had caused to arise:--

But just as his body was all afloat,
And the surges above him broke,
He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat
Of Deal--(but builded of oak).

The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay,
And chafed his shivering skin;
And the Angel returned that was flying away
With the spirit of Peter Fin!

A FAIRY TALE.

On Hounslow Heath--and close beside the road,
As western travellers may oft have seen,--
A little house some years ago there stood,
A minikin abode;
And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood:
The walls of white, the window-shutters green,--
Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West
(Though now at rest),
On which it used to wander to and fro,
Because its master ne'er maintained a rider,
Like those who trade in Paternoster Row;
But made his business travel for itself,
Till he had made his pelf,
And then retired--if one may call it so,
Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran,
Made him more relish the repose and quiet
Of his now sedentary caravan;
Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common,
And so he might impale a strip of soil
That furnished, by his toil,
Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;--
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower:
Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil
His peace,--unless, in some unlucky hour,
A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches,
The same to come,--when they had seen them one day!
And, used to brisker life, both man and wife
Began to suffer N U E's approaches,
And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,--
So, having had some quarters of school breeding,
They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading;
But setting out where others nigh have done,
And being ripened in the seventh stage,
The childhood of old age,
Began, as other children have begun,--
Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,
Or Bard of Hope,
Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,--
But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,
And then relax'd themselves with Whittington,
Or Valentine and Orson--
But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,
And being easily melted in their dotage,
Slobber'd,--and kept
Reading,--and wept
Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus readin