But then-"They look so pious and pathetic;

So tonsured, sack-clothed, sallow, and resign'd;" Inquire in London, "Wanted an Ascetic;"

The "Times" will find you hundreds to your mind, Ay, thousands, all as piously inclined

To eat and drink for nothing all their lives

As any monk that ever dozed or dined : Ready to trick their debtors, 'scape their wives,

Wear cowls and cant, and fill with droneship all your hives.

REFLECTIONS.

FROM "THE MODERN ORLANDO."

MUST earth be toil, and be for ever toil?

Must war, and want, and cold, and clay, be man?

Year upon year but changes of turmoil;

Hearts sick, and faces with heartsickness wan!

I wish some hand, alert at the trepan,

Would give my brain a "bump" for gown or cowl;
A taste for monkism; life without a plan;

The nearest to the status of an owl;

Yet what is human life ?-the odds are for the fowl!

What if your owl has neither child nor wife?
Per contra, he has all his own dear will!
What if he leads a somewhat mopish life?
He pays no income-tax, no Bond-street bill;
No monarch sends him to be kill'd or kill!
What if his wing with midnight-walks is wet?
No magistrate can send him to "the mill;"
He has no hard-work'd conscience "to be let!"
Your owl is never drunk, in dungeon, or in debt!

'Tis true he now and then sits rather late;

But 'tis for business, and that business sport! He never hears a sixteen hours' debate

On herrings, hogsheads, and the price of port. He 'scapes Whig wit and Treasury retort ; (Owl as he is, he's not in Parliament !)

Nor cares a bean who's "in" or "out" at court; Nor trembles if the funds fall cent per cent;

Nor, like your Irish lords, get bullets for his rent!

Yes, give me but my choice, I'd be a bird;

But it must be an osprey-a sea-King!

Wherever gale awoke or billow stirr'd

Breasting the tempest; ever on the wing;
Steering, when winter frown'd, to seek the spring,
By "vext Bermoothes," or some Indian shore.
Then, tired of sunshine, on the whirlwind fling
My broad black pinion for my sail and oar,
'Till once again I heard my northern surges roar.

Then I should colonise; choose some bright spot,
Some nobler Kilda, in some mightier main ;
Where, though men might be eaten, birds might not;
Nor idle lordlings fill their bags with slain.

Then, looking down with dignified disdain

On man, the wretch! the sport of winds and waves!
Throned on my promontory's granite chain,

Scoff at the world's unfeather'd tribe of slaves,
Toiling to find at best but coroneted graves!

Or I should take my tour-that tour the world!
My road the clouds; my galloppers the wind!
What were your boilers to my plumes unfurl'd,
Making five hundred miles before I dined?
No beggar passport my bold path to bind,
(That pettiest privilege of petty kings-

Those well-dress'd men, whom all conspire to blind ;) Taking my "bird's eye view" of men and things, Teaching the world the grand supremacy of wings!

DREAMS.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. FROM FESTUS.

THE dead of night: earth seems but seeming-
The soul seems but a something dreaming.

The bird is dreaming, in its nest,

Of song, and sky, and loved one's breast;
The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies,
In moonshine of his mistress' eyes:

The steed is dreaming, in his stall,

Of one long breathless leap and fall :
The hawk hath dreamt him thrice of wings
Wide as the skies he may not cleave:
But waking, feels them clipt, and clings
Mad to the perch, 'twere mad to leave :
The child is dreaming of its toys-
The murderer of calm home joys;
The weak are dreaming endless fears-
The proud of how their pride appears:
The poor enthusiast who dies,

Of his life dreams the sacrifice-
Sees, as enthusiast only can,

The truth that made him more than man;
And hears once more, in vision'd trance,
That voice commanding to advance,
Where wealth is gain'd-love, wisdom won,
Or deeds of anger dared and done.
The mother dreamneth of her child-
The maid of him who hath beguiled-
The youth of her he loves too well;
The good of God-the ill of Hell,-
Who live of death-of life who die-
The dead of immorality.

If all written poetry, except Festus, was blotted out, in Festus there would still remain sufficient thought to rekindle in other poets what was lost. We feel that Festus is not sufficiently understood-that Mr. Bailey is not sufficiently known, although he is the greatest grasper of poetic symbols, and poetic passion, that the age has produced.-Critic.

THE MIGHTY DEAD.

WASHINGTON ALLSTON, THE AMERICAN PAINTER, BORN IN SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1779.

As, thinking of the mighty dead,

The young from slothful couch will start,
And vow, with lifted hands outspread,
Like them to act a noble part!

O, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When, but for those our mighty dead,
All ages past a blank would be,
Sunk in oblivion's murky bed-
A desert bare--a shipless sea?
They are the distant objects seen,
The lofty marks of what hath been.

O, who shall lightly say that fame
Is nothing but an empty name,
When memory of the mighty dead
To earth-worn pilgrim's wistful eye
The brightest rays of cheering shed,
That point to immortality.