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tion to the affirmative renders it | tural inclination to negatives renunnecessary for us to point out to ders it unnecessary for us to point our fair countrywomen the beauties out to our fair countrywomen the and advantages of a word which | beauties and advantages of a word they love as dearly as they do flat which they use as constantly, as tery. While we are on the sub their looking-glass. Nevertheless ject of flattery, let us obiter advise they do occasionally forget the all Etonians to say nothing but love of opposition, which is the “Yes” to a lady. But as a thought distinguishing ornament of their less coquette or a haughty prude sex; and alas! they too frequently does occasionally forget the neces- render themselves miserable by sity and the beauty of the word neglecting our conclusive Monowe are discussing, we cannot but syllable. We most earnestly enrecommend to our fair readers to | treat those belles who honour with consider attentively the evils which their notice the humble efforts of this forgetfulness infallibly entails. 66 The Etonian," to derive a timely Laurelia would never have been warning from the examples of cut by her twenty-first adorer; | those ladies who have lived to Charlotte, with 4,000l. a-year at | regret a hasty and unthinking fifteen, would never have been an assent. Anna would never have old maid at fifty; Lucy, with a | been the mistress of a colonel; good face and not a farthing, Martha would never have been would never have refused a car the wife of a cornet ; Lydia would riage, white liveries, and a peerage, never have been tied to age, ugliif these unfortunate victims had ness, and gout, if these unfortustudied in early youth the art of nate victims had studied in early saying “ Yes.

youth the art of saying “ No." Sweet-light-gay-quaint Mo- Short-strong-sharp--- quaint nosyllable! Tender, obliging, in- Monosyllable! Forcible, convincoffensive, affectionate Yes! How ing, argumentative, indisputable we delight in thy delicate sound ! No! How we delight in thy ex. We love to hear the enamoured pressive sound! We love to hear swain petitioning for his mistress's the Miss of fifteen plaguing her picture, till the lady, or overcome uncle for her Christmas ball, till by affection, or wearied by impor Squaretoes, finding vain the extunity, changes the " No of coy cuses of affection, finishes the reluctance for the 66 Yes” of final negociation with the 6 No” of approbation. We love to hear the | authority. We love to hear the belle of Holborn-hill supplicating enamoured swain pouring forth for Greenwich and the one-horse his raptures at the feet of an inchay, till her surly parent alters exorable Mistress, till the lady the shake of unconvinced obdu changes her key from the quiet racy for the nod of unwilling con hint of indifference to the decided sent. We love to see the hen “No” of aversion. We love to pecked husband humbly kneeling hear the schoolboy supplicating a for his Sunday coat and the Star remission of his sentence, until his and Garter," till Madam, con sable judge alters the 56 I can't" scious that the Captain is secreted of sorrowful necessity, to the “No” in the closet, transmutes the “No” of inflexible indignation. We love of authoritative detention into the 1 - but it is time for us to bring our

“Yes” of immediate dismission. I treatise to a conclusion, and we We love—but it is time to bring will merely observe, that whenever our treatise to a conclusion, and we see a man engaged in a duel we will merely observe, that when against his will, or in a debauch ever we see Beauty without a hus- against his conscience; whenever band, or Talent without a place; we see a patriot accepting of a whenever we hear a lady consi- place, or a beauty united to a dered an old maid, or a gentleman blockhead, we turn from the sight voted a bore, we turn from the sight in disgust, and mutter to ourselves, in melancholy mood, and whisper “This comes of not being able to to ourselves,—66 This comes of say 'No.'” not being able to say "Yes.'. . J.L.

M.O.

A LAPLAND SACRIFICE.

'Twas silence all—the glorious Sun
His daily race of life had run,
The Moon her silver lamp bad 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 in
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 bösom pray'd To Odin's ever-watchful shade Odin—who, living, ever saw

Whole armies quail beneath his tiod; 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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