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Attish hu! attish hu !

You brute, how I wish you
Were but as genteel as the Irish lady,

Dear Mrs. O'Grady,
Who, chancing to sneeze in a noble duke's face,
Hoped she hadn't been guilty of splashing his Grace.
Now, look out! Yes, he will! No, he won't! By the

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.

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From heel to head, and from head to heel,
They wrap their prey in that net of steel,
And they croché the edges together with care,
As you finish a purse for a fancy-fair,
Till the last knot is tied by the diligent pair.
At length they have ended their business laborious,
And Eppo shouts, “Bagged him, by all that is glorious!”

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

Dover;

Drag him down to the brink, and then let him roll

over ;

As they scarce make a capital crime of infanticide,
There can't be any harm in a little giganticide.

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“Pull him, and haul him ! take care of his head !
Oh, how my arms ache-he's as heavy as lead !
That'll do, love—I'm sure—I can move him alone,
Though I'm certain the brute weighs a good forty

stone.
Yo! heave ho! roll him along
(It's exceedingly lucky the net's pretty strong);
Once more-that's it—there, now, I think
He's done to a turn, he rests on the brink;
At it again, and over he goes
To furnish a feast for the hooded crows;
Each vulture that anakes the Taurus his home
May dine upon giants for months to come.”

Lives there a man so thick of head
To whom it must in words be said,
How Eppo did the lady wed,
And built upon the giant's bed
A castle, walled and turreted!
We will hope not; or, if there be,

Defend us from his company!
(From "Mirth and Metre,F. Warne and Co.)

THE FALL OF MARIE ANTOINETTE.

EDMUND BURKE.

(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,
By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne:
His valiant peers were plac'd around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound:

So should desert in arms be crown'd.
The lovely Thais by his side
Sat, like a blooming eastern bride,
In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride.

Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,

None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus plac'd on high

Amid the tuneful quire,

With flying fingers touch'd the iyre :
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove;
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the pow'r of mighty love !)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god :
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press’d,

And stamp'd an image of himself, a sov'reign of the

world.
The list’ning crowd admire the lofty sound.
A present deity! they shout around:
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.

With ravish'd ears,
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung;

Of Bacchus ever fair, and ever young ;
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums :
Flush'd with a purple grace
He shows his honest face.

Now give the hautboys breath. He comes, he comes !

Bacchus, ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain :

Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldiers' pleasure ;

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure ;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
Sooth'd with the sound the king grew vain ;

Fought all his battles o'er again ;
And thrice he routed all his foes; and thrice he slew

;
the slain.
The master saw the madness rise ;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes:
And while he heav'n and earth defied,
Chang'd his hand and check'd his pride.

He chose a mournful muse
Soft pity to infuse :
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,

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