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“I have it now," Hodge grinning, cries,

" I'll answer like a proctor,
Who's Japhet's father ?--now I know

Why, Tom Long Smith, the Doctor."


Thomas SHERIDAN. (Thomas Sheridan, son of Dr. Sheridan (the friend of Dean Swift), and elder brother of the celebrated Richard Brinsley Sheridan, was born at Quilca in Ireland, 1721. He was educated at Westminster, and at Trinity College, Dublin. In 1742 he went on the stage, and obtained much celebrity as a tragedian. He turned manager, and was ruined; then he started as professor of elocution. During the ministry of Lord Bute he obtained a pension of 2001. a year. He subsequently became manager of Drury Lane Theatre, but retired from the position to resume bis instructions in oratory. As an author, his principal works are an “Orthoepical Dictionary of the English Language," and a "Life of Swift.” Died 1788.]


Heard'st thou that dreadful roar ?
Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves,
Where Loch Swilly's billow raves-
And three hundred British graves

Taint the shore.
No voice of life was there-

'Tis the dead that raise the cry,--
The dead—who heard no prayer,
As they sunk in wild depair-
Chant in scorn that boastful air,

Where they lie.
Rule Britannia !" sang the crew,

When the stout Saldanha sailed,
And her colours, as they flew,
Flung the warrior-cross to view,
Which, in battle, to subdue

Ne'er had failed.

Bright rose the laughing morn,

That morn, that sealed her doom ;
Dark and sad is her return,
And the stern-lights faintly burn
As they toss upon her stern,

'Mid the gloom. From the lonely beacon height,

As the watchmen gazed around,
They saw the flashing light
Drive swift athwart the night,
Yet the wind was fair and right

For the Sound.
But no mortal power shall now,

That crew and vessel save;
They are shrouded as they go
In a hurricane of snow,
And the track beneath her prow

Was their grave.
There are spirits of the deep,

Who, when the warrant's given,
Rise raging from their sleep
On rock or mountain steep,
Or, 'mid thunder-clouds that sweep

Through the heaven. O'er Swilly's rocks they soar,

Commissioned watch to keep.
Down, down with thundering roar,
The exulting demons pour ;
The Saldanha floats no more

On the deep.
The dread behest is past-

All is silent as the grave;
One shriek was first and last,
Scarce a death-sob drunk the blast,
As sunk her towering mast

'Neath the wave.


Oh! vain and impious boast.
Go, mark, presumptuous slaves,
Where He who sinks or saves,
Strews the sand with countless graves

Round your coast.


Joseph Addison,
Dec. Cæsar sends health to Cato

Cato. Could he send it
To Cato's slaughter'd friends, it would be welcome.
Are not your orders to address the senate ?

Dec. My business is with Catu; Cæsar sees
The straits to which you are driven; and, as he knows
Cato's high worth, is anxious for your life.

Cato. My life is grafted on the fate of Rome. Would he save Cato, bid him spare his country. Tell your dictator this; and tell him, Cato Disdains a life which he has power to offer.

Dec. Rome and her senators submit to Cæsar; Her gen'rals and her consuls are no more, Who check'd his conquests, and denied his triumph: Why will not Cato be this Cæsar's friend ?

Cato. Those very reasons thou hast urged forbid it.

Dec. Cato, I've orders to expostulate,
And reason with you as from friend to friend :
Think on the storm that gathers o'er your head,
And threatens ev'ry hour to burst upon it.
Still may you stand high in your country's honours;
Do but comply and make your peace with Cæsar,
Rome will rejoice, and cast its eyes on Cato,
As on the second of mankind.

No more :
I must not think of life on such conditions.

Dec. Cæsar is well acquainted with your virtues,

And therefore sets this value on your life.
Let him but know the price of Cato's friendship,
And name your terms.

Bid him disband his legions,
Restore the commonwealth to liberty,
Submit his actions to the public censure,
And stand the judgment of a Roman senate :
Bid him do this, and Cato is his friend.

Dec. Cato, the world talks boldly of your wisdom.-

Cato. Nay more-tho' Cato's voice was ne'er employed
To clear the guilty, and to varnish crimes,
Myself will mount the rostrum in his favour
And strive to gain his pardon from the people.

Dec. A style like this becomes a conqueror.
Cato. Decius, a style like this becomes a Roman.
Dec. What is a Roman that is Cæsar's foe ?
Cato. Greater than Cæsar: he's a friend to virtue.

Dec. Consider, Cato, you're in Utica,
And at the head of your own little senate :
You don't now thunder in the capitol,
With all the mouths of Rome to second you.

Cato. Let him consider that, who drives us hither ;
'Tis Cæsar's sword has made Rome's senate little,
And thinn'd its ranks. Alas! thy dazzled eye
Beholds this man in a false glaring light,
Which conquest and success have thrown upon him;
Didst thou but view him right, thou’dst see him black
With murder, treason, sacrilege, and crimes
That strike my soul with horror but to name them.
I know thou look’st on me as on a wretch,
Beset with ills and cover'd with misfortunes;
But, by the gods I swear, millions of worlds
Should never buy me to be like Cæsar.

Dec. Does Cato send this answer back to Cæsar, For all his gen'rous cares and proffer'd friendship?

Cato. His cares for me are insolent and vain :
Presumptuous man! the gods take care of Cato.
Would Cæsar show the greatness of his soul,
Bid him employ his care for these my friends,

And make good use of his ill-gotten pow'r,
By sheltring men much better than himself.

Dec. Your high unconquer'd heart makes you forget
You are a man ; you rush on your destruction.
But I have done. When I relate hereafter
The tale of this unhappy embassy,
All Rome will be in tears.


SHELDON CHADWICK. Pretty little Lizzie was sent to the mill,

Before she had learned to play with the flowers, From the bell's first chime 'till the wheels stood still, She toiled like a caged bird away from the bowers.

Pretty little Lizzie !

Pity little Lizzie !
Oh! Death kindly kissed her meek, white face;

And lit her gentle eyes with strange fires wild;
But Lizzie's mother lay in the grave's cold place,

And oh, what a life she left for her child ! Pretty little Lizzie! the sun's golden rays

Blacker made the shadow of her dreary toil; Oh, never could her eyes on the blue sky gaze, Without an interbreath in the long turmoil.

Pretty little Lizzie !

Pity little Lizzie !
As the silkworm spinneth its fine, soft thread,

From her heart and her brain her life she spun,
From the hour that she crawled from her low straw bed

Till the rattle and the roar of the wheels was done. Pretty little Lizzie no longer was gay,

Her father ever loved at the ale-bench to be,
His curses stained the air of the holy Sabbath-day,
And Lizzie had no altar by her mother's knee.

Pretty little Lizzie !
Pity little Lizzie !

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