There are two upon the very flagway with him, who would
evince the greatest sympathy in his fate; the one is a surgeon's
apprentice, who, with anxious care, would bear him off to _his_
hospital, that he might "try his 'prentice hand" to doctor him while
living, and dissect him when dead; and the other is a running reporter to
one of the morning papers, who would with gentle and soothing accents
inquire his name, condition, and abode, to swell the paragraph, and
increase his pay.--_Blackwood's Magazine._
* * * * *
LINES TO EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, ON THE BIRTH OF HIS CHILD.
My heart is with you, Bulwer, and portrays
The blessings of your first paternal days;
To clasp the pledge of purest, holiest faith,
To taste one's own and love-born infant's breath,
I know, nor would for worlds forget the bliss.
I've felt that to a father's heart that kiss,
As o'er its little lips you smile and cling,
Has fragrance which Arabia could not bring.
Such are the joys, ill mock'd in ribald song,
In thought, ev'n fresh'ning life our life-time long,
That give our souls on earth a heaven-drawn bloom;
Without them we are weeds upon a tomb.
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