The rabble gather round the man of news, 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, Fast bound in chains of silence, which the fair, DRYDEN COWPER'S Task The news! our morning, noon, and evening cry, 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. The news!—there scarcely is a word, I'll venture here All wish, on each succeeding day, to hear it o'er and o er, before. J. T. WATSON. Now fiction's groves we tread, where young romance SPRAGUE'S Curiosity. She shuts the dear, dear book that made her weep, 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, Papilla, wedded to her amorous spark, Sighs for the shades-"How charming is a park!" POPE'S Moral Essays. Of all the passions that possess mankind, In search of this, from realm to realm we roam, NUN. (See HERMIT.) FOOTE. OATHS-SWEARING. "Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; SHAKSPEARE. OBITUARY. It is great sin to swear unto a sin, I will die a hundred thousand deaths, Oaths are but words, and words but wind, He, that imposes an orth, makes 4:27 SHAKSPEARE. SHAKSPEARE BUTLER'S Hudibras. BUTLER'S Hudibras. An oath is a recognizance to heaven, '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, BEN JONSON. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, No more shall wake them from their lowly bed. GRAY'S Elegy How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, POPE. What though no funeral pomp, no borrow'd tear, 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 |