Still of beauty possess'd, and not yet void of shame,
With a heart that recoils at a prostitute's name,
She tries for a service,-her character 's gone,
And for skill at her needle, alas! 'tis unknown:
Pale want now approaches, the pawn-broker's near,
And her trinkets and cloaths one by one disappear,
Till at length sorely pinch'd, and quite desperate
grown,

The poor blue-eyed Mary is forc'd on the town.

In a brothel next see her, trick'd out to allure,
And all ages, all humours compell'd to endure,
Compell'd, though disgusted, to wheedle and feign,
With an aspect all smiles, and a bosom all pain,
Now caress'd, now insulted, now flatter'd, now
scorn'd,

And by ruffians and drunkards oft wantonly spurn'd.
This worst of all misery she's doom'd to endure,
For the poor blue-eyed Mary is now an impure.

While thus the barb'd arrow sinks deep in her soul,
She flies for relief to that traitor, the bowl,
Grows stupid and bloated, and lost to all shame,
Whilst a dreadful disease is pervading her frame;
Now with eyes dim and languid the once blooming
maid,

In a garret on straw faint and helpless is laid;

T

O mark her pale cheek, see she scarce takes her

breath,

And lo! her blue eyes are now seal'd up in death.

LOCHINVAR.

[WALTER SCOTT.]

YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, That never was Knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Eske river, where ford there was none;

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;-
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine,
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,
"Now tread we a measure," said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,

That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and
plume;

by far

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'twere better [invar," To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loch

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur,

Lochinvar.

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

There was mounting'mong Graemes of the Netherby
clan;
[they ran :
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ?

[WILLIAM WOTY.]

My temples with clusters of grapes I'll entwine,
And barter all joys for a goblet of wine,
In search of a Venus no longer I'll run,
But stop and forget her at Bacchus's tun.

Yet why this resolve to relinquish the fair?
'Tis a folly with spirits like mine to despair.
And pray what mighty joys can be found in a glass,
If not fill'd to the health of a favourite lass.

'Tis woman whose joys every rapture impart,
And lend a new spring to the pulse of the heart,
The miser himself (so supreme is her sway)
Grows a convert to love, and resigns her his key.

At the sound of her voice sorrow lifts up
his head,
And poverty listens well pleas'd from his shed,
Whilst age in half extacy hobbling along,
Beats time with his crutch to the tune of her song.

Then fill me a goblet from Bacchus's hoard,
The largest, the deepest that stands on the board:
I'll fill up a brimmer, and drink to the fair,

'Tis the thirst of a lover, then pledge me who dare.

PLATO'S ADVICE.*

SAYS

ys Plato, why should man be vain,

Since bounteous heaven hath made him great?

Why look with insolent disdain

On those undeck'd with wealth or state?

Can splendid robes or beds of down,

Or costly gems that deck the fair,

Can all the glories of a crown,"

Give health, or ease the brow of care?

* An alteration of a song written by the Rev. Mathew Pilkington, beginning

"Why, Lycidas, should man be vain,"