of a crocodile. No wonder, then, that Tony's whim was completely atomised, obliterated, and annihilated, which it was so utterly, that if you were to search on the gallows to-morrow, with a solar microscope to help you, I don't believe, on my soul, that you would find the least article or particle of the cuticle of

A TARANTULA.

SONNET TO VAUXHALL.

"The English Garden."-MASON.

THE cold transparent ham is on my fork—

It hardly rains-and hark the bell !-ding-dingle-
Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work,

Mocking a Vauxhall shower!-Married and Single
Crush-rush ;-Soak'd Silks with wet white Satin mingle.
Hengler! Madame ! round whom all bright sparks lurk,
Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle

To study the Sublime, &c.-(vide Burke)
All Noses are upturn'd!-Whish—ish !—On high
The rocket rushes-trails-just steals in sight-
Then dooops and melts in bubbles of blue light-
And Darkness reigns-Then balls flare up and die-
Wheels whiz-smack crackers-serpents twist-and then
Back to the cold transparent ham again!

My dear, do pull the bell,
And pull it well,

And send those noisy children all up stairs,

Now playing here like bears

You George, and William, go into the grounds,

Charles, James, and Bob are there, and take your string,
Drive horses, or fly kites, or any thing,

You're quite enough to play at hare and hounds,—
You little May, and Caroline, and Poll,

And

Take each your doll,

go, my dears, into the two-back pair,
Your sister Margaret's there-

Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at school,
At far off Ponty Pool-

I want to read, but really can't get on

Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John,
Go-to their nursery-go-I never can
Enjoy my Malthus among such a clan!

Oh Mr. Malthus, I agree

In every thing I read with thee!

The world's too full, there is no doubt,
And wants a deal of thinning out,-
It's plain-as plain as Harrow's Steeple
And I agree with some thus far,
Who say the Queen's too popular,
That is,-she has too many people.
There are too many of all trades,
Too many bakers,

Too many every-thing-makers,
But not too many undertakers,-

Too many boys,

Too many hobby-de-hoys,

Too many girls, men, widows, wives, and maids,-
There is a dreadful surplus to demolish,

And yet some Wrongheads,
With thick not long heads,
Poor metaphysicians!
Sign petitions

Capital punishment to abolish;

And in the face of censuses such vast ones
New hospitals contrive,
For keeping life alive,

Laying first stones, the dolts! instead of last ones!— Others, again, in the same contrariety,

Deem that of all Humane Society

They really deserve thanks,

Because the two banks of the Serpentine,
By their design,

Are Saving Banks.

Oh! were it given but to me to weed

The human breed,

And root out here and there some cumbering elf,

I think I could go through it,
And really do it

With profit to the world and to myself,-
For instance, the unkind among the Editors,
My debtors, those I mean to say
Who cannot or who will not pay,
And all my creditors.

These, for my own sake, I'd destroy;
But for the world's, and every one's,
I'd hoe up Mrs. G―'s two sons,
And Mrs. B's big little boy,
Call'd only by herself an "only joy."
As Mr. Irving's chapel's not too full,
Himself alone I'd pull-

But for the peace of years that have to run,
I'd make the Lord Mayor's a perpetual station,
And put a period to rotation,

By rooting up all Aldermen but one,—
These are but hints what good might thus be done!
But ah! I fear the public good

Is little by the public understood,

For instance-if with flint, and steel, and tinder,
Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man,
Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan,
No doubt some busy fool would hinder
His burning all the Foundling to a cinder.

Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday,
That wine and bun-day,

Proposed to poison all the little Blue-coats,
Before they died by bit or sup,

Some meddling Marplot would blow up,

Just at the moment critical,

The economy political

Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats.

Equally 'twould be undone,
Suppose the Bishop of London,
On that great day

In June or May,

When all the large small family of charity,

Brown, black, or carrotty,

Walk in their dusty parish shoes,

In too, too many two-and-twos,

To sing together till they scare the walls
Of old St. Paul's,

Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white,
Some say a gratifying sight,

Tho' I think sad-but that's a schism-
To witness so much pauperism-
Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make
In this poor overcrowded world more room,
Proposed to shake

Down that immense extinguisher, the dome-
Some humane Martin in the charity Gal-way
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer,
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos,

Islington Wapping-or Pall Mall way!

Thus, people hatch'd from goose's egg,
Foolishly think a pest, a plague,

And in its face their doors all shut,

On hinges oil'd with cajeput

Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags

At hoisting up of yellow flags,

While

66

and I are crying you Orange Boven!" Why should we let precautions so absorb us, Or trouble shipping with a quarantineWhen if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to import the Cholera Morbus !