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humanity. I don't like to talk of myself, ladies and gentlemen, because the man that talks of himself is a Hegotist; but this I will venture to say, that I am not only the greatest physician and philosopher of the age, but the greatest genius that ever illuminated mankind-but you know I don't like to talk of myself: you should only read one or two of my lists of cures, out of the many thousands I have by me; if you knew the benefits so many people have received from my grand-elliptical-asiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, that cures all diseases incident to humanity, none of you would be such fools as to be sick at all. I'll just read one or two. (Reads several letters.) Sir, I was jammed to a jelly in a linseedoil mill; cured with one bottle.' Sir, I was cut in half in a saw-pit; cured with one bottle." Sir, I was boiled to death in a soap-manufactory; cured with half a bottle." Now comes the most wonderful of all.

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'Sir, venturing too near a powder-mill at Faversham, I was, by a sudden explosion, blown into a million of atoms; by this unpleasant accident, I was rendered unfit for my business, (a banker's clerk); but, hearing of your grand-ellipticalasiatical-panticurial-nervous cordial, I was persuaded to make essay thereof; the first bottle united my strayed particles; the second animated my shattered frame; the third effected a radical cure; the fourth sent me home to Lombardy street, to count guineas, make out bills for acceptance, and recount the wonderful effects of your grand-elliptical-asiatical panticurial-nervous cordial, that cures all diseases incident to humanity."

KNEEL AT NO HUMAN SHRINE.-By A. F. K.

"Must then that peerless form,

Which love and admiration cannot view,
Without a beating of the heart; those veins,
That steal like streams along a field of snow,
That lovely outline that is fair

As breathing marble, perish?"

KNEEL not, oh! friend of mine, before a shrine,
That bears the impress of humanity;

Have thou no idol; lest those hopes of thine,
Prove but false lights upon a treacherous sea.

SHELLEY.

Know'st thou that clouds freighted with storm and rain,
Will overspread with darkest gloom again,

Yon azure sky?

Know'st thou that rose that blooms beside thy door,
Will waste upon the gale its fragrant store,
And fade and die?

Know also that the loved and tried for years,
The cynosure of all thy hopes and fears,
May pass thee by.

Maiden! upon whose fair unclouded brow,
Half hid by many a curl of clustering hair,
I mark the buds of promise bursting now,
Unmingled with a thought of future care,
Thou, for whose sake the bridal wreath is made,
For whom the rose in spotless white arrayed,
Expands its leaf,

Oh! let me teach thee, as a sister may,
A lesson thou should'st bear in mind alway,
That life is brief;

That bridal flowers have decked the silent bier,
And smiles of joy been melted with the tear
Of burning grief.

Mother! who gazeth with a mother's joy,
And all a mother's changeless love and pride,
Upon the noble forehead of thy boy,

Who stands in childish beauty by thy side,
And gazing through the mists of coming time,
Beholds him standing in the verdant prime
Of manhood's day;
I warn thee! build no castles in the air,
That form, so full of life-so matchless fair,
Is only clay,

That bud just bursting to a perfect flower,
May, like the treasures of thy garden bower
Soon pass away.

Father! whose days though in "the yellow leaf,"
Have golden tints from life's rich sunset thrown,
Whose heart, a stranger to the pangs of grief,
Still suns itself within the loves of home,
Who with thy dear companion by thy side,
Hast felt thy barque adown life's current glide
With peaceful breeze,

Burn thou no incense here! hast thou not seen
The forest change its summer robe of green,
For leafless trees?

Believe me, all who breathe the vital breath,
Are subjects to the laws of life and death,
And so are these.

Ah! yes! beneath the church-yard's grassy mound,
Too many an early smitten idol lies,

Too many a star of promise has gone down

The soul's horizon, never more to rise,

For thou to safely rear thy temple here,
And fancy while the storm cloud hovers near,
It stands secure;

Oh! trust it not; that flash of brilliant light,
Will only from the thorny path of night,
Thy steps allure;

One arm that never fails, that never tires,
That moves in harmony the Heavenly choirs,
Alone is sure.

Be this thy Spirit's anchor; that when all
Most near and dear to thee shall pass away,
When pride, and power and human hope shall fall,
A faith in God shall be thy shield and stay.
Lay up thy treasures, where the hand of time,
The storms and changes of this fickle clime,
Shall seek in vain;

Where the bright dreams of youth, shall know no blight,
The days of love and joy, no starless night,
And life no pain,

And where thou yet shalt find when cares are o'er
The loved and lost ones who have "gone before,"
Are thine again.

LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.—By Duferin.

I'm sitting on the stile, Mary,

Where we sat side by side

On a bright May morning, long ago,

When first you were my

Bride;

The corn was springing fresh and green,

And the lark sang loud and high;

And the red was on your lip, Mary,

And the love-light in your eye.

The place is little changed, Mary,
The day as bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek;
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more will speak.

'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near-
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.

But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest-
For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.

I'm very lonely now, Mary,

For the poor make no new friends;
But, O! they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary—
My blessing and my pride:
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,

When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow-
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break-
When the hunger pain was gnawing there,
And you hid it for my sake;

I bless you for the pleasant word,

When your heart was sad and soreO! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more!

I'm bidding you a long farewell,
My Mary-kind and true!
But I'll not forget you darling,

In the land I'm going to;

They say there's bread and work for all,

And the sun shines always there

But I'll not forget old Ireland,

Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,

And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;

And I'll think I see the little stile

Where we sat side by side,

And the springing corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

ABSALOM.-By N. P. Willis.

THE waters slept. Night's silvery vail hung low
On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled
Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still,
Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse.

The reeds bent down the stream: the willow leaves
With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide,
Forgot the lifting winds: and the long stems
Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse
Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way,
And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest.
How strikingly the course of nature tells
By its light heed of human suffering,
That it was fashioned for a happier world.

King David's limbs were weary. He had fled
From far Jerusalem: and now he stood
With his faint people, for a little space,
Upon the shore of Jordan. The light wind
Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow,
To its refreshing breath: for he had worn
The mourner's covering, and had not felt
That he could see his people until now.
They gathered round him on the fresh green bank
And spoke their kindly words: and as the sun
Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there,
And bowed his head upon his hands to pray.
Oh when the heart is full,-when bitter thoughts
Come crowding thickly up for utterance,
And the poor common words of courtesy,
Are such a very mockery-how much
The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer.
He prayed for Israel: and his voice went up
Strongly and fervently. He prayed for those,
Whose love had been his shield: and his deep tones
Grew tremulous. But Oh! for Absalom-
For his estranged misguided Absalom!
The proud bright being who had burst away

In all his princely beauty, to defy,

The heart that cherished him-for him he poured Strong supplication, and forgave him there, Before his God, for his deep sinfulness.

The pall was settled. He who slept beneath,
Was straightened for the grave: and as the folds
Sunk to the still proportions, they betrayed
The matchless symmetry of Absalom.
His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls
Were floating round the tassels as they swayed
To the admitted air.

His helm was at his feet: his banner soiled