Where characters lost on earth, (and cried,
In vain, like II-rr-s's, far and wide)
In heaps, like yesterday's orts, are thrown,
And there, so worthless and fly-blown
That even the imps would not purloin them,
Lie, till their worthy owners join them.

Curious it was to see this mass

Of lost and torn-up reputations;Some of them female wares, alas,

Mislaid at innocent assignations; Some, that had sigh'd their last amen

From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by the best of men,

Who had proved-no better than they should be. 'Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,

Once shining fair, now soaked and black

No wonder,» (a dev'l at my elbow cried)

"

For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!»

Just then a yell was heard o'er head,

Like a chimney-sweeper's lofty summons; And lo, an imp right downward sped, Bringing, within his claws so red,

Two statesmen's characters, found, he said,

Last night, on the floor of the House of Commons; The which, with black official grin,

He now to the Chief Imp handed in ;-
Both these articles much the worse

For their journey down, as you may suppose,
But one so devilish rank-«Odd's curse!»

Said the Lord Chief Imp, and held his nose.

Ho, ho! quoth he, I know full well
From whom these two stray matters fell ;»
Then, casting away, with a loathful shrug,
Th' uncleaner waif (as he would a drug
Th' Invisible's own dark hand had mix'd),
His

eyes on the other gravely fix'd,

And trying, though mischief laugh'd in his eye,
To be moral, because of the young imps by,
What a pity!» he cried so fresh its gloss,
So long preserved-'t is a public loss!
This comes of a man, the careless blockhead,
Keeping his character in his pocket;
And there-without considering whether
There's room for that and his gains together-
Cramming, and cramming, and cramming away,
Till-out slips character some fine day!
However and here he view'd it round-

Often set up for authors in prose and in rhyme,

But ne'er took the trouble to write their own books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters; —
And, one day, a Bishop, addressing a Blue,
Said, Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral Letters?
To which the Blue answer'd No, Bishop, have
you?"

The same is now done by our privileged class;
And, to show you how simple the process it needs,
If a great Major-General wishes to pass

For an author of History, thus he proceeds:

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well
As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,
He settles his neck-cloth-takes snuff-rings the bell,
And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

The Subaltern comes-sees his General seated,
In all the self-glory of authorship swelling;-

Così quel fiato gli spiriti mali

Di quà, dì là, di giù, di sù gli mena.—Inferno, cant. 5.

I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng

Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds me,-blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as-though they 'd never puff enough.

« Whence and what are ye? pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
We once were authors, thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said,-

1 Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter, Who, early smit with love of praise and―pewter,1 On ---'s shelves first saw the light of day, In ➖➖➖'s puffs exhaled our lives away,— Like summer wind-mills, doom'd to dusty peace, When the brisk gales, that lent them motion, cease. Ah, little knew we then what ills await Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state; Bepuff'd on earth-how loudly Str-t can tellAnd, dire reward, now doubly puff'd in hell!»

Touch'd with compassion for this ghastly crew,
Whose ribs, even now, the hollow wind sung through
In mournful
prose, such prose as Rosa's3 ghost

Still, at th' accustom'd hour of eggs and toast,
Sighs through the columns of the M-rn--g P-t,—
Pensive I turn'd to weep, when he, who stood
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,
Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,
« Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,4

One of our letter'd nymphs-excuse the pun-
Who gain'd a name on earth by-having none;
And whose initials would immortal be,

Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A. B. C.

Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun,
Who rides the blast, Sir J-n-h B-rr--t-n;—
In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,
And now the wind returns the compliment.
This lady here, the Earl of --'s sister,
Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister-
Beg pardon-Honourable Mister L-st-r,

A gentleman who, some weeks since, came over
In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.
Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey,

Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away,-
Like a torn paper-kite, on which the wind
No farther purchase for a puff can find,»

But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December,

I wrote a book,' and Colburn dubb'd me' Member'-
Member of Brooks's!'-oh Promethean puff,

To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits,
And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like half-chew'd bits,
To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;
oft before,

With such ingredients, served

up

But with fresh fudge and fiction garnish'd o'er,
I managed, for some weeks, to dose the town,
Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down,
And, ready still even waiters' souls to damn,
The Devil but rang his bell, and—here I am; -
Yes-Coming up, Sir,' once my favourite cry,
Exchanged for 'Coming down, Sir,' here am I!

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop,
When, lo! a breeze-such as, from's shop,
Blows in the vernal hour, when puffs prevail,
And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale-
in the poop,
waiter rudely

Took the

poor

And, whirling him and all his grisly group

Of literary ghosts,-Miss X. Y. Z.,

The nameless author, better known than read-
Sir Jo.-the Honourable Mr L-st-r,

And, last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin sister,-
Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes
And sins about them, far into those climes

Where Peter pitch'd his waistcoat2, in old times, Leaving me much in doubt, as on I prest, With my great master, through this realm unblest, Whether Old Nick or puffs the best.

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD B-- -ST'S
TAIL. 3

ALL in again-unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, ah, one adjunct still we miss-
One tender tie, attach'd so long

To the same head, through right and wrong.
Why, B-th-st, why didst thou cut off

That memorable tail of thine?
Why-as if one was not enough-

Thy pig-tie with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run?
Alas, my Lord, 't was not well done,
'T was not, indeed,-though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets to part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign,-
As if the State and all its powers
By tenancy in tail were ours,—
To see it thus by scissors fall,

This was th' unkindest cut of all!»
It seem'd as though th' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,
And proving Sampson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her

queue.

Parties are much like fish, 't is said,—
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by B-th--st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,

Blazed from our old Colonial comet!
I you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As W-ll--gt-n will be anon)
Thou mightst have had a tail to spare;
But no, alas, thou hadst but one,
And that-like Troy, or Babylon,
A tale of other times-is gone!
Yet-weep ye not, ye Tories true,-

Fate has not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus deprived of B-th-rst's queue,

We've Ell-nb-gh's curls still left us;Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine-pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate, Surcharged with all a nation's fate, Ilis Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,'

And oft in thundering talk comes near him ;Except that, there the speaker nodded,

And, here, 't is only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fat cranium may ye flourish, With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last loved relics we 'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.2

SEE those cherries, how they cover
Yonder sunny garden-wall;-
Had they not that net-work over,
Thieving birds would eat them all.

So, to guard our posts and pensions,
Ancient sages wove a net,
Through whose holes, of small dimensions,
Only certain knaves can get.

Shall we then this net-work widen?

Shall we stretch these sacred holes,
Through which, ev'n already, slide in
Lots of small dissenting souls?

«God forbid! old Testy crieth;
God forbid! so echo I;

Every ravenous bird that flieth

Then would at our cherries fly.

Ope but half an inch or so,

And, behold, what bevies break in;-
Here, some curst old Popish crow

Pops his long and lickerish beak in:

1 Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod." POPE'S Homer.

Acts.

Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE SHANNON.

Take back the virgin page.

Moore's Irish Melodies.

No longer, dear V-sey, feel hurt and uneasy

At hearing it said by thy Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, my V-sey,

And he, the dear, innocent placeman, another. For, lo, what a service we, Irish, have done thee:Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St Patrick, we 've scrawl'd such a lesson upon thee As never was scrawl'd upon foolscap before.

Come,-on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend you,)

Read V-sey all o'er-as you can't read a bookAnd improve by the lesson we, bog-trotters, send you;