Ale-glasses and jugs,

And rummers and mugs,

And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs,

Cold fowl and cigars,

Pickled onions in jars,

Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws!—
And very large lobsters, with very large claws;
And there is M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues,
All come to see a man "die in his shoes !"

The clock strikes One!

Supper is done,

And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun,
Singing "Jolly companions every one!"
My Lord Tomnoddy

Is drinking gin-toddy,

And laughing at every thing, and every body.

The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three!

"Who so merry, so merry as we?"

Save Captain M'Fuze,

Who is taking a snooze,

While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work,
Blacking his nose with a piece of burnt cork.

The clock strikes Four!—

Round the debtors' door

Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more;

As many await

At the press-yard gate,

Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight
The mob divides, and between their ranks
A wagon comes loaded with posts and with planks.

The clock strikes Five!

The Sheriffs arrive,

And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks

Blinks, and winks,

A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks.
Lieutenant Tregooze

Is dreaming of Jews,

And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse;
My Lord Tomnoddy

Has drunk all his toddy,

And just as the dawn is beginning to peep,
The whole of the party are fast asleep.

Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks,
With roseate streaks,

Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks;
Seem'd as that mild and clear blue sky
Smiled upon all things far and nigh,

On all save the wretch condemn'd to die!
Alack! that ever so fair a Sun

As that which its course has now begun,

Should rise on such a scene of misery!

Should gild with rays so light and free
That dismal, dark-frowning Gallows-tree!

And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate;

The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight!
List to that low funereal bell:

It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell!
And see!-from forth that opening door

They come
Who ne'er shall tread upon threshold more!
-God! 'tis a fearsome thing to see

HE steps that threshold o'er

That pale wan man's mute agony, —
The glare of that wild, despairing eye,

Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky,
As though 'twere scanning, in doubt and in fear,
The path of the Spirit's unknown career;
Those pinion'd arms, those hands that ne'er
Shall be lifted again, - not even in prayer;
That heaving chest! - Enough -'tis done!
The bolt has fallen!-the spirit is gone-
For weal or for woe is known but to One!
-Oh! 'twas a fearsome sight! - Ah me!
A deed to shudder at, - not to see.

Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time!
The hour is past: with its earliest chime
The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away:

Nine!

-'twas the last concluding stroke!

And then-my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!

And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose:
And they stared at each other, as much as to say
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum Go!

Why, Captain!-my Lord!—Here's the devil to pay! The fellow's been cut down and taken away! What's to be done?

We've miss'd all the fun!

Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town: We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

What was to be done?-'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again : What was to be done? - The man was dead! Nought could be done!-nought could be said; So my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

THE following communication will speak for itself:

"On their own actions modest men are dumb!"

24

A DEAD ROSE.

BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

O

ROSE! who dares to name thee?...

No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat,

Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee

Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane, to last all day,

If breathing now--unsweeten'd would forego thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,

And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn,

Till beam appear'd to bloom and flower to burn, If shining now-with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,

And, white first, grew incarnadined, because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,

If dropping now--would darken where it met thee.

The fly that lit upon thee,

To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet

Along thy leaf's pure edges after heat,

If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee.