But fools rush in where angels fear to tread Far out amid the melancholy main; As when a vulture on Imaus bred, Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

_Laman Blanchard._

A STRIKE AMONG THE POETS

In his chamber, weak and dying, While the Norman Baron lay, Loud, without, his men were crying, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Know you why the ploughman, fretting, Homeward plods his weary way Ere his time? He's after getting Shorter hours and better pay.

See! the _Hesperus_ is swinging Idle in the wintry bay, And the skipper's daughter's singing, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him Joining in the labour fray With his placards slung around him, "Shorter hours and better pay."

Oh, young Lochinvar is coming; Though his hair is getting grey, Yet I'm glad to hear him humming, "Shorter hours and, better pay."

E'en the boy upon the burning Deck has got a word to say, Something rather cross concerning Shorter hours and better pay.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make as much as they, Work no more, until they find us Shorter hours and better pay.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Sh.e.l.ley) Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay.

Soaring, sing above the melee, "Shorter hours and better pay."

_Unknown._

WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT

Lives there a man with soul so dead Who never to himself has said, "Shoot folly as it flies"?

Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, Are in that word, farewell, farewell!

'Tis folly to be wise.

And what is friendship but a name, That boils on Etna's breast of flame?

Thus runs the world away, Sweet is the ship that's under sail To where yon taper cheers the vale, With hospitable ray!

Drink to me only with thine eyes Through cloudless climes and starry skies!

My native land, good night!

Adieu, adieu, my native sh.o.r.e; 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more-- Whatever is, is right!

_Laman Blanchard._

NOTHING

Mysterious Nothing! how shall I define Thy shapeless, baseless, placeless emptiness?

Nor form, nor colour, sound, nor size is thine, Nor words nor fingers can thy voice express; But though we cannot thee to aught compare, A thousand things to thee may likened be, And though thou art with n.o.body nowhere, Yet half mankind devote themselves to thee.

How many books thy history contain; How many heads thy mighty plans pursue; What labouring hands thy portion only gain; What busy bodies thy doings only do!

To thee the great, the proud, the giddy bend, And--like my sonnet--all in nothing end.

_Richard Porson._

DIRGE

To the memory of Miss Ellen Gee, of Kew, who died in consequence of being stung in the eye.

Peerless yet hapless maid of Q!

Accomplish'd LN G!

Never again shall I and U Together sip our T.

For, ah! the Fates I know not Y, Sent 'midst the flowers a B, Which ven'mous stung her in the I, So that she could not C.

LN exclaim'd, "Vile spiteful B!

If ever I catch U On jess'mine, rosebud, or sweet P, I'll change your singing Q.

"I'll send you like a lamb or U Across th' Atlantic C.

From our delightful village Q To distant O Y E.

"A stream runs from my wounded I, Salt as the briny C As rapid as the X or Y, The OIO or D.

"Then fare thee ill, insensate B!

Who stung, nor yet knew Y, Since not for wealthy Durham's C Would I have lost my I."

They bear with tears fair LN G In funeral R A, A clay-cold corse now doom'd to B Whilst I mourn her DK.

Ye nymphs of Q, then shun each B, List to the reason Y; For should A B C U at T, He'll surely sting your I.

Now in a grave L deep in Q, She's cold as cold can B, Whilst robins sing upon A U Her dirge and LEG.

_Unknown._

O D V

CONTAINING A FULL, TRUE, AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF THE TERRIBLE FATE OF ABRAHAM ISAACS, OF IVY LANE