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Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders,
And fill'd with Greek the garden's blushing borders?—
No, no-your gentle Inas will not do-
To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
I'll come-(pointing downwards)-you understand-

till then adieu !»

And has the sprite been here? No-jests apartHowe'er man rules in science and in art, The sphere of woman's glories is the heart. And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true The wife-the mother-firm, yet gentle tooWhose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Who loves-yet dares even Love himself disown, When honour's broken shaft supports his throne: If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils, Dire as they are, of Critics and--Blue Devils.

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'Mong the few guests from Ether, came That wicked Sylph, whom Love we callMy Lady knew him but by name,

My Lord, her husband, not at all.

Some prudent Gnomes, 't is said, apprized That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarm'd about his torch, advised

He should, by all means, be kept out.

But others disapproved this plan,

And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman,

In such a dangerous place to light it.

However, there he was-and dancing

With the fair Sylph, light as a feather: They look'd like two young sunbeams, glancing, At daybreak, down to earth together.

And all had gone off safe and well,

But for that plaguy torch-whose light, Though not yet kindled, who could tell How soon, how devilishly it might?

And so it chanced-which in those dark And fireless halls, was quite amazing, Did we not know how small a spark

Can set the torch of Love a-blazing.

Whether it came, when close entangled
In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes,
Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet-is all surmise.

Certain it is, the ethereal girl

Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl,

Was fann'd up into actual burning.

Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze

That curtain of protecting wireWhich Davy delicately draws

Arcand illicit, dangerous fire!

The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air

(Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss), Through whose small holes this dangerous pair May see each other but not kiss.'

At first the torch looked rather bluely--
A sign, they say, that no good boded-
Then quick the became unruly,
gas

And, crack! the ball-room all exploded.

Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nieces,
Like butterflies, in stormy weather,

Were blown-legs, wings, and tails-to pieces!

While, 'mid these victims of the torch,

The Sylph, alas! too, bore her part—

Found Iving, with a livid scorch,

As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

Partique dedere

Oscula quisque suæ, non persenientia contra.-OVID.

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Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal,

Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet! Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife, From the mighty arena where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to command?

Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare Such a light from her dark'ning horizon as thou!

With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those

Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose

To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her storm;

With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth,

It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his lyre; Yet mellow'd, even now, by that mildness of truth Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire;

With an eloquence-not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er;
But a current that works out its way into light
Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore.

Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame,
And the charms of thy cause have not power to per-
suade,

Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy

name.

Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the fane and its service divine,
All the branches that spring from the old Russell tree,
Are by Liberty claim'd for the use of her shrine.

EPITAPH ON A LAWYER.

HERE lies a lawyer-one whose mind (Like that of all the lawyer kind) Resembled, though so grave and stately,

The pupil of a cat's eye greatly;

Which for the mousing deeds, transacted
In holes and corners, is well fitted,
But which, in sunshine, grows contracted,
As if 't would rather not admit it;
As if, in short, a man would quite
Throw time away who tried to let in a
Decent portion of God's light

On lawyer's mind or pussy's retina.

Hence when he took to politics,
As a refreshing change of evil,
Unfit with grand affairs to mix
His little Nisi-Prius tricks,

Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil;
And proved that when a small law wit
Of statesmanship attempts the trial,
'T is like a player on the kit

Put all at once to a bas viol.

Nay, even when honest (which he could
Be, now and then), still quibbling daily,
He served his country as he would
A client thief at the Old Bailey.

But-do him justice- short and rare

His wish through honest paths to roam; Born with a taste for the unfair, Where falsehood call'd he still was there,

And when least honest most at home. Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping, He work'd his way up near the throne, And, long before he took the keeping Of the king's conscience, lost his own.

And taking every meteor fire

That cross'd my path-way for his star! All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface The lights and shades, the joy and pain, How little of the past would stay! How quickly all should melt awayAll-but that freedom of the mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined, And kept till now unchangingly;

And that dear home, that saving ark,

Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark, And comfortless, and stormy round!

FANCY.

THE more I've view'd this world, the more I've found
That, fill'd as 't is with scenes and creatures rare,
Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair.

Nor is it that her power can call up there

A single charm that's not from Nature won,
No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun-
But 't is the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make
Colours as gay as those on angels wings!

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Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said, were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done.»Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells In sober birth-days speaks to me; Far otherwise-of time it tells

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly—

Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines-
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after Love too far,

FONTENELLE.Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce que j'ai fait..

LOVE AND HYMEN.

LOVE had a fever-ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking;
And whimsical enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking.

To let him pine so were a sin-
One to whom all the world's a debtor-
So Doctor Hymen was call'd in,

And Love that night slept rather better.

Next day the case gave further hope yet, Though still some ugly fever latent;—

« Dose, as before»-a gentle opiate, For which old Hymen has a pateut.

After a month of daily call,

So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,

Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.

TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.

SWEET Sirmio! thou, the very eye

Of all peninsulas and isles

That in our lakes of silver lie,

Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles,

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FROM THE FRENCH.

Or all the men one meets about,

There's none like Jack-he 's every where: At church-park-auction-dinner-routGo when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back—

Meets you, like Eurus, in the East-
You 're call'd upon for « How do, Jack?»
One hundred times a-day at least.
A friend of his one evening said,

As home he took his pensive way,
Upon my soul, I fear Jack 's dead-
I've seen him but three times to-day!»

ROMANCE.

I HAVE a story of two lovers, fill'd

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness, And the sad, doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd Two young and longing hearts in that sweet madnes

But where to chuse the locale of my vision
In this wide vulgar world-what real spot
Can be found out, sufficiently elysian

For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Oh, for some fair Formosa, such as he,
The young Jew,' fabled of, in the Indian Sea,
By nothing but its naine of Beauty known,
And which Queen Fancy might make all her own,
Her fairy kingdom-take its people, lands,
And tenements into her own bright hands,
And make, at least, one earthly corner fit
For Love to live in-pure and exquisite!

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For though, by some unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,
He sent such hints through Viscount This,
To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing.
The same it was in science, arts,

The drama, books, MS. and printed— Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts, And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

And, here and there, infused some soul in 'tNay, Davy's lamp, till seen by Ned,

Had-odd enough-a dangerous hole in 't.

'T was thus, all doing and all knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chemist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust him-had his finger.

ON

LIKE a snuffers, this loving old dame,

By a destiny grievous enough,

Though so oft she has snapp'd at the flame, Hath never caught more than the snuff.

FRAGMENT OF A CHARACTER.

HERE lies Factotum Ned at last:
Long as he breathed the vital air,
Nothing throughout all Europe pass'd

In which he had n't some small share.

Whoe'er was in, whoc'er was out

Whatever statesmen did or saidIf not exactly brought about,

Was all, at least, contrived by Ned.

With NAP if Russia went to war,

T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence.)

If France was beat at Waterloo

As all, but Frenchmen, think she was

To Ned, as Wellington well knew,

Was owing half that day's applause.

Then for his news-no envoy's bag

E'er pass'd so many secrets through it— Scarcely a telegraph could wag

Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.

Such tales he had of foreign plots, With foreign names one's ear to buzz inFrom Russia chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland owskis by the dozen.

When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd-who advised the deed?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he.

Psalmanazar.

COUNTRY-DANCE AND QUADRILLE.
ONE night, the nymph call'd Country-Dance—
Whom folks, of late, have used so ill,
Preferring a coquette from France,

A mincing thing, Mamselle Quadrille-
Having been chased from London down
To that last, humblest haunt of all
She used to grace-a country-town-
Went smiling to the new year's ball.

Here, here, at least,» she cried, « though driven
From London's gay and shining tracks-

Though, like a Peri cast from heaven,

I've lost, for ever lost Almack's

<< Though not a London Miss alive

Would now for her acquaintance own me; And spinsters, even of forty-five,

Upon their honours ne'er have known me:

« Here, here, at least, I triumph still,
And-spite of some few dandy lancers,
Who vainly try to preach Quadrille—
See nought but true-blue country-dancers.

« Here still I reign, and, fresh in charms,
My throne, like Magua Charta, raise,
'Mong sturdy, free-born legs and arms,
That scorn the threaten'd chaine Anglaise.»

'T was thus she said, as, 'mid the din Of footmen, and the town sedan, She lighted at the King's-lead Inn,

And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The squires and their squiresses all,

With young squirinas, just come out, And my lord's daughters from the Hall (Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt),

Already, as she tripp'd up stairs,

She in the cloak-room saw assemblingWhen, hark! some new outlandish airs, From the first fiddle, set her trembling.

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