The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,

He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his book!
In holy anger, and pious grief,

He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying, He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!— Never was heard such a terrible curse!

But what gave rise

To no little surprise,

Nobody seem'd one penny the worse!

The day was gone,

The night came on,

The monks and the friars they search'd till dawn;
When the sacristan saw,

On crumpled claw,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!

No longer gay,

As on yesterday;

His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the wrong way;— His pinions droop'd-he could hardly stand,

His head was as bald as the palm of

His eye so dim,

So wasted each limb,

your hand;

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S

HIM!

That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing! That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!"

The poor little Jackdaw,

When the monks he saw,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw;

66

And turn'd his bald head, as much as to say,
Pray, be so good as to walk this way!"
Slower and slower

He limp'd on before,

Till they came to the back of the belfry door,
Where the first thing they saw,

'Midst the sticks and the straw,

Was the RING in the nest of that little Jackdaw!

Then the great Lord Cardinal call'd for his book,
And off that terrible curse he took;

The mute expression

Served in lieu of confession,

And, being thus coupled with full restitution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution!
When those words were heard,

That poor little bird

Was so changed in a moment, 'twas really absurd.
He grew sleek, and fat;

In addition to that,

A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat!
His tail waggled more

Even than before;

But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's chair,
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout;

At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's beads.
If any one lied,—or if any one swore,-

Or slumber'd in prayer-time and happen'd to snore,
That good Jackdaw

Would give a great "Caw!"

As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!"
While many remark'd, as his manners they saw,
That they " never had known such a pious Jack-
daw!"

He long lived the pride
Of that country side,

And at last in the odour of sanctity died;
When as words were too faint

His merits to paint,

The Conclave determined to make him a saint;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to bestow,
So they canonised him by the name of Jim Crow !
By permission of Messrs Bentley, the publishers.

NOTHING TO WEAR.

(WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.)

Miss Flora M'Flimsey, of Madison Square,
Has made three separate journeys to Paris;
And her father assures me, each time she was there,
That she and her friend, Mrs Harris,
Spent six consecutive weeks, without stopping,
In one continuous round of shopping;
Shopping alone and shopping together,

At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather,
For all manner of things that a woman can put
On the crown of her head, or the sole of her foot,
Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist,
Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced,
Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow,
In front or behind, above or below;

Dresses for home, and the street, and the hall,
Dresses for winter, spring, summer, and fall.

And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day

All this merchandise went in twelve carts up Broadway, This same Miss M'Flimsey, of Madison Square,

When asked to a ball was in utter despair,

Because she had nothing whatever to wear!

But the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising;
I find there exists the greatest distress
In our female community, solely arising

From this unsupplied destitution of dress;
Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air
With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear!"

O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day,
Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway,
To the alleys and lanes where misfortune and guilt
Their children have gathered, their hovels have built;
Where hunger and vice, like twin beasts of prey

Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair;
Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt,
Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt,
Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair
To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old,
Half starved, and half naked, lie crouched from the cold;
See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet,
All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street,
Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare,—
Spoiled children of fashion,-you've nothing to wear!

And oh ! if perchance there should be a sphere Where all is made right which so puzzles us here; Where the glare, and the glitter, and tinsel of time Fade and die in the light of that region sublime; Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, Unscreened by its trappings, and shows, and pretence, Must be clothed for the life and the service above, With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; Oh! daughters of earth! foolish virgins, beware! Lest, in that upper realm,—you have nothing to wear!

RIENZI'S ADDRESS.

(M. R. MITFORD.)

Friends! I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom ;-we are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam
Falls on a slave !—not such as, swept along
By the full tide of
power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;

But base, ignoble slaves-slaves to a horde
Of petty tyrants, feudal despots, lords,
Rich in some dozen paltry villages-

Strong in some hundred spearmen-only great

In that strange spell, a name! Each hour, dark fraud, Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cries out against them. But this very day,

An honest man, my neighbour-there he stands
Was struck-struck like a dog, by one who wore
The badge of Ursini! because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,
At sight of that great ruffian! Be we men,
And suffer such dishonour? Men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs. I, that speak to you—
I had a brother once,-a gracious boy,

Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy; there was the look
Of heaven upon his face, which limners give
To the beloved disciple. How I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years,
Brother at once and son! He left my side,
A summer bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
The corse, the mangled corse, and then I cried