PART II.

BEFORE THE CURTAIN.

BEHIND the footlights hangs the rusty baize,
A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze
Of flaring gas, and curious eyes that gaze.

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide,
And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride,
Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.

Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards;
O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords :
The simplest skill is all its space affords.

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, The local hit at follies of the day,

The trick to pass an idle hour away,—

For these, no trumpets that announce the Moor, No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,A single fiddle in the overture!

THE STAGE-DRIVER'S STORY.

Ir was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers,

Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco;

While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight,

We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.

"Danger! Sir, I believe you,-indeed, I may say on that subject,

You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager.

I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you :

'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.