And when I dared at last to glance across the wild im

mense,

Oh ne'er shall I forget the whirl that met the dizzy

sense!

What seem'd a little sprig of fern, ere lips could reckon

twain,

A palm of forty cubits high, we passed it on the plain! What tongue could tell, what pencil paint, what pen. describe the ride?

Now off-now on-now up-now down,—and flung from side to side!

I tried to speak, but had no voice, to soothe her with its

tone

My scanty breath was jolted out with many a sudden

groan

My joints were racked—my back was strained, so firmly I had clung

My nostrils gush'd, and thrice my teeth had bitten through my tongue

When lo!-farewell all hope of life !—she turn'd and faced the rocks,

None but a flying horse could clear those monstrous granite blocks!

So thought I,--but I little knew the desert pride and fire, Deriv'd from a most deer-like dam, and lion-hearted sire ; Little I guess'd the energy of muscle, blood, and bone, Bound after bound, with eager springs, she clear'd each massive stone ;

Nine mortal leaps were pass'd before a huge grey rock at length

Stood planted there as if to dare her utmost pitch of strength

My time was come! that granite heap my monument of

death!

She paused, she snorted loud and long, and drew a fuller

breath;

Nine strides and then a louder beat that warn'd me of

her spring,

I felt her rising in the air like eagle on the wing—
But oh the crash!-the hideous shock!-the million

sparks around!

Her hindmost hoofs had struck the crest of that prodigious mound!

Wild shriek'd the headlong Desert-Born—or else 'twas demon's mirth,

One second more, and Man and Mare roll'd breathless on the earth!

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,
And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;
For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,
The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of
its own.

My heart was still my pulses stopp'd-midway 'twixt

life and death,

With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath, Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh, Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die. Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till

morn,

Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!

I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife

A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life—
But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his labouring

breast?

Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS

A PASTORAL REPORT

ONE Sunday morning-service done-
'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch-
Which side had won the cricket match;
And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd ;-
How barley, beans, and 'taters sold—
What men could swallow at a meal-

When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal-
And who was taken off to jail—

And where they brew'd the strongest ale— At last this question they address, "What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,
It be the fancy farming line,
Like yonder gemman,-him I mean,
As took the Willa nigh the Green,—
And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;
And gave his porkers hay to eat;
And sent his footman up to town,
To ax the Lonnon gentry down,
To be so kind as make his hay,
Exactly on St. Swithin's day ;-
With consequences you may guess-
That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg
Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;
But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,
As if he twigg'd the reason why,

And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance,
He didn't give the noose a chance;
So Master Blogg at last lays off,
And shams a rattle at the trough,
When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog
Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,
And flops him down in all the muck,
As hadn't been swept up by luck—
Now that, accordin' to my guess,
Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat;
I'ze bring a worser case nor that!
Last Friday week, I takes a start
To Reading, with our horse and cart;
Well, when I'ze set the 'taters down,
I meets a crony at the Crown;
And what betwixt the ale and Tom,
It's dark afore I starts for home;
So whipping hard, by long and late,
At last we reaches nigh the gate,
And, sure enough, there Master stand,

A lantern flaring in his hand,

'Why, Giles,' says he, 'what's that 'un thear? Yond' chestnut horse bean't my bay mear!

He bean't not worth a leg o' Bess!'
There's Hagricultural Distress!"

HOB

"That's nothin yet, to Tom's mishap ! A-gooing through the yard, poor chap,

Only to fetch his milking-pails,
When up he shies like head or tails;
Nor would the Bull let Tom a-be,
Till he had toss'd the best o' three ;-
And there lies Tom with broken bones,
A surgeon's job for Doctor Jones;
Well, Doctor Jones lays down the law,
'There's two crackt ribs, besides a jaw,-
Eat well,' says he, 'stuff out your case,
For that will keep the ribs in place;'
But how was Tom, poor chap, to chaw,
Seeing as how he'd broke his jaw?
That's summut to the pint-yes, yes,
That's Hagricultural Distress!"

ད

SIMON

“Well, turn and turn about is fair :
Tom's bad enough, and so's the mare;
But nothing to my load of hay—
You see, 'twas hard on quarter-day,
And cash was wanted for the rent;
So up to Lonnon I was sent,
To sell as prime a load of hay,
As ever dried on summer's day.

"Well, standing in Whitechapel Road,
A chap comes up to buy my load,
And looks, and looks about the cart,
Pretending to be 'cute and smart;
But no great judge, as people say,
'Cause why he never smelt the hay.
Thinks I, as he's a simple chap,
He'll give a simple price mayhap,
Such buyers comes but now and then,
So slap I axes nine pun' ten.

'That's dear,' says he, and pretty quick He taps his leathers with his stick.