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MARIE ANTOINETTE.

I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss,

Nor round my neck how fast you clung!
Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit my foes forbade ;

Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away—
They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

Thy rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!
None ever saw a lovelier child!

And art thou now forever gone?
And must I never see thee more,
My pretty, pretty, noble lad ?—
I will be free! Unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad!

O, hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks!
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes!
Help! help!--he's gone! O, fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such.sights to see!
My brain, my brain! I know, I know
I am not mad-but soon shall be!

Yes, soon; for, lo! now, while I speak,
Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me-now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth
Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad!
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth!

Your task is done-I'm mad! I'm mad!

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IT

MARIE ANTOINETTE.-EDMUND Burke.

T is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the Queen of France, then the Dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more

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SONG OF THE SHIRT.

delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,— glittering like the morning star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. O! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her, in a Nation of gallant men, in a Nation of men of honor, and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.

But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more, shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart, which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom! The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honor, which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil, by losing all its grossness.

SONG OF THE SHIRT.-THOMAS HOOD.

ITH fingers weary and worn,

WITH

With eyelids heavy and red,

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread,-

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch,

She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

SONG OF THE SHIRT.

And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim,
Work-work-work,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! men, with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly hone?
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep.

Oh God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work- work!

My labor never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread,--and rags,-

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table--a broken chair--

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4

74

SONG OF THE SHIRT.

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Work--work—work!
From weary chime to chime!
Work-work-work,

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright-

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet--
With the sky above my head

And the grass beneath my feet;

For only one sweet hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite, however brief!
No blesséd leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,

A POET'S MISERIES.

A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich!-

She sung this " Song of the Shirt.”

A POET'S MISERIES.-ANON.

"AH, here it is! I'm famous now;

An author and a poet:

It really is in print.-Ye gods!
How proud I'll be to show it.
And gentle Anna! what a thrill

Will animate her breast,

To read these ardent lines, and know

To whom they are addressed.

"Why, bless my soul! here's something wrong;

What can the paper mean,

By talking of the graceful brooks,'

That 'gander o'er the green?'

And here's a t instead of r,

Which makes it 'tippling rill ;'

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We'll seek the shad,' instead of 'shade,'

And hell' instead of hill.'

'

"Thy look so what?—I recollect; "Twas sweet,' and then 'twas kind;'

And now, to think!-the stupid fool

For 'bland' has printed 'blind.'

Was ever such provoking work?

('Tis curious, by the by,

That anything is rendered blind

By giving it an i.)

"Thou hast no tears,' the t's left out,

'Thou hast no ears,' instead;

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