When you look on my grave,
And behold how they wave,
The cypress, the yew, and the willow,
You think 'tis the breeze
That gives motion to these--
'Tis the laughter that's shaking my pillow.

I must laugh when I see
A poor insect like thee
Dare to pity the fate thou must own;
Let a few moments slide,
We shall lie side by side,
And crumble to dust, bone for bone.

Go, weep thine own doom,
Thou wert born for the tomb--
Thou hast lived, like myself, but to die;
Whilst thou pity'st my lot,
Secure fool, thou'st forgot
Thou art no more immortal than I!
H.B.A.

* * * * *


TEA-DRINKING.


While the late Mr. Gifford was at Ashburton, he contracted an
acquaintance with a family of that place, consisting of females somewhat