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"Live like yourself," was soon my lady's word; And lo! two puddings smoked upon the board. Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

An honest factor stole a gem away:

He pledged it to the knight; the knight had wit, So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit. Some scruple rose, but thus he eased his thought, "I'll now give sixpence where I gave a groat; Where once I went to church I'll now go twiceAnd am so clear too of all other vice."

The tempter saw his time; the work he plied; Stocks and subscriptions pour on every side, Till all the Demon makes his full descent In one abundant shower of cent per cent, Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole, Then dubs director, and secures his soul.

Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit,
Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he called a blessing, now was wit,
And God's good providence a lucky hit,

Things change their titles, as our manners turn.
His counting-house employed the Sunday morn :
Seldom at church ('twas such a busy life),
But duly sent his family and wife.

There (so the devil ordained) one Christmas-tide
My good old lady catched a cold and died.

A nymph of quality admires our knight,
He marries, bows at court, and grows polite:
Leaves the dull cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The wellbred cuckolds in St. James's air.

In Britain's senate he a seat obtains,
And one more pensioner St. Stephen gains.
My lady falls to play; so bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.

Wife, son, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the crown:
The devil and the king divide the prize,
And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

EDWIN AND EMMA.

BY MALLET.

FAR in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,
A humble cottage stood.

There beauteous Emma flourished fair
Beneath her mother's eye,
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.

The softest blush that nature spreads

Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour smiles through heaven,
When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones scorn

This charmer of the plains;

That sun which bids their diamonds blaze

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had she fired each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair;

And though by all a wonder owned,
Yet knew not she was fair;

Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul that knew no art;
And from whose eyes, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too revealed;
For neither bosom lodged a wish
Which virtue keeps concealed.

What happy hours of heart-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow !
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His sister, who, like envy formed,
Like her in mischief joyed,

To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employed.

The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling as the rock
From whence his riches grew.

Long had he seen their mutual flame,
And seen it long unmoved;
Then with a father's frown at last
He sternly disapproved.

In Edwin's gentle heart, a war
Of differing passions strove;
His heart, which durst not disobey,
Yet could not cease to love.

Denied her sight, he oft behind

The spreading hawthorn crept,
To snatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where Emma walked and wept.

Oft, too, in Stanmore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,

In sighs to pour his softened soul,
The midnight mourner strayed.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glowed,

A deadly pale o'ercast;

So fades the fresh rose in its prime,

Before the northern blast.

The parents now, with late remorse,
Hung o'er his dying bed;

And wearied Heaven with fruitless prayers,
And fruitless sorrows shed.

""Tis past," he cried, "but if your souls

Sweet mercy yet can move,

Let these dim eyes once more behold
What they must ever love."

She came; his cold hand softly touched,
And bathed with many a tear;
Fast-falling o'er the primrose pale,
So morning dews appear.

But oh! his sister's jealous care

(A cruel sister she!)

Forbade what Emma came to say,

"My Edwin, live for me."

Now homeward as she hopeless went,

The churchyard path along,

The blast blew cold, the dark owl screamed Her lover's funeral song.

Amid the falling gloom of night,

Her startling fancy found
In every bush his hovering shade,
His groan in every sound.

Alone, appalled, thus had she passed

The visionary vale

When lo! the deathbell smote her ear,

Sad sounding in the gale!

Just then she reached, with trembling steps,

Her aged mother's door:

"He's gone!" she cried, " and I shall see
That angel face no more.

I feel, I feel this breaking heart

Beat high against my side!"

From her white arm down sunk her head,
She shivered, sighed, and died.

ON PROCRASTINATION.

BY YOUNG.

BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer:
Next day the fatal precedent will plead ;
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.

Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born.
All pay themselves the compliment to think,
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise :
At least their own; their future selves applaud :
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone,
"Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.

All promise is poor dilatory man,

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