Full of the wildfire of thy youth,
Did'st never in plain truth,

Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother's pots,
Turning the garden into powder plots?
Or give the cook, to fright her,

Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre ?
Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping
A lighted cracker by thy sister's Dear,
So that she could not hear

The question he was popping?

Go on, Madame! Go on-be bright and busy
While hoax'd Astronomers look up and stare
From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy,
To see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair!
A Serpent wriggling into Charles's Wain!
A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear!
A Rocket tangled in Diana's train,
And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair!

There is a King of Fire-Thou shouldst be Queen!
Methinks a good connexion might come from it;
Could'st thou not make him, in the garden scene,
Set out per Rocket and return per Comet;
Then give him a hot treat

Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup,

Lord! how the world would throng to see nim eat He swallowing fire, while thou dost throw it up!

One solitary night-true is the story,
Watching those forms that Fancy will create
Within the bright confusion of the grate,
I saw a dazzling countenance of glory!
Oh Dei gratias!

That fiery facias

"Twas thine, Enchantress of the Surrey Grove; And ever since that night,

In dark and bright,

Thy face is registered within my store!

Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays
May no untimely blow its doom forestall;
But when old age prepares the friendly pall,
When the last spark of all thy sparks decays,
Then die lamented by good people all,

Like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize!

SIR,

RHYME AND REASON.

To the Editor of the Comic Annual.

In one of your Annuals you have given insertion to " A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme;" but as I have seen no regular long poem constructed on its principles, I suppose the scheme did not take with the literary world. Under these circumstances I feel encouraged to bring forward a novelty of my own, and I can only regret that such poets as Chaucer and Cottle, Spenser and Hayley, Milton and Pratt, Pope and Pye, Byron and Batterbee, should have died before it was invented.

The great difficulty in verse is avowedly the rhyme. Dean Swift says somewhere in his letters, "that a rhyme is as hard to find with him as a guinea,"-and we all know that guineas are proverbially scarce among poets. The merest versifier that ever attempted a Valentine must have met with this Orson, some untameable savage syllable that refused to chime in with society. For instance, what poetical Foxhunter-a contributor to the Sporting Magazine-has not drawn all the covers of Beynard, Ceynard, Deynard, Feynard, Geynard, Heynard, Keynard, Leynard, Meynard, Neynard, Peynard, Queynard, to find a rhyme for Reynard? The spirit of the times is decidedly against Tithe;

and I know of no tithe more oppressive than that poetical one, in heroic measure, which requires that every tenth syllable shall pay a sound in kind. How often the Poet goes up a line, only to be stopped at the end by an impracticable rhyme, like a bull in a blind alley! I have an ingenious medical friend, who might have been an eminent poet by this time, but the first line he wrote ended in ipecacuanha, and with all his physical and mental

REFUSING TITHE.

power, he has never yet been able to find a rhyme for it.

The plan I propose aims to obviate this hardship. My system is, to take the bull by the horns; in short, to try at first what words will

chime, before you go farther and fare worse. To say nothing of other advantages, it will at least have one good effect,-and that is, to correct the erroneous notion of the would-be poets and poetesses of the present day, that the great end of poetry is rhyme. I beg leave to present a specimen of verse, which proves quite the reverse, and am, Sir,

Your most obedient servant,

JOHN DRYDEN GRUBB.

THE DOUBLE KNOCK.

RAT-TAT it went upon the lion's chin,

"That hat, I know it!" cried the joyful girl;
"Summer's it is, I know him by his knock,
Comers like him are welcome as the day!
Lizzy! go down and open the street-door,
Busy I am to any one but him.

Know him you must-he has been often here;
Show him up stairs, and tell him I'm alone."

Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair;
Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat;
"Sure he has brought me tickets for the play-
Drury-or Covent Garden-darling man!-
Kemble will play-or Kean who makes the soul
Tremble; in Richard or the frenzied Moor-
Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce
Barren beside or Liston, Laughter's Child-
Kelly the natural, to witness whom
Jelly is nothing to the public's jam—
Cooper, the sensible-and Walter Knowles
Super, in William Tell-now rightly told.
Better-perchance, from Andrews, brings a box,
Letter of boxes for the Italian stage-
Brocard! Donzelli! Taglioni! Paul!

No card, thank heaven-engages me to night!
Feathers, of course, no turban, and no toque-
Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls.
Dearly I dote on white-my satin dress,

Merely one night-it won't be much the worse-
Cupid the New Ballet I long to see-

Stupid! why don't she go and ope the door!"

Glisten'd her eye as the impatient girl
Listen'd, low bending o'er the topmost stair.
Vainly, alas! she listens and she bends,
Plainly she hears this question and reply:

"Axes your pardon, Sir, but what d'ye want?"
"Taxes," says he, "and shall not call again!"

Is a jumble of paradoxes. He sets forth clean though he comes out of a kennel, and returns home dirty. He cares not for cards, yet strives to be always with the pack. He loves fencing, but without carte or tierce; and delights in a steeple chase, though he does not follow the church. He is anything but litigious, yet is fond of a certain suit, and retains Scarlet. He keeps a running account with Horse, Dog, Fox, and Co., but objects to a check. As to cards, in choosing a pack he prefers Hunt's. In Theatricals, he favours Miss Somerville, because her namesake wrote the Chase, though he never read it. He is no great Dancer, though he is fond of casting off twenty couple; and no great Painter, though he draws covers, and seeks for a brush. He is no Musician, and yet is fond of five bars. He despises Doctors, yet follows a course of bark. He professes to love his country, but is perpetually crossing it. He is fond of strong ale and beer, yet dislikes any purl. He is good-tempered, yet so far a Tartar as to prefer a saddle of Horse to a saddle of Mutton. He is somewhat rough and bearish himself, but insists on good breeding in horses and dogs. He professes the Church Catechism, and countenances heathen dogmas, by naming his hounds after Jupiter and Juno,

Mars and Diana. He cares not for violets, but he doats on a good scent. He says his Wife is a shrew, but objects to destroying a Vixen. In Politics he inclines to Pitt, and runs after Fox. He is no milksop, but he loves to Tally. He protects Poultry, and preserves Foxes. He follows but one business, and yet has many pursuits. He pretends to be knowing, but a dog leads him by the nose. He is as honest a fellow as need be, yet his neck is oftener in danger than a thief's. He swears he can clear anything, but is beaten by a fog. He is no landlord of houses, but is particular about fixtures. He studies "Summering the Hunter," but goes Huntering in the Winter. He esteems himself prosperous, and is always going to the dogs. He delights in the Hunter's Stakes, but takes care not to stake his hunter. He praises discretion, but would rather let the cat out of the bag than a fox. He does not shine at a human conversazione, but is great among dogs giving tongue. To conclude, he runs as long as he can, and then goes to earth, and his Heir is in at his death. But his Heir does not stand in his shoes, for he never wore anything but boots.