Shot through the solid mass, toward the source, And blended with the general elements, When thy young star o'er life's horizon hung Far from it's zenith yet low lagging clouds (Vapors of earth) obscured its heaven-born rays-- Dull joys of prejudice and superstition And vulgar decencies begirt thee round; And thou didst wear awhile th' unholy bonds Of "holy matrimony!" and didst vail Awhile thy lofty spirit to the cheat.-- But reason came-and firm philosophy, And mild philanthropy, and pointed out The shame it was-the crying, crushing shame, To curb within a little paltry pale The love that over all created things Should be diffusive as the atmosphere. Then did thy boundless tenderness expand Over all space--all animated things And things inanimate. Thou hadst a heart, A ready tear for all.--The dying whale, Stranded and gasping--ripped up for his blubber By Man the Tyrant.--The small sucking pig Slain for his riot.--The down-trampled flower Crushed by his cruel foot.--ALL, EACH, and ALL Shared in thy boundless sympathies, and then-- (SUBLIME perfection of perfected LOVE) Then didst thou spurn the whimp'ring wailing thing That dared to call THEE "husband," and to claim, As her just right, support and love from THEE-- Then didst thou * * * * * * * * * * * THE CONFESSION. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE There's somewhat on my breast father, There's somewhat on my breast! The live-long day I sigh, father, At night I can not rest; I can not take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so, A weary weight oppresseth me-- The weary weight of woe! 'Tis not the lack of gold, father Nor lack of worldly gear; My lands are broad and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear; My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief, But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief! 'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Though busy flatterers swarm around, I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my laboring breast-- Its that confounded cucumber I've ate, and can't digest. THE MILLING-MATCH BETWEEN ENTELLUS AND DARES. TRANSLATED FROM THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE AENEID, BY ONE OF THE FANCY. THOMAS MOORE. With daddles [Footnote: Hands.] high upraised, and NOB held back, In awful prescience of the impending THWACK, Both KIDDIES [Footnote: Fellows, usually YOUNG fellows.] stood--and with prelusive SPAR, And light manoeuv'ring, kindled up the war! The One, in bloom of youth--a LIGHT-WEIGHT BLADE-- The Other, vast, gigantic, as if made, Express, by Nature for the hammering trade; But aged, slow, with stiff limbs, tottering much, And lungs, that lack'd the BELLOWS-MENDER'S touch.