other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain,
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery! Such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay
What faint submission swore? Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging, peace;
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,
Mankind created, and for him this world,
So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;
Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.

PATRICK'S COLT.

ANONYMOUS.

Patrick O'Flanigan, from Erin's isle
Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,
With open mouth and widely staring eyes,
Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.
He saw some labourers in a field of corn;
The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;
Of all that he had heard since being born,
Nothing had equaled this in song or story.
"The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise
To be a tellin' me what might be these?
An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,
But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase."
"Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,
Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;
"Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;
Take one and try it; it will pay you well."
"Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland
I always had my Christmas pig so nate,
Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;
But only gintlemen can own a horse.
Ameriky's a great counthry indade,
I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,
Have me own land, and shanty without rent,
An' have me vote, an' taxes