No-no, that time can ne'er arrive, for, whatsoe'er befall,
This heart shall still be wholly thine, or shall not be at all;
And to an offering like this thou canst not e'er be coy,
But still wilt be my faithful and my gentle little boy!

4. My winsome one, my gallant one, so fair, so happy now, With thy bonnet set so proudly upon thy shining brow, With thy fearless bounding motions, and thy laugh of thoughtless glee,

So circled by a father's love which wards each ill from thee!
Can I suppose another time when this shall all be o'er,
And thy cheek shall wear the ruddy badge of happiness no

more;

When all who now delight in thee far elsewhere shall have

gone,

And thou shalt pilgrimize through life, unfriended and alone, Without an aid to strengthen or console thy troubled mind, Save the memory of the love of those who left thee thus behind.

5. Oh, let me not awake the thought, but, in the present blest, Make thee a child of wisdom-and to Heaven bequeath

the rest:

For rather let me image thee, in sunny future days,
Outdoing every deed of mine and wearing brighter bays;
With less to dull thy fervency of recollected pain,
And more, to animate thy course of glory and of gain;
A home as happy shall be thine, and I too shall be there,
The blessings purchased by thy worth in peace and love to
share-

Shall see within thy beaming eye my early love repaid,
And every ill of failing life a bliss by kindness made-
Shall see thee pour upon thy son, then sitting on thy knee,
A father's gushing tenderness, such as I feel for thee;
And know, as I at this moment do, no brighter, better joy,
Than thus to clasp unto thy soul thy darling little boy!

THE MISER.-FIELDING.

LOVEGOLD-JAMES.

Love. Where have you been? I have wanted you above an hour.

James. Whom do you want, sir,--your coachman or your cook? for I am both one and t'other.

Love. I want my cook.

James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for you have had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horses were starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in an instant. (Puts off his coachman's great coat and appears as a cook.) Now, sir, I am ready for your commands.

Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.

James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half year; a dinner, indeed, now and then; but for a supper I'm almost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.

Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you provide a good supper.

James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir. Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can you say nothing else but money, money, money? My children, my servants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money.

James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table? Love. About eight or ten; but I will have a supper dressed but for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enough for ten.

James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at the other, a fine Westphalia ham, and chickens; on one side, a fillet of veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which may be had for about a guinea—

for

Love. Patience! is the fellow providing an entertainment my lord mayor and the court of aldermen ? James. Then a ragout

Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good people, you dog?

what will you have?

James. Then pray, sir, say Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs; let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet-pudding; some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small, lean breast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes.

James. O, dear

Love. Plenty and variety.

James. But, sir, you must have some poultry.

Love. No; I'll have none.

James. Indeed, sir, you should.

Love. Well, then,-kill the old hen, for she has done laying.

James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed, people say enough of you already.

Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray?

James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry.

Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what the world says of me.

James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make a jest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your acOne says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order to find an excuse to pay them no wages.

count.

Love. Poh! poh!

James. Another says, you were taken one night stealing your own oats from your own horses.

Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.

James. In a word, you are the by-word everywhere; and you are never mentioned, but by the name of covetous, stingy, scraping, old

Love. Get along, you impudent villain !
James. Nay, sir, you said you
wouldn't be angry.
Love. Get out, you dog! you—

UNCLE JO.-ALICE CAREY.

1. I HAVE in memory a little story,

That few indeed would rhyme about but me; "Tis not of love, nor fame, nor yet of glory,

Although a little colored with the three-
In very truth, I think as much, perchance,
As most tales disembodied from romance.

2. Jo lived about the village, and was neighbor To every one who had hard work to do; If he possessed a genius, 'twas for labor

Most people thought--but there was one or two Who sometimes said, when he arose to go, "Come in again, and see us, Uncle Jo!"

3. The "uncle" was a courtesy they gave—

And felt they could afford to give to him—
Just as the master makes of some good slave
An Aunt Jemima, or an Uncle Jim;
And of this dubious kindness Jo was glad—
Poor fellow! it was all he ever had!

4. A mile or so away he had a brother—

A rich, proud man, that people didn't hire;
But Jo had neither sister, wife, nor mother,

And baked his corn-cake at his cabin fire
After the day's work, hard for you or me,
But he was never tired-how could he be ?

5. They called him dull, but he had eyes of quickness For everybody that he could befriend;

Said one and all: "How kind he is in sickness!"

But there, of course, his goodness had an end; Another praise there was they might have given, For one or more days out of every seven

6. With his old pickaxe swung across his shoulder,
And downcast eyes, and slow and sober tread—
He sought the place of graves, and each beholder
Wondered and asked some other who was dead;
But when he digged all day, nobody thought,
That he had done a whit more than he ought.

7. At length, one winter when the sunbeams slanted
Faintly and cold across the churchyard snow,
The bell tolled out--alas! a grave was wanted,
And all looked anxiously for Uncle Jo;

His spade stood leaned against his own roof-tree,
There was his pickaxe, too-but where was he?

8. They called and called again, and no replying;
Smooth at the window, and about the door
The snow in cold and heavy drifts was lying—
He didn't need the daylight any more.

One shook him roughly, and another said:
"As true as preaching, Uncle Jo is dead!"

9. And when they wrapped him in linen, fairer And finer, too, than he had worn till then, They found a picture-haply of the sharer

Of sunny hopes, sometimes; or where, or when, They did not care to know, but closed his eyes And placed it in the coffin where it lies.

10. None wrote his epitaph, nor saw the beauty

Of the young love that reached into the grave, Nor how in unobtrusive ways of duty

He kept, despite the dark; but men less brave Have left great names, while not a willow bends Above his dust-poor man, he had no friends!