arth!

* * * * *

How long it was I cannot tell ere I revived to sense,
And then but to endure the pangs of agony intense;
For over me lay powerless, and still as any stone,
The Corse that erst had so much fire, strength, spirit, of its own.
My heart was still--my pulses stopp'd--midway 'twixt life and death,
With pain unspeakable I fetch'd the fragment of a breath,
Not vital air enough to frame one short and feeble sigh,
Yet even that I loath'd because it would not let me die.
Oh! slowly, slowly, slowly on, from starry night till morn,
Time flapp'd along, with leaden wings, across that waste forlorn!
I cursed the hour that brought me first within this world of strife--
A sore and heavy sin it is to scorn the gift of life--
But who hath felt a horse's weight oppress his laboring breast?
Why, any who has had, like me, the NIGHT MARE on his chest.

AGRICULTURAL DISTRESS.

A PASTORAL REPORT.

One Sunday morning--service done--
'Mongst tombstones shining in the sun,
A knot of bumpkins stood to chat
Of that and this, and this and that;
What people said of Polly Hatch--
Which side had won the-cricket match;
And who was cotch'd, and who was bowl'd;--
How barley, beans, and 'taters sold--
What men could swallow at a meal--
When Bumpstead Youths would ring a peal--
And who was taken off to jail--
And where they brew'd the strongest ale--
At last this question they address,
"What's Agricultural Distress?"

HODGE.

"For my peart, it's a thought o' mine,
It be the fancy farming line,
Like yonder gemman,--him I mean,
As took the Willa nigh the Green,--
And turn'd his cattle in the wheat;
And gave his porkers hay to eat;
And sent his footman up to town,
To ax the Lonnon gentry down,
To be so kind as make his hay,
Exactly on St. Swithin's day;--
With consequences you may guess--
That's Hagricultural Distress."

DICKON.

"Last Monday morning, Master Blogg
Com'd for to stick our bacon-hog;
But th' hog he cock'd a knowing eye,
As if he twigg'd the reason why,
And dodg'd and dodg'd 'un such a dance,
He didn't give the noose a chance;
So Master Blogg at last lays off,
And shams a rattle at the trough,
When swish! in bolts our bacon-hog
Atwixt the legs o' Master Blogg,
And flops him down in all the muck,
As hadn't been swept up by luck--
Now that, accordin' to my guess,
Be Hagricultural Distress."

GILES.

"No, that arn't it, I tell 'ee flat;
I'ze bring a worse