Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed;
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,

And softly over all the west

The shades of evening came.

He slept, and troops of murdered Pigs
Were busy with his dreams;

Loud rang their wild, unearthly shrieks,

Wide yawned their mortal seams

The clock struck twelve; the Dead hath heard ;

He opened both his eyes,

And sullenly he shook his tail

To lash the feeding flies.

One quiver of the hempen cord,-
One struggle and one bound,-
With stiffened limb and leaden eye,
The Pig was on the ground!

And straight towards the sleeper's house
His fearful way he wended;

And hooting owl, and hovering bat,
On midnight wing attended.

Back flew the bolt, up rose the latch,
And open swung the door,

And little mincing feet were heard

Pat pat along the floor.

Two hoofs upon the sanded floor,

And two upon the bed;

And they are breathing side by side,

The living and the dead!

Now wake, now wake, thou butcher man!
What makes thy cheek so pale?

Take hold! take hold! thou dost not fear
To clasp a spectre's tail?

Untwisted every winding coil;

The shuddering wretch took hold;

All like an icicle it seemed,

So tapering and so cold.

"Thou com'st with me, thou butcher man!"-
He strives to loose his grasp,
But faster than the clinging vine
Those twining spirals clasp.

And open, open swung the door,
And, fleeter than the wind,
The shadowy spectre swept before,
The butcher trailed behind.

Fast fled the darkness of the night,
And morn rose faint and dim;

They called full loud, they knocked full long,
They did not waken him.

Straight, straight towards that oaken beam
A trampled pathway ran;

A ghastly shape was swinging there,—
It was the butcher man.

PARK BENJAMIN.

[Born in 1809 at Demerara, of a New England family; died towards 1865 Practised as an attorney at Boston. Afterwards took to magazine-writing and general literature, and published a great number of compositions, in verse and prose. Two of his principal poems are satires, named Poetry and Infatuation].

INDOLENCE.

THERE is no type of indolence like this:-
A ship in harbour, not a signal flying;

The wave unstirred about her huge sides lying,
No breeze her drooping pennant-flag to kiss,
Or move the smallest rope that hangs aloft:
Sailors recumbent, listless, stretched around
Upon the polished deck or canvas-soft

To his tough limbs that scarce have ever found
A bed more tender, since his mother's knee
The stripling left to tempt the changeful sea.

Some are asleep; some whistle, try to sing;
Some gape, and wonder when the ship will sail;
Some damn the calm, and wish it was a gale.

But every lubber there is lazy as a king.

MATTHEW C. FIELD.

[Born in 1812, died in 1844. Irish by parentage, and a Londoner by place of birth, but living in the United States from four years of age. He published much verse, and much prose also, in journals of the Southern States, from 1834 onwards].

TO MY SHADOW.

SHADOW, just like the thin regard of men,

Constant and close to friends while fortune's bright.
You leave me in the dark, but come again
And stick to me as long as there is light.

Yet, Shadow, as good friends have often done,
You've never stepped between me and the sun;
But ready still to back me I have found you
Although, indeed, you're fond of changing sides;
And, while I never yet could get around you,
Where'er I walk my Shadow with me glides!
That you should leave me in the dark is meet
Enough, there being one thing to remark-

Light calls ye forth, yet, lying at my feet,
I'm keeping you for ever in the dark!

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

[Born in 1816. A barrister and newspaper editor, highly popular in the States for his humorous or burlesque poems-some of them modelled very closely on Hood, and others on Barham].

THE GHOST-PLAYER.

A BALLAD.

TOM GOODWIN was an actor man,
Old Drury's pride and boast
In all the light and sprite-ly parts,
Especially the Ghost.

Now Tom was very fond of drink,
Of almost every sort,
Comparative and positive,

From porter up to port.

But grog, like grief, is fatal stuff
For any man to sup;

For, when it fails to pull him down,
It's sure to blow him up.

And so it fared with ghostly Tom,
Who day by day was seen
A-swelling, till (as lawyers say)
He fairly lost his lean.

At length the manager observed
He'd better leave his post,
And said, he played the very deuce
Whene'er he played the Ghost.

'Twas only 'tother night he saw
A fellow swing his hat,

And heard him cry, "By all the gods ! The Ghost is getting fat !"

'Twould never do, the case was plain; His eyes he couldn't shut;

Ghosts shouldn't make the people laugh, And Tom was quite a butt.

Tom's actor friends said ne'er a word To cheer his drooping heart; Though more than one was burning up With zeal to "take his part."

Tom argued very plausibly;

He said he didn't doubt

That Hamlet's father drank, and
In years, a little stout.

And so, 'twas natural, he said,
And quite a proper plan,
To have his spirit represent
A portly sort of man.

'Twas all in vain; the manager

Said he was not in sport,

grew,

And, like a general, bade poor Tom
Surrender up his forte.

He'd do perhaps in heavy parts;
Might answer for a monk,

Or porter to the elephant,

To carry round his trunk;

But in the Ghost his day was past-
He'd never do for that;

A Ghost might just as well be dead
As plethoric and fat!

Alas next day poor Tom was found
As stiff as any post--

For he had lost his character,

And given up the Ghost!

I'M GROWING OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away;

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep; I feel no symptoms of decay;

I have no cause to mourn nor weep; My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold; And yet, of late, I often sigh

I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,

My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing-yes-
I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;

I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That even in my vaunted youth
I'm growing old.

Ah me!-my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare

The secret she would fain withhold, And tells me in "How young you are!" I'm growing old.

Thanks for the years-whose rapid flight My sombre Muse too sadly sings; Thanks for the gleams of golden light That tint the darkness of their wings;