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The surgeon, who had had his fill
Of stench, and trembled for his bill,
Saw day by day, with aggravated loathing,

That they were only dabbling, paddling,

Twiddling, and fiddle-faddling, And helping one another to do nothing; So called the foreman in, and begged to know, As a great favour, when they meant to go. “Why," quoth the honest man, scratching his nob, “Not afore master gets another job.”

The surgeon stormed and swore, but took the hint, Laid in a double stock of lint,

And to his patients at the “Plough ” dispenses,
Week after week, new pills and plasters;
Looks very grave on their disasters,

And will not answer for the consequences,
If they presume to use their arms or feet,
Before their cure is quite complete.
“No, no,” he mutters, “ they shall be
Served as the painters treated me;

And, if my slowness they reproach,
I'll tell them they shall leave the place
The moment there's another race

Run by the patent safety coach.”

A LAST FAREWELL.

Thomas, EARL OF STRAFFORD. (Written by himself a little before his death, and printeil on a broadsheet. London, 1641.]

FAREWELL, vain world! farewell, my fleeting joys,
Whose drop of music's but an echo's noise;
And all the lustre of your painted light,
But as dull dreams and phantoms of the night.
Empty your pleasures, too, nor can they last
Longer than air-blown bubbles, or a blast.

Farewell, you fading honours, which do blind
By your false mists the sharpest-sighted mind;
And having raised him to his height of cares,
Tumble him headlong down the slippery stairs.
How shall I praise or prize your glorious ills,
Which are but poison put in golden pills ?
Farewell my blustering titles ; ne'er come back,
You've swelled my sails until my mastings crack,
And made my vessel reel against the rocks
Of gaping ruin, whose destructive knocks
Hath helpless left me, sinking, here to lie;
The cause ? I raised my maintop sails too high.
Farewell, ambition, since we needs must part,
Thou great enchantress of man's greater heart :
Thy gilded titles that do seem so fair,
Are but like meteors hanging in the air :
In whose false splendour, falling thence, is found
No worth, but water-like shed on the ground.

Farewell the glory, from which all the rest
Derive the sweets for which men style them best,
That from one root in several branches spring;
I mean—the favour of my gracious king;
This, too, hath led my wandering soul astray,
Like ignis fatuus from its righter way.
Farewell, my friends—I need not bid you go;
When fortune flies, you freely will do so;
Worship the rising, not the setting sun.
The house is falling. Vermin quickly run.
Bees from the withered flowers do make haste;
The reason ? because they have lost their taste.
Farewell, the treasures of my tempting store,
Which of all idols I did least adore;
Haste to some idiot's coffer, and he'll be
Thy slave, as I have master been to thee.
Heaven knows of all the suitors I have had,
I prized the least, as counting none so bad.

Lastly, my foes farewell; for such I have
Who do in multitudes wait for my grave;
'Mongst which I can't believe but some there be
That hate my vices only, and not me;
Let them pass o'er my fame without a blot,
And let the vulgar snatch, they know not what.

Let them besmear me by the chattering notes,
Poor, silly hearts, which echo through their throats ;
I'll pass it o'er and pray, with patience, too;
" Father, forgive, they know not what they do."
Yet O! I could have wooed my treacherous fate;
T'have let me died without the public hate.

THE MODERN CYMON.

“ THE LUNATIC, THE LOVER, AND THE POET."

BRYAN WALLER PROCTOR.

Mr. Bryan Waller Proctor, born about the year 1790, and educated at Harrow School, is better known for the least ambitious of his writings, those sterling English songs which he published under the pseudonym of " Barry Cornwall," than for the more matured efforts of his genius—such is the vitality of a song (who does not remember “The Sea, the Sea, the open Sea ?") when it has once fairly taken hold of the public mind. When Barry Cornwall commenced writing his English Songs, he could say with some degree of truth that “England was singularly barren of song writers.” This opinion he has lived to outgrow; for the growth of sterling English song has been no less rapid than, let us hope, it is permanent. To the few names that could be pointed at in Barry Cornwall's early days the names may now be added of Charles Mackay, Eliza Cook, Felicia Hemans, Charles Swain, and his own highly gifted and much-lamented daughter, Adelaide Proctor. Mr. Proctor is the author of a tragedy, “Mirandola,” which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre in 1821. He has also published " A Sicilian Story," "Marcian Colonna," "The Flood of Thessaly," poems; and a series of “Dramatic Scenes," modelled on the old English drama. Mr. Proctor is a member of the bar, and was for many years a Com

missioner of Lunacy, which office he resigned in 1860. During the present year (1866) he has published a “Memoir of Charles Lamb.”]

You bid me tell you, why I rise

At midnight from my lonely bed;
And search amongst the coming clouds

And talk as though I saw the dead :
You speak of madness of the moon

I've heard such idle jeers before :
Give me your patience, for my tale,

And you shall deem me mad no more.

I was not born of noble race:

I know a peasant was my sire;
But, from my mother's breast, I sucked

The milk that filled my blood with fire.
I ran, as wild as doth the wolf,

About the fields, for many years ;
But, in my twentieth summer, Thought

Sprang upwards, in a rain of tears.

A sudden chance (if chance it were)

Flung me across a marriage train ;
And there I saw a wretched girl

Forced onwards, while she wept in vain.
I never saw so fair a thing :

My eyes were hot within my head :
I heard her scream-I saw her forced

(By a brother) towards a brute-and wed.

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I sought the hills—I sought the woods;

My heart was bursting in my breast :
At last, tears rushed in rivers forth,

And, for a time, I felt at rest.
Those tears! they washed from off my eyes

The cloudy film that on them lay;
And I awoke, and saw the light,

And knew I did behold the Day.

Till then, I had but been a beast,

Had let mere savage will prevail ;
Was ignorant-sullen-fierce; till Love-

(You have some fable, like my tale,) Till Love flew forth and touched my heart;

Then, all at once, my Spirit strong
Swelled upwards, like a torrent damm’d,

And forced its furious way along.
I read—I learned—I thought, I loved !

(For Love was all the motive then)'; ime And one, who was a friend, gave help,

And I went forth and mixed with men: I talked with him they called her lord ;

I talked with Her—who was a bride Through fraud and force and rapine ;-God!

She spoke :-I think I could have died ! · I heard her words; I saw her eyes,

Where patient mingled with the sad :
I felt her breath upon my cheek;

Its perfume did not drive me mad.
I listened dumbly to her wrongs-

Imprisoned, struck, despised, deceived;
And, in my heart, I heard a voice

Cry out “Revenge!"--and I believed !
Still, Time wore on; and efforts vain

Were made to bend the Dæmon's will;
To wean him from the wrong to right;

But, he was base and cruel still.
Such deeds he did ! Romance hath bared

The truth of many a hellish crime;
But never yet did Fiction dream

Of half that I could tell in rhyme. i Suffice it; all things have an end.

There is an end, where mortal pain Must stop, and can endure no more:

This limit did we now attain;

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