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness.
ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR THE POWER OF MUSIC:
AN ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
JOHN DRYDEN. (Dryden was born at Aldwinkle, Northampton, in 1631. He was educated at Winchester School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He came to London in 1654, and acted as secretary to his relation, Sir Gilbert Pickering, who was one of Cromwell's council. Like the celebrated Vicar of Bray, Dryden shifted his politics in conformity with the ins and outs of that stirring period: he wrote a laudatory ode on the death of the Protector, and a panegyric on the restoration of Charles II. In 1667 he was appointed poet-laureate, with a salary of 2001. a-year. None of his plays have kept the stage, and his numerous satires are to the now popular literature of his country as if they had never been written, but his translation of Virgil is undying and has immortalized him. As he was a weathercock in his politics so lie was in his religion. On the accession of James II. he became a Roman Catholic, and, like all perverts, was loudest in the abuse of his old faith. It was not until the abdication of James, when he was obliged to write for bread, that his finest compositions were written. The freedom, grace, and strength of his compositions have never been supassed. He died in 1700, and was buried in Westminster Abbey.]
'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won,
On his imperial throne:
So should desert in arms be crown'd.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the iyre :
And heavenly joys inspire.
When he to fair Olympia press’d,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the
With ravish'd ears,
Affects to nod,
Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young ;
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes !
Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure ;
Fought all his battles o'er again ;
He chose a mournful muse