III.

_On a Ruined House in a Romantic Country._

And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd, Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade? Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where _erst_ she stray'd; And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white; As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

THE AMATORY POEMS OF ABEL SHUFFLEBOTTOM.

(THE DELLA CRUSCANS)

SONNET I.

_Delia at Play._

She held a _Cup and Ball_ of ivory white, _Less white_ the ivory than her _snowy_ hand! Enrapt, I watch'd her from my secret stand, As now, intent, in _innocent_ delight, Her _taper_ fingers twirl'd the giddy ball, Now tost it, following still with EAGLE _sight_, Now on the pointed end _infix'd_ its fall. Marking her sport I mused, and musing sigh'd, Methought the BALL she play'd with was my HEART; (Alas! that sport like _that_ should be her pride!) And the _keen point_ which steadfast still she eyed Wherewith to pierce it, that was CUPID'S _dart_; Shall I not then the cruel Fair condemn Who _on that dart_ IMPALES _my_ BOSOM'S GEM?

SONNET II.

_To a Painter attempting Delia's Portrait._

Rash Painter! canst thou give the ORB OF DAY In all its noontide glory? or portray The DIAMOND, that athwart the _taper'd_ hall _Flings the rich flashes of its dazzling light_? Even if thine art could boast such _magic might_, Yet if it strove to paint _my Angel's_ EYE, Here it perforce must fail. Cease! lest I call _Heaven's vengeance on thy sin_: Must thou be told _The_ CRIME _it is to paint_ DIVINITY? Rash Painter! should the world her charms behold, Dim and defiled, as there they needs must be, They to their _old idolatry_ would fall, And bend before her form the _pagan_ knee, Fairer than VENUS, DAUGHTER OF THE SEA.

SONNET III.

_He proves the Existence of a Soul from his Love for Delia._

Some have denied a soul! THEY NEVER LOVED. Far from my Delia now by fate removed, At home, abroad, I view her everywhere; _Her_ ONLY in the FLOOD OF NOON I see, My _Goddess-Maid_, my OMNIPRESENT FAIR, _For_ LOVE _annihilates the world to me_! And when the weary SOL _around his bed_ _Closes the_ SABLE CURTAINS _of the night_, SUN OF MY SLUMBERS, on my dazzled sight SHE shines confest. When _every sound is dead_, The SPIRIT OF HER VOICE comes then to _roll_ The _surge of music_ o'er my wavy brain. Far, far from her my _Body_ drags its chain, But sure with Delia _I exist_ A SOUL!

SONNET IV.

_The Poet expresses his Feelings respecting a Portrait in Delia's Parlour._

I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane, Who hangs in Delia's parlour! For whene'er From books or needlework her looks arise, On him _converge the_ SUNBEAMS _of her eyes_, And he _unblamed_ may gaze upon MY FAIR, And oft MY FAIR his _favour'd_ form surveys. O HAPPY PICTURE! still on HER to gaze; I envy him! and jealous fear alarms, Lest the STRONG _glance_ of those _divinest_ charms WARM HIM TO LIFE, as in the ancient days, When MARBLE MELTED in Pygmalion's arms. I would I were that portly gentleman With gold-laced hat and golden-headed cane.

LOVE ELEGIES.

ELEGY I.

_The Poet relates how he obtained Delia's Pocket-handkerchief._

'Tis mine! what accents can my joy declare? Blest be the pressure of the thronging rout! Blest be the hand so hasty of my fair, That left the _tempting corner_ hanging out!

I envy not the joy the pilgrim feels, After long travel to some distant shrine, When at the relic of his saint he kneels, For Delia's POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF IS MINE.

When first with _filching fingers_ I drew near, Keen hope shot tremulous through every vein; And when the _finish'd deed_ removed my fear, Scarce could my bounding heart its joy contain.

What though the Eighth Commandment rose to mind, It only served a moment's qualm to move; For thefts like this it could not be design'd, _The Eighth Commandment_ WAS NOT MADE FOR LOVE!

Here when she took the macaroons from me, She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet! Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee! Lips _sweeter_ than the _macaroons_ she eat.

And when she took that pinch of Mocabaw, That made my Love so _delicately_ sneeze, Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw, And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

No washerwoman's filthy hand shall e'er, SWEET POCKET-HANDKERCHIEF! thy worth profane; For thou hast touch'd the _rubies_ of my fair, And I will kiss thee o'er and o'er again.

ELEGY II.

_The Poet invokes the Spirits of the Elements to approach Delia.--He describes Her Singing._

YE SYLPHS, who _banquet_ on my Delia's blush, Who on her locks of FLOATING GOLD repose, _Dip in her cheek your_ GOSSAMERY BRUSH, And with its bloom of beauty _tinge_ THE ROSE.

Hover around her lips on _rainbow wing_, Load from her honey'd breath your _viewless_ feet, Bear thence a richer fragrance for the Spring And make the lily and the violet sweet.

Ye GNOMES, whose toil through many a dateless year Its nurture to the infant gem supplies, From central caverns bring your diamonds here, To _ripen in the sun_ OF DELIA'S EYES.

And ye who bathe in Etna's lava springs, Spirits of fire! to see my love advance; Fly, SALAMANDERS, on ASBESTOS' wings, To wanton in my Delia's _fiery_ glance.

She weeps, she weeps! her eye with anguish swells, Some tale of sorrow melts my FEELING GIRL! NYMPHS! catch the tears, and in Your lucid shells Enclose them, EMBRYOS OF THE ORIENT PEARL.

She sings! the Nightingale with envy hears, The CHERUB listens from his starry throne, And motionless are stopt the attentive SPHERES, To hear _more heavenly music_ than their own.

Cease, Delia, cease! for all the ANGEL THRONG, Hearkening to thee, let sleep their golden wires! Cease, Delia, cease, that _too surpassing_ song, Lest, _stung to envy_, they should break their lyres.

Cease, ere my senses are to madness driven By the strong joy! Cease, Delia, lest my soul, Enrapt, already THINK ITSELF IN HEAVEN, _And burst the feeble Body's frail control_.

ELEGY III.

_The Poet Expatiates on the Beauty of Delia's Hair._

The comb between whose ivory teeth she strains The straitening curls of gold so _beamy bright_, Not spotless merely from the touch remains, But issues forth _more pure_, more _milky white_.

The rose-pomatum that the FRISEUR spreads Sometimes with honour'd fingers for my fair, No added perfume on her tresses sheds, _But borrows sweetness from her sweeter hair_.

Happy the FRISEUR who in Delia's hair With licensed fingers uncontrol'd may rove! And happy in his death the DANCING BEAR, Who died to make pomatum for my LOVE.

Oh could I hope that e'er my favour'd lays Might _curl those lovely locks_ with conscious pride, Nor Hammond, nor the Mantuan Shepherd's praise, I'd envy them, nor wish reward beside.

Cupid has strung from you, O tresses fine, The bow that in my breast impell'd his dart; From you, sweet locks! he wove the subtile line Wherewith the urchin _angled for_ MY HEART.

Fine are my Delia's tresses as the threads That from the silk-worm, _self-interr'd_, proceed; Fine as the GLEAMY GOSSAMER that spreads Its filmy web-work o'er the tangled mead.

Yet with these tresses Cupid's power elate My captive _heart_ has _handcuff'd_ in a chain, Strong as the cables of some huge first-rate, THAT BEARS BRITANNIA'S THUNDERS O'ER THE MAIN.

The SYLPHS that round her radiant locks repair In _flowing lustre_ bathe their brightening wings; And ELFIN MINSTRELS with assiduous care The ringlets rob for FAERY FIDDLE-STRINGS.

ELEGY IV.

_The Poet relates how he stole a Lock of Delia's Hair, and her Anger._

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth! Ye Seas, to swallow me in kindness rise! Fall on me, Mountains! and thou merciful Earth, Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes!

Let universal Chaos now return, Now let the central fires their prison burst, AND EARTH AND HEAVEN AND AIR AND OCEAN burn... For Delia FROWNS... SHE FROWNS, _and I am curst_!

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life; Would storm VOLCANO BATTERIES with delight, And grapple with GRIM DEATH in glorious strife.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry Jove, When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies; What is _his wrath_ to that of HER I love? What is his LIGHTNING to my DELIA'S EYES?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind; Ye _serpent_ CURLS, ye _poison-tendrils_, go! Would I could tear thy memory from my mind, ACCURSED LOCK,... thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the CURST CURLS, ye Furies, as they fly! Demons of Darkness, guard the infernal roll, That thence your cruel vengeance when I die May _knit the_ KNOTS OF TORTURE _for my_ SOUL.

Last night,... oh, hear me, Heaven, and grant my prayer! The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay, And let me from its ample records tear _Only the single_ PAGE OF YESTERDAY.

Or let me meet OLD TIME upon his flight, And I will STOP HIM on his restless way: Omnipotent in Love's resistless might, _I'll force him back the_ ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of Love's despair, My Delia bent _deliciously_ to grieve, I stood a _treacherous loiterer_ by her chair, And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would that at that instant o'er my thread The SHEARS OF ATROPOS had open'd then; And when I reft the lock from Delia's head, Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide, And whilst my heart with transport panted big, She cast a FURY frown on me, and cried, 'You stupid PUPPY,... you have spoil'd my Wig!'

CHARLES LAMB.

EPICEDIUM--GOING OR GONE.

(DRAYTON)

Fine merry franions, Wanton companions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye; How Death, that last stinger, Finis-writer, end-bringer, Has laid his chill finger, Or is laying on ye.

There's rich Kitty Wheatley, With footing it featly That took me completely, She sleeps in the Kirk House; And poor Polly Perkin, Whose Dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the Work-house;

Fine gard'ner, Ben Carter (In ten counties no smarter) Has ta'en his departure For Proserpine's orchards; And Lily, postilion, With cheeks of vermilion, Is one of a million That fill up the church-yards;

And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford; And good Master Clapton Has thirty years nap't on The ground he last hap't on, Intomb'd by fair Widford;

And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of nature's finest crockery, Now but thin air and mockery, Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.

Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Yet has he equally Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling Worral, And wicked old Dorrell, 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us!--

Kindly hearts have I known; Kindly hearts, they are flown; Here and there if but one Linger yet uneffaced, Imbecile tottering elves, Soon to be wreck'd on shelves, These scarce are half themselves, With age and care crazed.

But this day Fanny Hutton Her last dress has put on; Her fine lessons forgotten, She died, as the dunce died: And prim Betsy Chambers, Decay'd in her members, No longer remembers Things, as she once did;

And prudent Miss Wither Not in jest now doth _wither_, And soon must go--whither Nor I well, nor you know; And flaunting Miss Waller, _That_ soon must befall her, Whence none can recall her, Though proud once as Juno!

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

(ROBERT BURTON)

By myself walking, To myself talking, When as I ruminate On my untoward fate, Scarcely seem I Alone sufficiently, Black thoughts continually Crowding my privacy; They come unbidden, Like foes at a wedding, Thrusting their faces In better guests' places, Peevish and malecontent, Clownish, impertinent, Dashing the merriment: So in like fashions Dim cogitations Follow and haunt me, Striving to daunt me, In my heart festering, In my ears whispering, 'Thy friends are treacherous, Thy foes are dangerous, Thy dreams ominous.' Fierce Anthropophagi, Spectra, Diaboli, What scared St. Anthony Hobgoblins, Lemures, Dreams of Antipodes, Night-riding Incubi Troubling the fantasy, All dire illusions Causing confusions; Figments heretical, Scruples fantastical, Doubts diabolical, Abaddon vexeth me, Mahu perplexeth me, Lucifer teareth me-- _Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._

NONSENSE VERSES.

(LAMB)

Lazy-bones, lazy-bones, wake up, and peep! The cat's in the cupboard, your mother's asleep. There you sit snoring, forgetting her ills; Who is to give her her bolus and pills? Twenty fine angels must come into town, All for to help you to make your new gown: Dainty Aerial Spinsters, and Singers; Aren't you ashamed to employ such white fingers? Delicate hands, unaccustomed to reels, To set 'em a working a poor body's wheels? Why they came down is to me all a riddle, And left Hallelujah broke off in the middle; Jove's Court, and the Presence angelical, cut-- To eke out the work of a lazy young slut. Angel-duck, angel-duck, wingèd, and silly, Pouring a watering-pot over a lily, Gardener gratuitous, careless of pelf, Leave her to water her lily herself, Or to neglect it to death if she choose it: Remember the loss is her own, if she lose it.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE NUMBERING OF THE CLERGY.

(SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS)

We want more Churches and more Clergymen.--_Bishop of London's late Charge._

Rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus, augent.--CLAUDIAN _in Eutrop_.

Come, give us more Livings and Rectors, For richer no realm ever gave; But why, ye unchristian objectors, Do ye ask us how many we crave?

Oh, there can't be too many rich Livings For souls of the Pluralist kind, Who, despising old Cocker's misgivings, To numbers can ne'er be confin'd.

Count the cormorants hovering about, At the time their fish season sets in, When these models of keen diners-out Are preparing their beaks to begin.

Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses, Flock round when the harvest's in play, And, not minding the farmer's distresses, Like devils in grain peck away.

Go, number the locusts in heaven, On their way to some titheable shore; And when _so_ many Parsons you've given, We still shall be craving for more.

Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye Must leave us in peace to augment, For the wretch who could number the Clergy, With few will be ever content.

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK.

A BORDER BALLAD.

BY AN ENCHANTER UNKNOWN.

(SCOTT)

The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar, Here fixed his mountain home: a wide domain, And rich the soil, had purple heath been grain; But what the niggard ground of wealth denied, From fields more blest his fearless arm supplied. LEYDEN.

The Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all, The Hughies o' Hawdon, and Wills-o'-the-Wall, The Willimondswicks, and the hard-riding Dicks, Are staunch to the last to their old Border tricks; Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone, They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none.

When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the law Had tamed the moss-troopers, so bonny and braw; Though spiders wove webs in the rusty sword-hilt, In the niche of the hall which their forefathers built; Yet with sly paper credit and promise to pay, They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.

They whitewashed the front of their old Border fort; They widened its loopholes, and opened its court; They put in sash-windows where none were before, And they wrote the word 'BANK' o'er the new-painted door; The cross-bow and matchlock aside they did lay, And they shot the stout Southron with promise to pay.

They shot him from far and they shot him from near, And they laid him as flat as their fathers laid deer: Their fathers were heroes, though some called them thieves When they ransacked their dwellings and drove off their beeves; But craft undermined what force battered in vain, And the pride of the Southron was stretched on the plain.

Now joy to the Hughies and Willies so bold! The Southron, like Dickson, is bought and is sold; To his goods and his chattels, his house, and his land, Their promise to pay is as Harlequin's wand: A touch and a word, and pass, presto, begone, The Southron has lost, and the Willies have won.

The Hughies and Willies may lead a glad life; They reap without sowing, they win without strife: The Bruce and the Wallace were sturdy and fierce, But where Scotch steel was broken Scotch paper can pierce; And the true meed of conquest our minstrels shall fix, On the promise to pay of our Willimondswicks.

THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM.

BY S. T. C., ESQ., PROFESSOR OF MYSTICISM.

(COLERIDGE)

Σκιᾶς ὄναρ.--PINDAR.

In a bowl to sea went wise men three, On a brilliant night of June: They carried a net, and their hearts were set On fishing up the moon.

The sea was calm, the air was balm, Not a breath stirred low or high, And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below, And as round as in the sky.

The wise men with the current went, Nor paddle nor oar had they, And still as the grave they went on the wave, That they might not disturb their prey.

Far, far at sea, were the wise men three, When their fishing-net they threw; And at the throw, the moon below In a thousand fragments flew.

The sea was bright with the dancing light Of a million million gleams, Which the broken moon shot forth as soon As the net disturbed her beams.

They drew in their net: it was empty and wet, And they had lost their pain, Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray, And the image was round again.

Three times they threw, three times they drew, And all the while were mute; And evermore their wonder grew, Till they could not but dispute.

Their silence they broke, and each one spoke Full long, and loud, and clear; A man at sea their voices three Full three leagues off might hear.

The three wise men got home again To their children and their wives: But touching their trip, and their net's vain dip, They disputed all their lives.

The wise men three could never agree, Why they missed the promised boon; They agreed alone that their net they had thrown, And they had not caught the moon.

I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale, And its sense I could not ken; But now I see that the wise men three Were paper-money men.

'Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub,' Is a mystic burthen old, Which I've pondered about till my fire went out, And I could not sleep for cold.

I now divine each mystic sign, Which robbed me oft of sleep, Three men in a bowl, who went to troll, For the moon in the midnight deep.

Three men were they who science drank From Scottish fountains free; Tho cash they sank in the Gotham bank, Was the moon beneath the sea.

The breaking of the imaged moon, At the fishing-net's first splash, Was the breaking of the bank as soon As the wise men claimed their cash.

The dispute which lasted all their lives, Was the economic strife, Which the son's son's son of every one Will maintain through all his life.

The son's son's sons will baffled be, As were their sires of old; But they only agree, like the wise men three, That they could not get their gold.

And they'll build systems dark and deep, And systems broad and high; But two of three will never agree About the reason why.

And he who at this day will seek The Economic Club, Will find at least three sages there, As ready as any that ever were To go to sea in a tub.

PROEMIUM OF AN EPIC,

WHICH WILL SHORTLY APPEAR IN QUARTO, UNDER THE TITLE OF

'FLY-BY-NIGHT.'

BY R. S., ESQ., POET LAUREATE.

(SOUTHEY)

His promises were, as he once was, mighty; And his performance, as he is now, nothing. SHAKESPEARE: _Henry VIII._, Act IV., Sc. ii.

How troublesome is day! It calls us from our sleep away; It bids us from our pleasant dreams awake, And sends us forth to keep or break Our promises to pay. How troublesome is day!

Now listen to my lay; Much have I said, Which few have heard or read, And much have I to say, Which hear ye while ye may. Come listen to my lay, Come, for ye know me, as a man Who always praises, as he can, All promisers to pay. So they and I on terms agree, And they but keep their faith with me, Whate'er their deeds to others be, They may to the minutest particle Command my fingers for an ode or article.

Come listen while I strike the Epic string, And, as a changeful song I sing, Before my eyes Bid changeful Proteus rise, Turning his coat and skin in countless forms and dyes.

Come listen to my lay, While I the wild and wondrous tale array, How Fly-by-Night went down, And set a bank up in a country town; How like a king his head he reared; And how the Coast of Cash he cleared; And how one night he disappeared, When many a scoffer jibed and jeered; And many an old man rent his beard; And many a young man cursed and railed; And many a woman wept and wailed; And many a mighty heart was quailed; And many a wretch was caged and gaoled: Because great Fly-by-Night had failed. And many a miserable sinner Went without his Sunday dinner, Because he had not metal bright, And waved in vain before the butcher's sight The promises of Fly-by-Night. And little Jackey Horner Sat sulking in the corner, And in default of Christmas pie Whereon his little thumb to try, He put his finger in his eye, And blubbered long and lustily.

Come listen to my lay, And ye shall say, That never tale of errant knight, Or captive damsel bright, Demon, or elf, or goblin sprite, Fierce crusade, or feudal fight, Or cloistral phantom all in white, Or castle or accessless height, Upreared by necromantic might, Was half so full of rare delight, As this whereof I now prolong, The memory in immortal song-- The wild and wondrous tale of Fly-by-Night.

YE KITE-FLYERS OF SCOTLAND.

BY T. C.

(THOMAS CAMPBELL)

Quel chio vi debbo posso di parole Pagare in parte, e d'opera d'inchiostro. ARIOSTO.

Ye kite-flyers of Scotland, Who live from home at ease; Who raise the wind, from year to year, In a long and strong trade breeze: Your paper kites let loose again On all the winds that blow; Through the shout of the rout Lay the English ragmen low; Though the shout for gold be fierce and bold, And the English ragmen low.

The spirits of your fathers Shall peep from every leaf; For the midnight was their noon of fame, And their prize was living beef. Where Deloraine on Musgrave fell, Your paper kites shall show, That a way to convey Better far than theirs you know, When you launch your kites upon the wind And raise the wind to blow.

Caledonia needs no bullion, No coin in iron case; Her treasure is a bunch of rags And the brass upon her face; With pellets from her paper mills She makes the Southrons trow, That to pay her sole way Is by promising to owe, By making promises to pay When she only means to owe.

The meteor ray of Scotland Shall float aloft like scum, Till credit's o'erstrained line shall crack, And the day of reckoning come: Then, then, ye Scottish kite-flyers, Your hone-a-rie must flow, While you drink your own ink With your old friend Nick below, While you burn your bills and singe your quills In his bonny fire below.

LOVE AND THE FLIMSIES.

BY T. M., ESQ.

(MOORE)

Ο δ' Ἔρως χιτῶνα δήσας Ὑπὲρ αὐχένος ΠΑΠΥΡΩ. ANACREON.

Little Cupid one day on a sunbeam was floating, Above a green vale where a paper mill played; And he hovered in ether, delightedly noting The whirl and the splash that the water-wheel made.

The air was all filled with the scent of the roses, Round the miller's veranda that clustered and twined; And he thought if the sky were all made up of noses, This spot of the earth would be most to its mind.

And forth came the miller, a Quaker in verity, Rigid of limb and complacent of face, And behind him a Scotchman was singing 'Prosperity,' And picking his pocket with infinite grace.

And 'Walth and prosparity,' 'Walth and prosparity,' His bonny Scotch burthen arose on the air, To a song all in praise of that primitive charity, Which begins with sweet home and which terminates there.

But sudden a tumult arose from a distance, And in rushed a rabble with steel and with stone, And ere the scared miller could call for assistance, The mill to a million of atoms was blown.

Scarce mounted the fragments in ether to hurtle, When the Quaker was vanished, no eye had seen where; And the Scotchman thrown flat on his back, like a turtle, Was sprawling and bawling, with heels in the air.

Little Cupid continued to hover and flutter, Pursuing the fragments that floated on high, As light as the fly that is christened from butter, Till he gathered his hands full and flew to the sky.

'Oh, mother,' he cried, as he showed them to Venus, 'What are these little talismans cyphered--One--One? If you think them worth having, we'll share them between us, Though their smell is like none of the sweetest, poor John.'

'My darling,' says Venus, 'away from you throw them, They're a sort of fool's gold among mortals, 'tis true; But we want them not here, though I think you might know them, Since on earth they so often have bought and sold you.'

SONG BY MR. CYPRESS.

(BYRON)

There is a fever of the spirit, The brand of Cain's unresting doom, Which in the lone dark souls that bear it Glows like the lamp in Tullia's tomb. Unlike the lamp, its subtle fire Burns, blasts, consumes its cell, the heart. Till, one by one, hope, joy, desire, Like dreams of shadowy smoke depart.

When hope, love, life itself, are only Dust--spectral memories--dead and cold-- The unfed fire burns bright and lonely, Like that undying lamp of old; And by that drear illumination, Till time its clay-built home has rent, Thought broods on feeling's desolation-- The soul is its own monument.

HORACE TWISS.

THE PATRIOT'S PROGRESS.

(SHAKESPEARE)

St. Stephen's is a stage, And half the opposition are but players: For clap-traps, and deceptions, and effects, Fill up their thoughts throughout their many parts, Their acts being sev'n. At first the Demagogue, Railing and mouthing at the hustings' front: And then the cogging Candidate, with beer, Fibs, cringes, and cockades, giving to voters Unwillingly a pledge. And then the Member, Crackling like furnace, with a flaming story Made on the country's fall. Then he turns Courtier, Full of smooth words, and secret as a midwife, Pleas'd with all rulers, zealous for the church, Seeking the useful fame of orthodoxy, Ev'n from the _Canon's_ mouth. And then a Secretary, In fair white waistcoat, with boil'd chicken lin'd, With placid smile, and speech of ready answer, Lib'ral of promises and army contracts, And so he rules the state. The sixth act brings him To be a snug retired old baronet, With ribband red on breast, and star on side: His early zeal for change a world too hot For his cool age: and his big eloquence, Turning to gentler sounds, obedient pipes-- And we must pay the piper. Scene the last, That ends this comfortable history, Is a fat pension and a pompous peerage, With cash, with coronet--with all but conscience.

OUR PARODIES ARE ENDED.

(SHAKESPEARE)

Our parodies are ended. These our authors, As we foretold you, were all Spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air. And, like the baseless fabric of these verses, The Critic's puff, the Trade's advertisement, The Patron's promise, and the World's applause,-- Yea, all the hopes of poets,--shall dissolve, And, like this unsubstantial fable fated, Leave not a groat behind!

FASHION.

(MILTON)

Hence, loath'd vulgarity, Of ignorance and native dullness bred, In low unwholesome shed, 'Mongst thieves and drabs, and street-sweeps asking charity: Find some suburban haunt, Where the spruce 'prentice treats his flashy mate, And smoking cits debate: Or at a dowdy rout, or ticket-ball, Giv'n at Freemasons' Hall, With tawdry clothes and liveries ever flaunt. But come, thou nymph of slender waist, Known early by the name of Taste,

* * * * *

Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee Steed, and light-hung Tilbury, Undiscoverable rouge, Polish'd boots, and neckcloth huge, (Such as might deck a Dandy's cheek, And draw the gazers for a week.) Mackintosh's racy phrase, And wit, that peerless Ward might praise. Come, and let your steps be bent With a lively measurement, And bring the proper airs and graces, That make their way in certain places: And, if I give thee honour due, Fashion, enroll me with the few, With Spencer, Sydney Smith, and thee In a select society: To ride when many a lady fair in Her morning veil begins her airing, And with the nurse and children stow'd Drives down the Park, or Chelsea road: Then to stop in spite of sorrow, And through the window bid good-morrow Of vis-à-vis, or barouchette, Or half-open landaulet: While little Burke, with lively din, Scatters his stock of trifles thin; And at the Bridge, or Grosvenor Gate, Briskly bids his horses wait; Oft listening how the Catalani Rouses at night th' applauding many, In some opera of Mozart, Winning the eye, the ear, the heart. Then in the round room not unseen, Attending dames of noble mien, Right to the door in Market-lane, Where chairmen range their jostling train, And footmen stand with torch alight, In their thousand liveries dight, While the doorkeeper on the stairs, Bawls for the Marchionesses' chairs And young dragoons enjoy the crowd, And dowagers inveigh aloud, And lovers write a hasty scrawl Upon the ticket of a shawl. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, As the circling crowd it measures; Virgins old with tresses grey, That in corkscrew curls do stray; Ladies, on whose softer breast Gallants receive a hope of rest; Little feet with sandals tied, Shallow heads and shoulders wide; Necks and throats of lovely form, Bosom'd high in tippet warm, Where some beauty spreads her snare, The envy of surrounding fair. Hard by, the Op'ra being past, To some small supper let me haste, Where ladies, wits, and poets met, Are at their various banquet set, Of fifty little tempting messes, Which the neat-handed Gunter dresses: And there with satisfaction see The pullet and the early pea, Or, if the sultry dog-star reign, The melon ice and cool champagne. Sometimes, to a late delight Argyll advertisements invite, Where the wreathèd waltz goes round, Or English tunes more briskly sound, To twice a hundred feet or more, Dancing on the chalky floor: And wise mamma, well pleased to see Her daughter paired with high degree, Stays till the daylight glares amain: Then in the carriage home again, With stories told, of many a bow, And civil speech from so and so. She was ask'd to dance, she said, But scarcely down the middle led, Because his Lordship only thought How soonest to find out a spot, Where, seated by her side, unheard, He whisper'd many a pretty word, Such as no poet could excel! Then, having paid his court so well, Most manifestly meaning marriage, He fetch'd the shawls and call'd the carriage, Handed her from the crowded door And watch'd till she was seen no more. Thus done the tales, the flutt'ring fair Go up to bed, and curl their hair. Country houses please me too, And the jocund Christmas crew, Where chiefs of adverse politics Awhile in social circle mix, And tenants come, whose county franchise Connects them with the higher branches, Since all the great alike contend For votes, on which they all depend. Let Affability be there, With cordial hand and friendly air, And private play and glittering fête, To make the rustic gentry prate,-- Such joys as fill young ladies' heads, Who judge from books of masquerades. Then will I to St. Stephen's stray, If aught be moved by Castlereagh, Or matchless Canning mean to roll His thunders o'er the subject soul. And sometimes, to divert my cares, Give me some flirt, with joyous airs, Married a girl, a widow now, Such as will hear each playful vow, Too young to lay upon the shelf: Meaning--as little as myself:-- Still speaking, singing, walking, running, With wanton heed and giddy cunning. With a good mien to testify Her converse with good company, That Chesterfield might lift his eyes From the dark Tartarus where he lies, Beholding, in her air and gait, Graces that almost compensate The blunders of his awkward son, And half the harm his book has done. These delights if thou canst give, Fashion, with thee I wish to live.

VERSES.

_Supposed to be written by the Editor of the---- Newspaper, during his Solitary Abode in---- Prison._

(COWPER)

I am tenant of nine feet by four, My title no lawyer denies, From the ceiling quite down to the floor I am lord of the spiders and flies.

Oh, Justice! how awkward it is To be gripped by thy terrible squad! I did but indulge in a _quiz_, And the _Quorum_ have sent me to _quod_.

Dear scandal is out of my reach, I must pass my dull mornings alone, Never hear Mr. Br----m make a speech, Nor get audience for one of my own!

The people, provokingly quiet, My fate with indifference see: They are so unaccustomed to riot, Their tameness is shocking to me.

Personality, libel, and lie, Ye supports of our Jacobin train, If I had but the courage to try, How soon I would sport you again!

My ranklings I then might assuage By renewing my efforts to vex, By profaning the rev'rence of age, And attacking the weakness of sex.

A libel! what treasure untold Resides in that dear little word, More rich than the silver and gold Which the Bank is reported to hoard!

But the Bench have no bowels for pity, No stomach for high-season'd leaven, And, though we be never so witty, They trim us when judgement is given.

O ye, who were present in Court, In pity convey to me here Some well-manufactured report Of a lady, a prince, or a peer.

Do my writings continue to tell? Does the public attend to my lines? O say that my Newspapers sell, Though the money must go for my fines!

How fleet is the growth of a fib! The astonishing speed of its flight Outstrips the less mischievous squib Let off on a holiday night.

Then who would not vamp up a fudge, When he knows how it helps off his papers; Were it not--that the thought of the judge Overcasts him, and gives him the vapours?

But Cobbett has got his discharge-- _The beast_ is let loose from his cover: Like him I shall yet be at large, When a couple of years shall be over:

For law must our liberty give, Though _Law_ for a while may retard it: Even I shall obtain it, who live By sapping the bulwarks that guard it.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

TO MR. MURRAY.

(COWPER)

Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times, Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climbs, My Murray.

To thee, with hope and terror dumb, The unfledged MS. authors come; Thou printest all--and sellest some-- My Murray.

Upon thy table's baize so green The last new Quarterly is seen,-- But where is thy new Magazine, My Murray?

Along thy sprucest bookshelves shine The works thou deemest most divine-- The 'Art of Cookery,' and mine, My Murray.

Tours, Travels, Essays, too, I wist, And Sermons, to thy mill bring grist; And then thou hast the 'Navy List,' My Murray.

And Heaven forbid I should conclude Without 'the Board of Longitude,' Although this narrow paper would, My Murray.

PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS BY DR. PLAGIARY.

(DR. BUSBY)

_Half stolen_, with acknowledgements; to be spoken in an inarticulate voice by Master---- at the opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts marked with the inverted commas of quotation--thus '---- '.

'When energizing objects men pursue,' Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows who. 'A modest monologue you here survey,' Hiss'd from the theatre the 'other day,' As if Sir Fretful wrote 'the slumberous' verse, And gave his son 'the rubbish' to rehearse. 'Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed,' Knew you the rumpus which the author raised: 'Nor even here your smiles would be represt,' Knew you these lines--the badness of the best, 'Flame! fire! and flame!' (words borrowed from Lucretius,) 'Dread metaphors which open wounds' like issues! 'And sleeping pangs awake--and--but away' (Confound me if I know what next to say). 'Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings,' And Master G---- recites what Dr. Busby sings!-- 'If mighty things with small we may compare,' (Translated from the grammar for the fair!) Dramatic 'spirit drives a conquering car,' And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of 'tar.' 'This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain,' To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 'Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's story,' And George and I will dramatize it for ye.

'In arts and sciences our isle hath shone' (This deep discovery is mine alone). 'Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire' My verse--or I'm a fool--and Fame's a liar, 'Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore' With 'smiles,' and 'lyres,' and 'pencils,' and much more. These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain _Disgraces_, too! 'inseparable train!' 'Three who have stolen their witching airs from Cupid' (You all know what I mean, unless you're stupid): 'Harmonious throng' that I have kept _in petto_ Now to produce in a 'divine _sestetto_'!! 'While Poesy,' with these delightful doxies, 'Sustains her part' in all the 'upper' boxes! 'Thus lifted gloriously, you'll soar along,' Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song; 'Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, and play' (For this last line George had a holiday). 'Old Drury never, never soar'd so high,' So says the manager, and so say I. 'But hold,' you say, 'this self-complacent boast;' Is this the poem which the public lost? True--true--that lowers at once our mounting pride;' But lo:--the papers print what you deride. ''Tis ours to look on you--you hold the prize,' 'Tis _twenty guineas_, as they advertise! 'A _double_ blessing your rewards impart'-- I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 'Our _twofold_ feeling _owns_ its twofold cause,' Why son and I both beg for your applause. 'When in your fostering beams you bid us live,' My next subscription list shall say how much you give!

RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM.

('THOMAS INGOLDSBY')

MARGATE.

(BYRON)

I've stood in Margate, on a bridge of size Inferior far to that described by Byron, Where 'palaces and prisons on each hand rise,' --That's too a stone one, this is made of iron-- And little donkey-boys your steps environ, Each proffering for your choice his tiny hack, Vaunting its excellence; and, should you hire one, For sixpence, will he urge, with frequent thwack, The much-enduring beast to Buenos Ayres--and back.

And then, on many a raw and gusty day, I've stood, and turn'd my gaze upon the pier, And seen the crews, that did embark so gay That self-same morn, now disembark so queer; Then to myself I've sigh'd and said, 'Oh dear! Who would believe yon sickly-looking man's a London Jack Tar,--a Cheapside Buccaneer!'-- But hold, my Muse!--for this terrific stanza Is all too stiffly grand for our Extravaganza.

NOT A _SOUS_ HAD HE GOT.

(CHARLES WOLFE)

Not a _sous_ had he got,--not a guinea or note, And he look'd confoundedly flurried, As he bolted away without paying his shot, And the Landlady after him hurried.

We saw him again at dead of night, When home from the Club returning; We twigg'd the Doctor beneath the light Of the gas-lamp brilliantly burning.

All bare, and exposed to the midnight dews, Reclined in the gutter we found him; And he look'd like a gentleman taking a snooze, With his _Marshall_ cloak around him.

'The Doctor's as drunk as the d----,' we said, And we managed a shutter to borrow; We raised him, and sigh'd at the thought that his head Would 'consumedly ache' on the morrow.

We bore him home, and we put him to bed, And we told his wife and his daughter To give him, next morning, a couple of red Herrings, with soda-water.

Loudly they talk'd of his money that's gone, And his Lady began to upbraid him; But little he reck'd, so they let him snore on 'Neath the counterpane just as we laid him.

We tuck'd him in, and had hardly done When, beneath the window calling, We heard the rough voice of a son of a gun Of a watchman 'One o'clock!' bawling.

Slowly and sadly we all walk'd down From his room in the uppermost story; A rushlight we placed on the cold hearth-stone, And we left him alone in his glory.

THE DEMOLISHED FARCE; OR, 'WHO IS THE AUTHOR?'

BY A NEWSPAPER CRITIC.

[Lines suggested by the failure of Mr. Thomas Haines Bayly's farce 'Decorum.']

(T. H. BAYLY)

Oh no! we'll never mention him; We won't, upon our word! 'Decorum' now forbids to name An unsuccessful bard. From Drury Lane we'll toddle to Our 'office' with regret, And if they ask us, '_Who's_ been dished?' We'll say that 'we forget!'

We'll bid him now forsake 'the Scene,' And try his ancient strain; He'd better 'be a butterfly' Than write a farce again. 'Tis true that he can troll a song, Or tender Canzonette; But if you ask us, 'What beside?' Why, really, 'we forget.'

And, oh, there are so many now, Who write good come-dy,-- There's Mister Planché, Mister Peake, And Poole, who wrote _Paul Pry_, Moncrieff and Mister Buckstone join To make a funny set, With some half-dozen jokers more, Whose names we quite forget.

They tell us he has got, behind, A bran-new five-act play; They say that it is devilish droll, But heed not what they say; Perchance, indeed, 'twill struggle on A night or two, but yet If 'tis no better than his farce, The pair you'll soon forget!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

PETER BELL THE THIRD.

BY MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ.

(WORDSWORTH)

Is it a party in a parlour, Crammed just as they on earth were crammed, Some sipping punch--some sipping tea; But, as you by their faces see, All silent, and all----damned! _Peter Bell, by_ W. WORDSWORTH.

OPHELIA. What means this, my lord? HAMLET. Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief. SHAKESPEARE.

PROLOGUE.

Peter Bells, one, two and three, O'er the wide world wandering be.-- First, the antenatal Peter, Wrapped in weeds of the same metre, The so-long-predestined raiment Clothed in which to walk his way meant The second Peter; whose ambition Is to link the proposition, As the mean of two extremes-- (This was learned from Aldric's themes) Shielding from the guilt of schism The orthodoxal syllogism; The First Peter--he who was Like the shadow in the glass Of the second, yet unripe, His substantial antitype.-- Then came Peter Bell the Second, Who henceforward must be reckoned The body of a double soul, And that portion of the whole Without which the rest would seem Ends of a disjointed dream.-- And the Third is he who has O'er the grave been forced to pass To the other side, which is,-- Go and try else,--just like this. Peter Bell the First was Peter Smugger, milder, softer, neater, Like the soul before it is Born from _that_ world into _this_. The next Peter Bell was he, Predevote, like you and me, To good or evil as may come; His was the severer doom,-- For he was an evil Cotter, And a polygamic Potter.[81] And the last is Peter Bell, Damned since our first parents fell, Damned eternally to Hell-- Surely he deserves it well!

PART THE FIRST.

_Death._

And Peter Bell, when he had been With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed, Grew serious--from his dress and mien 'Twas very plainly to be seen Peter was quite reformed.

His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down; His accent caught a nasal twang; He oiled his hair[82]; there might be heard The grace of God in every word Which Peter said or sang.

But Peter now grew old, and had An ill no doctor could unravel; His torments almost drove him mad;-- Some said it was a fever bad-- Some swore it was the gravel.

His holy friends then came about, And with long preaching and persuasion Convinced the patient that, without The smallest shadow of a doubt, He was predestined to damnation.

They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell; Thy skin is of a brimstone hue; Alive or dead--ay, sick or well-- The one God made to rhyme with hell; The other, I think, rhymes with you.'