"Remember that adultery, though it be a silent sin, yet it is a crying sin also; nevertheless, if you believe absolutely he will die unless you pity him, to save a man's life is a point of charity, and deeds of charity do alleviate, as I may say, and take off from the mortality of the sin."

FATHER DOMINICK.

"Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise."

TALK not to me of Sage's rules,
I hate your" sapient hogs,"
Give wisdom to the pedant fools,
And-" physic to the dogs."

Bid lawyers seek forensic lore

In folio's polemic,

And alma mater gownsmen pour

O'er quartos evangelic.

* I beg, most respectfully and distinctly, to except" sapient Toby," the learned pig, (no doubt one of the BACON family,) for whom I have an especial veneration. I merely allude, in the above stanza, to biped hogs.

Poor Hellenist I wot am I,

Much poorer Algebraist,

No pundit at Latinity-
No pedagogue Hebraist.

No Sanscrit rudiments I know,
Nor elements teutonick,

No Chaldee accidents I trow,

Nor prosody Sclavonic.

Let "learned Thebans" boast the skill

Dead languages are giving,

Whilst woman's eyes can speak her will,

Give me, ye gods, the living.

THE ROSY TUSCAN GRAPE.*

(Written in the bewitching Val D'Arno.)

"For O the song, the cup, the kiss,

Can make the night divine,

Then blest is he who owns the bliss,
Of song, and love, and wine."

HERE'S to the rosy Tuscan grape,
Pride of Italia's sunny land,

Long may its purple clusters make

Such nectar as we now command.

This be our song, till Phœbus wake

"Here's to the rosy Tuscan grape."

Here's to the Vale † whose pride it is
To rear the golden orange grove,

Is being arranged as a glee.

+ Val D'Arno.

That fond and fair, in shady bliss,
May teach and learn the way to love.

This be our song, till Phœbus wake-
"Here's to the rosy Tuscan grape."

Here's to the ladie-lip that joys

To slake the thirst of summer-noon With blushing wine-cup, whilst she toys Beneath the fragrant citron-bloom.

This be our song, till Phoebus wake"Here's to the rosy Tuscan grape."

Land of the goblet, once 'twas thine
To bid thy ruby juices flow
For ROMA's chiefs, and with thy vine
To lay old Tiber's sages low.

This be our song till Phoebus wake-
"Here's to the rosy Tuscan grape."

Land of the dark and wistful eye,

Beneath whose bright and ripening sun Ascends the warm and melting sigh

Of dearest woman, early won.

List to our song, till Phoebus wake— "Here's to the rosy Tuscan grape."

And now, O now, I'm sure ye will

Bid Beauty claim a bumper toast, With hand on heart, let each man fill To her he loves to kiss the most.

Whilst this our song till Phoebus wake"Dear woman and the Tuscan grape."