624 The Pimento Family ; or, Spoiled Children. JUNE, 
acquainted you with thus much of my determination, I leave you, Lady 
Pimento, to your own reflections ; and I trust they will be such as will 
bring conviction home to your bosom, and lead you to agree with me 
that amendment—ay, even a thorough reformation—of my family, is 
necessary to their reputation in this world, and their happiness in the 
next.” So saying, he rose from his chair. 
Lady P, held out to the last, but finding her supplies cut off, and her 
hope of maintaining the contest single-handed becoming weaker and 
weaker, she sent in a flag of truce ; and from that day tyranny ceased in 
the Pimento kingdom. 
Sir Peter followed up his lectures on family government with Spartan 
rigour and vigour; Mr. Augustus has merged the glory of being a first- 
rate shot, in the glory of being a good man upon Change; Mr. Alfred 
has ceased to air the exotic beauties of the Opera, and has made a for- 
tune by a speculation in tobacco ; and Miss Amarantha, putting off the 
“ prima donna,” and forgetting her Signor, has nursed her own six 
children, and looks to the promotion of the excellent citizen her husband 
to the honours of the next year’s mayoralty. 
INSCRIPTION IN A GARDEN AT ALTONA. 
[From the German of BonsteTTENn.] 
Wuen on my bed of woe I lay, 
With friends all weeping by, 
And felt life ebbing day by day, 
And felt I dared not die—. 
I prayed for life; yet had I known 
The bitter days to come, 
How had I shunned the thankless boon, 
And joyed to meet the tomb! 
A throb, a sigh, and I had slept, 
Forgiving and forgiven ; 
No more for love or hope had wept, 
But waked to joy and heaven: 
But now I live to stand alone 
Upon a stormy shore, 
And see each tie of life undone, 
The loved return no more! 
My teacher is in yonder flower— 
It charms the heart and eye ; 
Then comes the gale, then comes the shower, 
Its hues, its perfumes die. 
There speaks my fate ; in vain, in vain, 
With pride, hope, love, we burn ; 
The heart will never bloom again, 
Life’s spring will ne’er return ! 
Yet, ye who live on Beauty’s smile, 
On Glory’s splendours gaze, 
Who build in pride the regal pile, 
Or toil for human praise,— 
Remember that a nobler clime 
Awaits the immortal’s wing, 
Where life is hallowed, grand, sublime, 
And Man is more than King ! 
