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Then say not this our weak attempt is vain,
Various the pieces we to-night repeat,
We would your kind indulgence then bespeak,
Our sole ambition aims at your applause,
Our parts are perform’d and our speeches are ended,
We are monarchs, and courtiers, and heroes no more ; To a much humbler station again we've descended,
And are now but the schoolboys you've known us before. Farewell then our greatness—’tis gone like a dream,
'Tis gone—but remembrance will often retrace The indulgent applause which rewarded each theme,
And the heart-cheering smiles that enlivened each face. We thank you !-Our gratitude words cannot tell,
But deeply we feel it—to you it belongs; With heartfelt emotion we bid you farewell,
And our feelings now thank you much more than our tongues. We will strive to improve, since applauses thus cheer us,
That our juvenile efforts may gain your kind looks ; And we hope to convince you the next time you
hear us, That praise has but sharpen'd our relish for books.
THE MODERN RAKE'S PROGRESS.-Hurdis.
Tobias was his father's joy ;
His father thought
years, He fondly deemed he could perceive the growth Of goodness and of learning, shooting up, Like the young offspring of the sheltered hop, Unusual progress in a summer's night. He called him home, with great applause dismissed By his glad tutors-gave him good advice Blessed him, and bade him prosper. With warm heart He drew his purse-strings, and the utmost doit Placed in the youngster's palm. “ Away," he cries, , “Go to the seat of learning, boy. Be good, Be wise, be frugal, for 'tis all I can.” "I will,” said Toby, as he banged the door, And winked, and snapped his finger. “Sir, I will.”
" So joyful he to Alma Mater went A sturdy freshman. See him just arrived, Received, matriculated, and resolved To drown his freshness in a pipe of port. “Quick, Mr. Vintner, twenty dozen more;
Some claret too. Here's to our friends at home.
So Toby fares, nor heeds
THE MAGPIE ; O'R BAD COMPANY. -Anonymous.
In Fleet-street dwelt, in days of yore,
In basket-prison hung on high, With dappled coat and watchful eye, A favorite magpie sees the play, And mimics every word they say; “ Oh, how he nicks us !" Tom More cries; “Oh, how he nicks us !" Mag replies. Tom throws, and eyes the glittering store, And as he throws, exclaims “ Tom More !" “ Tom More !” the mimic bird replies; The astonished gamesters lift their eyes, And wondering stare, and look around, As doubtful whence proceeds the sound.
This dissipated life, of course, Soon brought poor Tom from bad to worse ; Nor prayers nor promises prevail, To keep him from a dreary jail.
And now, between each heartfelt sigh, Tom oft exclaims “ Bad company!” Poor Mag, who shares his master's fate, Exclaims from out his wicker grate, “ Bad conipany! Bad company!" Then views poor Tom with curious eye,And cheers his master's wretched hours By this display of mimic powers ; The imprisoned bird, though much caressed, Is still by anxious cares oppressed; In silence mourns its cruel fate, And oft explores his prison gate.
Observe through life you'll always find
his cage, and, with a sigh Takes one fond look, and lots him fly.
Now Mag, once more with freedom blest, Looks round to find a place of rest; To Temple Gardens wings his way, There perches on a neighboring spray.
The gardener now, with busy cares,
A curious net he does prepare,
The watchful gardener now stands by,
The vengeful clown, now filled with ire,
Now, in revenge for plundered seed,
Mag, who with man was used to herd, Knew something more than common bird ; He therefore watched with anxious care, And slipped himself from out the snare, Then, perched on nail remote from ground, Observes how deaths are dealt around. “Oh, how he nicks us!” Maggy cries ; The astonished gardener lifts his eyes; With faltering voice and panting breath, Exclaims, “ Who's there ?"-Aří still as death. His murderous work he does resume, And casts his eye around the room