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The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no Salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

Over the brink of it Picture it--think of it, Dissolute man. Lave in it--drink of it Then, if you can.

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Seem'd washing his hand with invisible soap In imperceptible water.

Spontaneously to God should turn the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. Andrew's College, Should nail the conscious needle to the north?

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves.

And however are Dennises take offence, A double meaning shows double sense; And if proverbs tell truth, A double tooth Is wisdom's adopted dwelling.

What joy have I in June's return? My feet are parched--my eyeballs burn, I scent no flowery gust; But faint the flagging zephyr springs, With dry Macadam on its wings, And turns me "dust to dust."

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread.

The lily is all in white, like a saint, And so is no mate for me.

For my part getting up seems not so easy By half as lying.

But who would rush at a benighted man, and give him two black eyes for being blind?.

One more unfortunate Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly, Young and so fair!

The moon, the moon, so silver and cold, Her fickle temper has oft been told, Now shade--now bright and sunny-- But of all the lunar things that change, The one that shows most fickle and strange, And takes the most eccentric range, Is the moon--so called--of honey!

Mother of light! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Like the wild chamois from her Alpine snow, Where hunters never climbed--secure from dread?

At night, to his own dark fancies a prey, He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, Tormenting himself with his prickles.

Well, something must be done for May, The time is drawing nigh-- To figure in the Catalogue, And woo the public eye. Something I must invent and paint; But oh my wit is not Like one of those kind substantives That answer Who and What?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun. Oh! it was pitiful! Near a whole city full, Home had she none.