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The rabble gather round the man of news,
And listen with their mouths wide open:

Some tell, some hear, some judge of news, some nake it,

And he that lies most loud, is most believ'd.

This folio of four pages, happy work,
Which not e'en critics criticise; that holds
Inquisitive attention, while I read

Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair,
Though eloquent themselves, yet fear to break.

DRYDEN

COWPER'S Task

The news! our morning, noon, and evening cry,
Day after day repeats it till we die.
For this the cit, the critic, and the fop,
Dally the hour away in Tonsor's shop;
For this the gossip takes her daily route,
And wears your
threshold and your patience out;
For this we leave the parson in the lurch,

And pause to prattle on the way to church;

Even when some coffin'd friend we gather round,

We ask "What news?"— then lay him in the ground.
SPRAGUE'S Curiosity

The news!—there scarcely is a word, I'll venture here

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All wish, on each succeeding day, to hear it o'er and o er,
Though on each day 't is always chang'd from what it was

before.

J. T. WATSON.

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Now fiction's groves we tread, where young romance
Laps the glad senses in her sweetest trance.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.

She shuts the dear, dear book that made her weep,
Puts out her light, and turns away to sleep.

SPRAGUE'S Curiosity.

The gorgeous pageantry of times gone by,

The tilt, the tournament, the vaulted hall, Fades in its glory on the spirit's eye,

And fancy's bright and gay creation-all Sink into dust, wher. reason's searching glance Unmasks the age of knighthood and romance.

S. L. FAIRFIELD.

420

NOVELTY - NUN-OATHS.

I'm not romantic, but, upon my word,

There are some moments when one can't help feeling As if his heart's chords were so strongly stirr'd.

By things around him, that, 't is vain concealing,

A little music in his soul still lingers,

Whene'er its keys are touch'd by Nature's fingers.

C. F. HOFFMAN

NOVELTY.

New customs,

Though they be never so ridiculous,

Nay, let them be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

SHAKSPEARE.

All, with one consent, praise new-born gauds,
Though they are made and moulded of things past.
SHAKSPEARE.

Papilla, wedded to her amorous spark,

Sighs for the shades-"How charming is a park!"
The park is purchas'd, but the fair he sees
All bath'd in tears "O odious, odious trees!"

POPE'S Moral Essays.

Of all the passions that possess mankind,
The love of novelty rules most the mind;

In search of this, from realm to realm we roam,
Our fleets come fraught with every folly home.

NUN. (See HERMIT.)

FOOTE.

OATHS-SWEARING.

"Tis not the many oaths that make the truth;
But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.

SHAKSPEARE.

OBITUARY.

It is great sin to swear unto a sin,
But greater sin to keep a sinful oath.

I will die a hundred thousand deaths,
Ere break the smallest parcel of this vow.

Oaths are but words, and words but wind,
Too feeble instruments tc bind.

He, that imposes an orth, makes
Not he, that for convenience takes it;
Then how can any man be said
To break an oath he never made?

4:27

SHAKSPEARE.

SHAKSPEARE

BUTLER'S Hudibras.

BUTLER'S Hudibras.

An oath is a recognizance to heaven,
Binding us over in the courts above,
To plead to the indictment of our crimes,

'That those who 'scape this world, should suffer there.

Jack was embarrass'd

never hero more,

And, as he knew not what to say, he swore.

OBITUARY.

SOUTHERN.

BYRON'S Island.

Underneath this stone doth lie

As much virtue as could die,
Which, when alive, did vigour give
To as much beauty as could live.

BEN JONSON.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall wake them from their lowly bed.

GRAY'S Elegy

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How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee—
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

POPE.

What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear,
Your hour of death to gazing crowds may tell-
No weeping friends attend your sable bier,
Who sadly listen to the passing bell!
Yet shall remembrance from oblivion's veil
Relieve your scene, and sigh with grief sincere;
And soft compassion, at your tragic tale,

In silent tribute pay her kindred tear.

FALCONER.

What though the mounds that mark'd each name,

Beneath the wings of Time,

Have worn away?—Theirs is the fame

Immortal and sublime;

For who can tread on Freedom's plain,

Nor wake her dead to life again?

R. MONTGOMERY

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