XLIII.-FARMER GRAY. You may envy the joys o' the farmer, Ef you worked in the woods in the winter, With a team o' unruly young oxen, An' feet heavy-loaded with clay- You may dream o' the white-crested daisies, You may picter the skies in their splendor, But I never git time to look at 'em, You may write o' the beauties o' natur', Makes a pile o' hard work for the wimmin,- An' the cheeses, so plump in the pantry, When home from the hay-field, in summer, With stars gleaming over my head; When I milk by the light o' my lantern, An' wearily crawl into bed; When I think o' the work o' the morrow, An' worry for fear it might rain, But the corn must be planted in spring-time, Except when we lie in the bed An' the wood must be chopped in the winter, An' the grain must be hauled to the market, But the farmer depends upon only With conscience all spotless and clear, To dwell in a holier sphere; An' the crown that he wears may be brighter, XLIV. EDMUND BURKE AND HIS SON'S HORSE. IN the decline of Mr. Burke's life, when he was living in retirement on his farm at Beaconfield, the rumor went up to London that he had gone mad, and the fact that was stated in support of this rumor was that he went round his park kissing his cows and horses. A friend, a man of rank and influence, hearing this story, and deeming it of too much importance to be left uncorrected, hastened down to Beaconfield, and sought an interview with the view of ascertaining the truth of the rumor. . Mr. Burke entered into conversation with him, and read to him some chapters from his " Letters on a Regicide Peace." His friend immediately saw that though the earthly tenement was verging back to its native dust, the lamp of reason and genius shone with undiminished luster within. He was accordingly more than satisfied as to the object of his coming down, and in a private interview with Mrs. Burke told her what he had come for, and received from her this pathetic explanation: Mr. Burke's only child, a beloved son, had not long before died, leaving behind him a favorite old horse, the companion of his excursions of business and pleasure, when both were young and vigorous. This favorite animal was turned out by Mr. Burke, the father, into the park, with directions to all his servants that he should in every respect be treated as a privileged favorite. Mr. Burke himself, of course, in his morning walks, would often stop to caress the favorite animal. On one occasion, as he was taking his morning walk through the park, he perceived the poor old animal at a distance, and noticed in turn that he was recognized by him. The horse drew nearer and nearer to Mr. Burke, stopped, eyed him with a most pleading look of recognition, which said, as plainly as words could have said: "I have lost him, too," and then the poor dumb beast deliberately laid his head upon Mr. Burke's bosom! Struck by the singularity of the occurrence, moved by the recollection of his son, whom he had never ceased to mourn with a grief that would not be comforted, overwhelmed by the tenderness of the animal, expressed in the mute eloquence of holy Nature's universal language, the illustrious statesman for a moment lost his self-possession, and, clasping his arms around the neck of his son's favorite animal, lifted up that voice which had filled the arches of Westminster Hall with the noblest strains that ever echoed within them, and wept aloud! This was seen and was heard by the passers-by; and the enemies of Burke, unappeased by his advancing years, by his failing health, by his domestic sorrows, made it the ground of a charge of insanity. "Burke had gone mad." Sir, so help me heaven, if I were called upon to designate the event or the period in Burke's life that would best sustain a charge of insanity, it would not be when, in a gush of the holiest and purest feeling that ever stirred the human heart, he wept aloud on the neck of his dead son's favorite horse; but it would rather be when, at the meridian of his fame, when the orb of his imperial genius rode highest in the heavens, amidst the scoffs of cringing courtiers, and the sneers of trading patriots, he abased his glorious powers to the scramblings and squabblings of the day, and, "Born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind." XLV. IT NEVER PAYS. Ir never pays to fret and growl And those who shirk But yield the play, And clear the way That better men have room. It never pays to wreck the health In drudging after gain; And he is sold who thinks that gold An humble lot, A cosy cot, Have tempted even kings That wealth will buy, Not oft contentment brings. It never pays! a blunt refrain For age and youth must learn the truth, Alone are sure In Heaven's sight Is always sure to bless. ADVICE TO AN ADVOCATE. BE brief, be pointed; let your matter stand Lucid, in order, solid, and at hand; Spend not your words on trifles, but condense; Press to the close with vigor, once begun, And leave (how hard the task!) leave off when done; Who draws a labored length of reasoning out, Puts straw in lines for winds to whirl about; Who draws a tedious tale of learning o'er, Counts but the sands on ocean's boundless shore; What worth a hundred posts, maintained with skill, He who would win his cause, with power must frame |