And thou wert the earliest song that he sung; Now feeble and trembling his hand sweeps the wire-- Be thine its last note!--Sound the harp I strike the lyre! I've wander'd where riches and poverty dwell; With all but, the sordid, thy name was a spell. Love, pity, and joy, in each bosom beat higher; Rage, madness, despair I--Sound the harp! strike the lyre! The scenes of thy triumphs are pass'd as a dream; But still flows in beauty, sweet Avon--thy stream. Still rises majestic that heaven-pointed spire, Thy temple and tomb!--Sound the harp! strike the lyre!” * The Duke of Marlborough, on being asked in the house of a titled lady from what history of England he was quoting, answered, “the only one I have ever read--Shakspere!” “Gentlemen,” said Uncle Timothy, and his eye glistened and his lip trembled, “the old minstrel must not depart hence without a full purse and a plentiful scrip. But first to bespeak him the best bed that this hostelrie affords, and compound a loving cup to warm his heart as he hath warmed ours. This chimney-corner shall be his harp's resting-place for the night, as perchance it hath been of many long since silent and unstrung.” The middle-aged gentleman rose to usher in the minstrel; but paused as the harp and voice were again attuned, but to a livelier measure. “THE PEDLAR'S PACK. “Needles and pins! Needles and pins! Lads and lasses, the fair begins! Ribbons and laces For sweet smiling faces; Glasses for quizzers; Bodkins and scissors; Baubles, my dears, For your fingers and ears; Sneeshing for sneezers; Toothpicks and tweezers; Garlands so gay For Valentine's day; Fans for the pretty; Jests for the witty; Songs for the many Three yards a penny! I'm a jolly gay pedlar, and bear on my back, Like my betters, my fortune through brake and through briar; I shuffle, I cut, and I deal out my pack; And when I play the knave,'tis for you to play higher! In default of a scrip, In my pocket I slip A good fat hen, lest it die of the pip! When my cream I have sipp'd, And my liquor I've lipp'd, I often have been, like my syllabub--whipp'd. But a pedlar's back is as broad as its long, So is his conscience, and so is his song!”