Distress and hope-the mind's the body's wear,
The man's affliction, and the actor's tear:
Alternate times of fasting and excess

Are yours, ye smiling children of distress.

Slaves though ye be, your wand'ring freedom seems, And with your varying views and restless schemes, Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.

Yet keen those griefs-ah! what avail thy charms,
Fair Juliet! with that infant in thine arms;
What those heroic lines thy patience learns,

What all the aid thy present Romeo earns,
Whilst thou art crowded in that lumbering wain
With all thy plaintive sisters to complain?
Nor is their lack of labor-To rehearse,
Day after day, poor scraps of prose and verse;
To bear each other's spirit, pride, and spite;
To hide in rant the heartache of the night;
To dress in gaudy patchwork, and to force
The mind to think on the appointed course;
This is laborious, and may be defined
The bootless labor of the thriftless mind.

There is a veteran dame: I see her stand
Intent and pensive with her book in hand;
Awhile her thoughts she forces on her part,
Then dwells on objects nearer to the heart;
Across the room she paces, gets her tone,
And fits her features for the Danish throne;
To-night a queen -I mark her motion slow,
I hear her speech, and Hamlet's mother know.
Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try
For strength of arms and energy of eye;
With vigor lost, and spirits worn away,
Her pomp and pride she labors to display;
And when awhile she's tried her part to act,
To find her thoughts arrested by some fact;
When struggles more and more severe are seen,
In the plain actress than the Danish queen,
At length she feels her part, she finds delight,
And fancies all the plaudits of the night;
Old as she is, she smiles at every speech,
And thinks no youthful part beyond her reach.
But as the mist of vanity again

Is blown away, by press of present pain,
Sad and in doubt she to her purse applies
For cause of comfort, where no comfort lies:

Then to her task she sighing turns again "Oh! Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain!"

And who that poor, consumptive, withered thing,
Who strains her slender throat and strives to sing?
Panting for breath, and forced her voice to drop,
And far unlike the inmate of the shop,
Where she, in youth and health, alert and gay,
Laughed off at night the labors of the day;
With novels, verses, fancy's fertile powers,
And sister converse passed the evening hours;
But Cynthia's soul was soft, her wishes strong,
Her judgment weak, and her conclusions wrong:
The morning call and counter were her dread,
And her contempt the needle and the thread;
But when she read a gentle damsel's part,
Her woe, her wish! she had them all by heart.
At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
Who spake of love till sigh reëchoed sigh;
He told in honeyed words his deathless flame,
And she his own by tender vows became;
Nor ring nor license needed souls so fond,
Alfonso's passion was his Cynthia's bond:
And thus the simple girl, to shame betrayed,
Sinks to the grave forsaken and dismayed.

Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
See her the grief and scandal of the troop;
A wretched martyr to a childish pride,
Her woe insulted, and her praise denied ;
Her humble talents, though derided, used;
Her prospects lost, her confidence abused;
All that remains - for she not long can brave
Increase of evils-is an early grave.

Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed What dreams ye cherish, and what books ye read!

TO MARY.

BY WILLIAM COWPER.

[For biographical sketch, see page 267.]

THE twentieth year is well-nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow;

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disused, and shine no more,
My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfill
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part, And all thy threads with magic art

Have wound themselves about this heart,

And still to love, though prest with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know,

How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy wornout heart will break at last,

My Mary!

SCHOOL GAMES.

BY COWPER.

BE IT a weakness, it deserves some praise,
We love the play place of our early days.
The scene is touching, and the heart is stone
That feels not at that sight, and feels at none.
The wall on which we tried our graving skill,

The very name we carved subsisting still;

The bench on which we sat while deep employed,

Though mangled, hacked, and hewed, not yet destroyed.
The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot,

Playing our games, and on the very spot,
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw;
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat,
Or drive it devious with a dexterous pat;
The pleasing spectacle at once excites
Such recollection of our own delights,
That viewing it, we seem almost to obtain
Our innocent sweet simple years again.
This fond attachment to the well-known place,
Whence first we started into life's long race,
Maintains its hold with such unfailing sway,
We feel it even in age, and at our latest day.

THE MUTINEERS OF THE "BOUNTY."

(From the story as compiled by Sir John Barrow.)

[In 1789 the English government sent the ship "Bounty" on a voyage to Tahiti, to secure breadfruit plants for naturalization in the West Indies. Its commander, Lieutenant William Bligh, was a capable man, but savagely irritable and brutal of tongue and act, not conspicuously honest, and fond of covering his own derelictions by baseless charges against his subordinates. His conduct toward them grew so intolerable that after leaving Tahiti his master's mate, Fletcher Christian, of excellent Manx blood, ability, and cultivation, — was maddened by his insults and threats into heading a mutiny (April 28, 1789), with results as described below. The mutineers returned to Tahiti, whence most of them - Christian and some others remained behind and were killed by the natives - went to Pitcairn's Island, maltreated the natives and distilled liquor, and were either murdered or drank themselves to death; except one, Alexander Smith, who changed his name to John Adams, became a Christian, and lived many years as a venerated patriarch of the island.]

[From Bligh's narrative of the mutiny.]

"MUCH altercation took place among the mutinous crew during the whole business: some swore, 'I'll be d- -d if he does not find his way home, if he gets anything with him;' and when the carpenter's chest was carrying away, 'D-n my eyes, he will have a vessel built in a month;' while others laughed at the helpless situation of the boat, being very deep, and so little room for those who were in her. As for Christian, he seemed as if meditating destruction on himself and every one else.

"I asked for arms; but they laughed at me, and said I was well acquainted with the people among whom I was going, and therefore did not want them; four cutlasses, however, were thrown into the boat after we were veered astern.

"The officers and men being in the boat, they only waited for me, of which the master-at-arms informed Christian: who then said, 'Come, Captain Bligh, your officers and men are now in the boat, and you must go with them; if you attempt to make the least resistance, you will instantly be put to death;' and, without further ceremony, with a tribe of armed ruffians about me, I was forced over the side, when they untied my hands. Being in the boat, we were veered astern by a rope. A few pieces of pork were thrown to us, and some clothes, also the cutlasses I have already mentioned; and it was then that the armorer and carpenters called out to me to remember that they had no hand in the transaction. After having undergone a great deal of ridicule, and been kept for some time to make