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A sword with gilt trapping rose up in the scale,
Though balanced by only a ten-penny nail;
A shield and a helmet, a buckler and spear,
Weighed less than a widow's uncrystallized tear.

A lord and a lady went up at full sail,
When a bee chanced to light on the opposite scale;
Ten doctors, ten lawyers, two courtiers, one earl,
Ten counselors' wigs, full of powder and curl,
All heaped in one balance and swinging from thence,
Weighed less than a few grains of candor and sense ;
A first-water diamond, with brilliants begirt,
Than one good potato just washed from the dirt;
Yet not mountains of silver and gold could suffice
One pearl to outweigh,—'t was the Pearl of Great Price.

Last of all, the whole world was bowled in at the grate,
With the soul of a beggar to serve for a weight,
When the former sprang up with so strong a rebuff
That it made a vast rent and escaped at the roof!
When balanced in air, it ascended on high,
And sailed up aloft, a balloon in the sky;
While the scale with the soul in 't so mightily fell
That it jerked the philosopher out of his cell.

JANE TAYLOR.

A Modest Ulit.

A SUPERCILIOUS nabob of the East

Haughty, being great---purse-proud, being rich-
A governor, or general, at the least,

I have forgotten which-
Had in his family a humble youth,

Who went from England in his patron's suite,
An unassuming boy, in truth

A lad of decent parts, and good repute.

This youth had sense and spirit;

But yet with all his sense,

Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit.

One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,

His honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

“Young man,” he said, " by what art, craft, or trade,

Did your good father gain a livelihood ? ”. “He was a saddler, sir,” Modestus said,

“And in his time was reckon'd good.”

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“A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,

Instead of teaching you to sew ! Pray, why did not your father make

A saddler, sir, of you ? "

Each parasite, then, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.

At length Modestus, bowing low,
Said (craving pardon, if too free he made),
“Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade!”

“My father's trade! by heaven, that 's too bad !
My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad ?
My father, sir, did never stoop so low-
He was a gentleman, I'd have you know.”

“Excuse the liberty I take,”

I
Modestus said, with archness on his brow,
“Pray, why did not your father make
A gentleman of you ?”

SELLEOK OSBORN.

Saint Patrick.

St. PATRICK was a gentleman,

Who came of decent people;
He built a church in Dublin town,

And on it put a steeple.
His father was a Gallagher;

His mother was a Brady;
His aunt was an O'Shaughnessy,

His uncle an O'Grady.
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,

For he 's a saint so clever;
Oh! he gave the snakes and toads a twist,

And bothered them forever!

The Wicklow hills are very high,

And so 's the hill of Howth, sir ; But there 's a hill, much bigger still,

Much higher nor them both, sir: 'T was on the top of this high hill

St. Patrick preached his sarmint That drove the frogs into the bogs,

And banished all the varmint.

There 's not a mile in Ireland's isle

Where dirty varmin musters,
But where he put his dear fore-foot,

And murdered them in clusters.
The toads went pop, the frogs went hop,

Slap-dash into the water;
And the snakes committed suicide

To save themselves from slaughter.

Nine hundred thousand reptiles blue

He charmed with sweet discourses, And dined on them at Killaloe

In soups and second courses.

Where blind-worms crawling in the grass

Disgusted all the nation, He gave

them a rise, which opened their eyes To a sense of their situation.

No wonder that those Irish lads

Should be so gay and frisky,
For sure St. Pat he taught them that,

As well as making whiskey;
No wonder that the saint himself

Should understand distilling,
Since his mother kept a shebeen-shop

In the town of Enniskillen.

O, was I but so fortunate

As to be back in Munster, 'Tis I'd be bound that from that ground

I never more would once stir.
For there St. Patrick planted turf,

And plenty of the praties,
With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store,

And cabbages and ladies.
So, success attend St. Patrick's fist,

For he 's a saint so clever;
O, he gave the snakes and toads a twist
And bothered them forever!

HENRY BENNETT.

The Cloud.

A CLOUD lay cradled near the setting sun,

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; Long had I watched the glory moving on,

O’er the still radiance of the lake below:
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow,

E'en in its very motion there was rest,
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow,

Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul,

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given,
And by the breath of mercy made to roll

Right onward to the golden gates of heaven,
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.

John Wilson.

The Bucket.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view ! -
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew !
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it;
And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure;
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure--
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
and quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell!
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green, mossy brim to receive it,
A8, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips !
Not a full, blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

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