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tion to the affirmative renders it | tural inclination to negatives ren

unnecessary for us to point out to our fair countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they love as dearly as they do flattery. While we are on the subject of flattery, let us obiter advise all Etonians to say nothing but "Yes" to a lady. But as a thoughtless coquette or a haughty prude does occasionally forget the necessity and the beauty of the word we are discussing, we cannot but recommend to our fair readers to consider attentively the evils which this forgetfulness infallibly entails. Laurelia would never have been cut by her twenty-first adorer; Charlotte, with 4,000l. a-year at fifteen, would never have been an old maid at fifty; Lucy, with a good face and not a farthing, would never have refused a carriage, white liveries, and a peerage, if these unfortunate victims had studied in early youth the art of saying "Yes."

Sweet-light-gay-quaint Monosyllable! Tender, obliging, inoffensive, affectionate Yes! How we delight in thy delicate sound! We love to hear the enamoured swain petitioning for his mistress's picture, till the lady, or overcome by affection, or wearied by importunity, changes the "No" of coy reluctance for the "Yes" of final approbation. We love to hear the belle of Holborn-hill supplicating for Greenwich and the one-horse chay, till her surly parent alters the shake of unconvinced obduracy for the nod of unwilling consent. We love to see the henpecked husband humbly kneeling for his Sunday coat and "the Star and Garter," till Madam, conscious that the Captain is secreted in the closet, transmutes the "No" of authoritative detention into the

ders it unnecessary for us to point out to our fair countrywomen the beauties and advantages of a word which they use as constantly as their looking-glass. Nevertheless they do occasionally forget the love of opposition, which is the distinguishing ornament of their sex; and alas! they too frequently render themselves miserable by neglecting our conclusive Monosyllable. We most earnestly entreat those belles who honour with their notice the humble efforts of "The Etonian," to derive a timely warning from the examples of those ladies who have lived to regret a hasty and unthinking assent. Anna would never have been the mistress of a colonel; Martha would never have been the wife of a cornet; Lydia would never have been tied to age, ugliness, and gout, if these unfortunate victims had studied in early youth the art of saying "No."

Short-strong-sharp--- quaint Monosyllable! Forcible, convincing, argumentative, indisputable No! How we delight in thy expressive sound! We love to hear the Miss of fifteen plaguing her uncle for her Christmas ball, till Squaretoes, finding vain the excuses of affection, finishes the negociation with the "No" of authority. We love to hear the enamoured swain pouring forth his raptures at the feet of an inexorable Mistress, till the lady changes her key from the quiet hint of indifference to the decided "No" of aversion. We love to hear the schoolboy supplicating a remission of his sentence, until his sable judge alters the "I can't” of sorrowful necessity, to the "No" of inflexible indignation. We love -but it is time for us to bring our

"Yes" of immediate dismission. | treatise to a conclusion, and we

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"TWAS silence all-the glorious Sun
His daily race of life had run,

The Moon her silver lamp had spread
Refulgent over Hanga's head,

And, o'er each hut and lordly tower,
Soft Sleep had spread his balmy power :
But when at morn, with giant stride,
The Sun repaired his golden tide,
The rising winds impetuous bore
Loud shouts along the winding shore,
And Lapland hills returned the sound,
And dale and grot re-echoed round;
In flinty splendor Hanga's rock
Receiv'd with joy the mighty shock,
And Heaven itself, with arch serene,
Gaz'd eager on the wondrous scene.

II.

No steeds in gorgeous trappings prance,
No warrior points his feathered lance,
It is not war's new-kindled sound
That rushes o'er the groaning ground,

No hatchet glittering in the way,
No trumpet shrill-no opening bay
Of dogs impatient for the chase
Proclaims the panting courser's race.
But Lapland's sons and Lapland's dames
Stand gazing o'er the rising flames,
And watch with pious ken the fire
To Heaven's blue-vaulted arch aspire;
For woe to him whose impious breast
Shall scorn great ODIN's hallow'd feast,
Who shall not hear his country's call
To hail the mighty Festival!

III.

The flames rise high-the trembling sod
Scarce bears the host's unnumber'd tread,
And hearts invoke the Guardian God
To watch above each suppliant's head:
But still each breast, with chiefest zeal,
Burns anxious for its country's weal,
And calls the Arbiter of Fate

To spread his wings o'er Lapland's State;
For each, with patriotic eye,

Can mark his son, his father, die;
And praise the spirit that flits away
Amid the heart-drop's purple flood,
And glory that he priz'd the day

Of life below his Country's good.
Such Lapland's sons. Each bosom pray'd
To Odin's ever-watchful shade—

Odin-who, living, ever saw

Whole armies quail beneath his nod;

Dying, became a nation's awe,

His Country's friend his Country's God.

ODE TO DESPAIR.

HENCE! Fiend of Hell, who lov'st to brood
O'er sad misfortune's load of woe,

And snatch with haste, as sweetest food,
The tears that pain has forced to flow :
Nor here, thou stern, relentless Power,
Prepare to blast each sweetest flower,
That e'er adorns life's tedious way,

And blooms in gentle youth, and blushes while 'tis May.

Hence for not here the guilty soul,

The conscience-stricken breast thou❜lt find,
Whom Virtue's laws could ne'er control,

Whom Honour's pledge could never bind.
With such as these thou lov'st to dwell,
And give to life the pangs of hell;

While all around fell woes appear,

Sharp Pain, and moody Hate, and self-avoiding Fear.

To thee is sweet the lonely heart

That owns no tie of love on earth,

To ease it from the frequent smart
That lurks beneath the veil of mirth;
Upon whose drear and desert state,
Not one last ling'ring ray may wait,

Of all that once was precious here,

Of all that beauty gave, or happiness made dear.

To thee is sweet the madden'd breast

That Fury's boiling passions tear,

That knows no interval of rest

From bitterest pangs the frame can bear;

To thee is sweet the cold glaz'd eye

That glares in hideous vacancy;

To thee is sweet the gasping breath,

The blood-bespatter'd hand, and agony of Death.

Go, search thee out the blasted heath,
Where Madness walks his nightly round,
Where the owl shrieks, and deeds of death
Are whisper'd in the night-wind's sound.
Go, search thee out the darksome shed,
Where Crime conceals his guilty head,
Strikes o'er again the last death-blow,
And hears in every gale the footsteps of a foe.

Go, search thee out the wretch accursed,
Who thinks no hope for him remains,
Whose spleen, by sin and malice nursed,
Writhing beneath disease's pains,
He vents alike 'gainst Man and God,
Careless of all that o'er him nod,
Of all the terrors Fear inspires,

Of adamantine chains that wait, and penal fires.

Father of Heav'n, Almighty Power!
Let not such pangs this heart infest ;
Let not Despair's revengeful hour
Afflict thy lowly suppliant's breast:
Give me the soul, that nobly great
Can meet unmov'd the shock of fate;

Bear-firmly bear-Misfortune's blow,

And smile beneath the weight and bitterness of woe.

Grant me, though doomed by thee to drain

Its bitterest dreg from Sorrow's bowl,

Grant me to smile beneath the pain

That racks, but not subdues, my soul.

Grant me the calm, though tortured mind,
Hopeless and friendless-yet resigned;

And let me scorn the coward's cry,

Whom misery can move to "curse his God, and die."

S. D.

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