96

SAM WELLER'S VALENTINE.

"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.'"

"That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it's rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered. "Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller," is, that there ain't no callin' names in it,-no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind; wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy?

"Ah! what indeed?" replied Sam.

"You might just as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a col-lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.

"Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

"Afore i see you i thought all women was alike.''

"So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. "But now, ›"continued Sam, 666 now i find what a reg'lar softheaded, ink-red❜lous turnip i must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though i like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed.

"So i take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear, as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday,-to tell you that the first and only time i see you your likeness wos took on my hart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was taken by the profeel macheen (wich p'rhaps you may have heerd on Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and put the frame and glass on complete with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.""

"I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No, it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly to avoid contesting the point.

"Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

97

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam: "She'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'."

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?"

it."

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign

"Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that

name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

Sign it Pickvick, then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery good. name, and a easy one to spell."

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse: what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery, and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter,

"Your love-sick
Pickwick."

TH

BATTLE OF FONTENOY.-THOMAS DAVIS.

HRICE, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English column failed,
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the Dutch in vain
assailed;

For town and slope were filled with fort and flanking battery,
And well they swept the English ranks, and Dutch auxiliary.
As vainly through De Barri's wood the British soldiers burst,
The French artillery drove them back, diminished and dispersed.
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with anxious eye,
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance to try,

98

BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his generals ride!
And mustering come his chosen troops, like clouds at eventide.

Six thousand English veterans in stately column tread,
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay is at their head-
Steady they step adown the slope-steady they climb the hill-
Steady they load-steady they fire, moving right onward still,
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a furnace blast,
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and bullets showering fast;
And on the open plain above they rose, and kept their course,
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked at hostile force:
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner grow their ranks-
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through Holland's ocean banks.

More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs rush round; As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons strew the ground; Bombshell and grape and round-shot tore, still on they marched and fired

Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltigeur retired. "Push on, my household cavalry!" King Louis madly cried; To death they rush, but rude their shock-not unavenged they died.

On through the camp the column trod--King Louis turns his

rein:

"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the Irish troops remain; And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a Waterloo, Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, and true.

"Lord Clare,” he says, "you have your wish, there are your Saxon foes!"

The marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously he goes!
How fierce the look those exiles wear, who're wont to be so gay—
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their hearts to-day—
The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas writ could dry,
Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, their women's part-
ing cry,

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their country overthrown,

Each looks as if revenge for all were staked on him alone.

BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet elsewhere,

Rushed on to fight a nobler band than these proud exiles were.

99

O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, he commands, "Fix bay'nets"—" charge,”--like mountain storm rush on these fiery bands!

Thin is the English column now, and faint their volleys grow, Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they make a gallant

show,

They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that battle wind— Their bayonets, the breakers' foam; like rocks, the men behind! One volley crashes from their line, when, through the surging

smoke,

With empty guns clutched in their hands, the headlong Irish broke.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce huzza!

Revenge! remember Limerick! dash down the Sassenagh!"

Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with hunger's pang,
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles sprang :
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their guns are filled with

gore;

Through shattered ranks, and severed files, and trampled flags

they tore;

The English strove with desperate strength, paused, rallied, stag

gered, fled

The green hillside is matted close with dying and with dead;
Across the plain and far away passed on that hideous wrack,
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon their track.

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the sun,

With bloody plumes the Irish stand-the field is fought and wou!

THERE is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved of heaven o'er all the world beside;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night.
O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

100

THE RAVEN.

THE RAVEN.-EDGAR A. POE.

NCE, upon a midnight dreary, while I ponder'd weak and
weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,-
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber-door.
""Tis some visitor," I mutter'd, "tapping at my chamber-door-:
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wish'd the morrow: vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow-sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here forevermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrill'd me-fill'd me with fantastic terrors never felt before,
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
""Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door,-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber-door;
That it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger: hesitating then no longer,
"Sir,” said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber-door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you "-here I open'd wide the door:
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream.

before;

But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave yo token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word,

"Lenore!"

This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word, "LENORE!

Merely this, and nothing more.