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 bluelyA sign, they say, that no good bodedThen quick the gas became unruly,

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 partFound lying, with a livid scorch,

As if from lightning, o'er her heart!

« Well done!» a laughing goblin said, Escaping from this gaseous strife; «'T is not the first time Love has made A blow-up in connubial life.»>

REMONSTRANCE.

After a conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some idea of giving up all political pursuits.

WHAT! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-
Thou, born of a Russell-whose instinct to run
The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun!

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!

name.

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, 'Tis like a player on the kit

Put all at once to a bass 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.

MY BIRTH-DAY.

« My birth-day!»-What a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round, Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links

That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.

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,
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 away—
All-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!

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.

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

To let him pine so were a sin

One to whom all the world 's a debtorSo 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 patent.

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,

How gladly back to thee I fly!

Still doubting, asking can it be That I have left Bithynia's sky,

And gaze in safety upon thee?

Oh! what is happier than to find

Our hearts at ease, our perils past;
When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last?-

When, tired with toil on land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor
Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more?

This, this it is that pays alone

The ills of all life's former track: Shine out, my beautiful, my own

Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back.

And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice-let all that laughs Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!

TO MY MOTHER.
Written in a Pocket-Book, 1822.

THEY tell us of an Indian tree

Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky
May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom, wide and high,
Far better loves to bend its arms

Downward again to that dear earth
From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth.

"T is thus, though woo'd by flattering friends, And fed with fame (if fame it be),

This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!

ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE.

If ever you 've seen a gay party
Relieved from the pressure of Ned-
How instantly joyous and hearty

They 've grown when the damper was fled-
You may guess what a gay piece of work,
What delight to champagne it must be,
To get rid of its bore of a cork,

And come sparkling to you, love, and me!

FROM THE FRENCH.

Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack-he 's every where:
At church-park-auction-dinner-rout-
Go 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!»

A SPECULATION.

Of all speculations the market holds forth,
The best that I know for a lover of pelf
Is, to buy

up, at the price he is worth,

And then sell him at that which he sets on himself.

SCEPTICISM.

ERE Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal life into her soul,

Some evil spirit pour'd, 't is said,

One drop of doubt into the bowl

Which, mingling darkly with the stream, To Psyche's lips-she knew not whyMade even that blessed nectar seem

As though its sweetness soon would die.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart-a fear That death would, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere.

« Those sunny ringlets,» she exclaim'd,

Twining them round her snowy fingers« That forehead, where a light, unnamed, Unknown on earth, for ever lingers—

« Those lips, through which I feel the breath
Of heaven itself, whene'er they sever-
Oh! are they mine beyond all death-
Mine own, hereafter and for ever?

« Smile not-I know that starry brow,
Those ringlets and bright lips of thine,
Will always shine as they do now-

But shall I live to see them shine ?»

In vain did Love say, « Turn thine eyes
On all that sparkles round thee here-
Thou 'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies,
And in these arms-what canst thou fear?»>

In vain-the fatal drop, that stole
Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodged its bitter near her soul,

And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, though there ne'er was rapture given Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,

Hers is the only face in heaven

That wears a cloud amid its joy.

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 madness; 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 name 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 !

If France was beat at Waterloo,

As all, but Frenchmen, think she wasTo 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 in-
From 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.

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.

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 Magna 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-Head 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.

She stops-she listens-can it be?

Alas! in vain her ears would 'scape itIt is « Di tanti palpiti,»

As plain as English bow can scrape it.

<< Courage!» however, in she goes
With her best sweeping country grace;
When, ah! too true, her worst of foes,
Quadrille, there meets her, face to face.

Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore, To sing the rage these nymphs were in, Their looks and language, airs and trickery!

There stood Quadrille, with cat-like face
(The beau idéal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace,
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tie.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine-
From Hippolyte her rouge and hair-
Her poetry, from Lamartine-

Her morals from-the Lord knows where.

And, when she danced-so slidingly,

So near the ground she plied her art, You'd swear her mother-earth and she Had made a compact ne'er to part.

Her face the while, demure, sedate,

No signs of life or motion showing, Like a bright pendule's dial-plate-

So still, you'd hardly think 't was going.

Full fronting her stood Country-Dance

A fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance

English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 't is fair to own,
And rather given to skips and bounces;
Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing oft the devil with flounces.