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« Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,

But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December,
Who, early smit with love of praise and-pewter,' I wrote a book,' and Colburn dubb'd me . Member –
On ---s? shelves first saw the light of day, * Member of Brooks's!'-oh Promethean puff,
In ---'s puffs exhaled our lives away,--

To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
Like summer wind-mills, doom'd to dusty peace, With crumbs of gossip, caught from dining wits,
When the brisk gal that lept them motion, cease. And half-heard jokes, bequeath'd, like half-chcw'd bits,
Ah, little knew we then what ills await

To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;
Much-lauded scribblers in their after-slate;

With such ingredients, served up oft before,
Bepuffd on earth-how loudly Str-i can tell — Cut with fresh fudge and fiction garnish d o'er,
And, dire reward, now doubly puff'd in hell!»

I managed, for some weeks, to dose the town,

Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down,
Touch'd with compassion for this ghastly crew, And, ready still even waiters' souls to damn,
Whose ribs, even now, the hollow wind sung through The Devil but rang his bell, and-here I am;-
lo mournful prose, – such prose as Rosa's 3 ghost Yes— Coming up, Sir,' once my favourite cry,
Suill, at th' accustom'd hour of eggs and toast,

Exchanged for Coming down, Sir,' here am 1!»
Sighs through the columns of the Morning Post, -
Pensive I turn'd to weep, when he, who stood

Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop,
Foremost of all that flatulential brood,

When, lo! a breeze---such as, from ---'s shop,

Blows in the vernal hour, when puffs prevail,
Singling a she-ghost from the party, said,
« Allow me to present Miss X. Y. 2., 4

And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale-
One of our letter'd nymphs -
:-excuse the pun--

Took the poor waiter rudely in the роор,
Wbo gain d a narre on earth by-baving none;

Ind, whirling him and all his grisly group
And whose initials would immortal be,

Of literary ghosts, - Miss X. Y. Z., -
Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A, B. C.

The nameless author, better known than read

Sir Jo.- the Honourable Mr Lister,
Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and peat, And, last, not least, Lord Nobody's twin sister, -
Wrapp'd in his own dead rhymes, -fil winding-sheel,- Blew them, ye gods, with all their prose and rhymes
Still marvels much that not a soul should care

And sins about them, far into those climes
One single pin to know who wrote ‘May Fair;'--- « Where Peter pitch'd bis waistcoat»a in old times,
While this young gentleman» (here forth he drew Leaving me much in doubt, as on 1 prest,
A dandy spectre, puffd quite through and through, With my great master, through this realm unblest,
As though his ribs were an Æolian lyre

Whether Old Nick or -- puffs the best.
For the whole Row's soft trade-winds to inspire,)
« This modest genius breathed one wish alone,
To have his volume read, himself unknown;

LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S
But different far the course his glory took,

TAIL.3
All knew the author, and-none read the book.

All in again-unlook'd for bliss!
Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun,

Yet, alı, one adjunct still we miss-
Who rides the blast, Sir Jonah Barrington ;-

One tender tie, attach'd so long
In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent,

To the saine bead, through right and wrong.
And now the wind returns the compliment.

Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off

That memorable tail of thine ?
This lady here, the Earl of --'s sister,
Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister-

Why-as if one was not enough
Bec pardon-Honourable Mister Lister,

Thy pig-lic with thy place resign,
A gentleman who, some weeks since, came over

And thus, at once, both cut and run ?
In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover.

Alas, my Lord, 't was not well done,
Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey,

'T was not, indeed—though sad at heart,
Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away, -

From office and its sweets 10 part,
Like a torn paper-kite, on which the wind

Yet hopes of coming in again,
No farther purchase for a puff can find.»

Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain;

But thus to miss that tail of thine, « And thou, thyself»- here, anxious, I exclaim'd,

Through long, long years our rallying sign,« Tell us, good fhost, how thou, thyself, art named.»

As if the State and all its powers
Me, Sir!» he blushing cried, -« Ali, there's the rub- By tenancy in tail were ours, --
Know, then--a waiter once at Brooks's Club,

To see it thus by scissors fall,
A waiter still I might have long remain'd,

This was « th' unkindest cut of all !»
And long the club-room's jokes and glasses drain'd; It seem'd as though th' ascendant day

Of Toryism had pass d away,

And proving Sampson's story true,
1 The classical term for money.

She lost her vigour with her queue.
* The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyllabic
publishers of London that occurs to bim.

1. History of the Clubs of London,. announced as by « a Member
* Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the poetical of Brooks's..
articles in the journal alleded to, and we spirit still seems to - A Dantesque allusion to the old saying, Nine miles beyond hell,
preside-. regnant Rosa »-over its paces.

bere Peter pitched bis waistcoat.. * Nor the charming L, E. L., and still lesz Mrs F. 1., whose poetry The Noble Lord, it is well known, cut off tbis much-respected is among the inost beautiful of be present day.

appendage, on his retirement from office some months since.

51

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1

Parties are much like lish, 't is said, -
The tail directs them, not the head;
Tien, how could any party fail,
That steerd its course by Bathurst's tail?
Not Hurai's plune, through Wagram's fight,

E'er sheil such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all irue Tories' sight,

Blazed from our old Colonial comet! If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(as Wellington will be anou)
Thou mighest have had a tail to spare;

But no, alas! thou Jiadst but one,
And that-like Troy, or Babylon,

A tale of other times-- is gone!
Yet--weep ye not, ye Tories true, -

Fate bas not yet of all bereft us;
Though thus deprived of Bathurst's quene,

We've Ellenboroughi's curls still left us;-
Sweet culs, froin which young Love, so vicious,
His sbois, as from nine-pounders, issnes;
Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate,
Surcharged with all a nation's fate,
His Lordship shakes, as llomer's God did,

And oft in thundering talk comes near him ;Except that, there the speaker nodded,

And, here, 't is only those who hicar him. Long, lonc, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fai cranium may ye tlourish, With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last loved relics we 'll bequeath,

A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

Here, sly Arians flock unnumber'd,

And Socinians, slim and spare, Who, with small belief encumber'd,

Slip in easy any where :Methodists, of birds the aptest,

Where there's pecking going on;
And that water-fowl, the Baptist, -

All would share our fruits anon :
Ev'ry bird, of ev'ry city,
That, for

years,

with ceaseless din, Iath reversed the starling's diny, Singing out « I can't get

in. « God forbid'» old Testy snivels;

« God forbid !» 1 echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils

Seize the whole voracious crew! If less costly fruit won't suit'cm,

Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the cormirants ! stone 'em, shoot 'em,

Any thing-to save our cherries.

THE CHERRIES.

A PARABLE.?

STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF
DEFEAT."

1 Go, seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we must run the gauntlet through blood and er

pense;
Or, Goths as ye are,

in
your

multitude strong,
Be content with success, and pretend not to sense.
If the words of the wise and the gen'rous are vain,

Jf Truth by the bow-string must vield up her breath, Let Mutes do the office,- and spare her the pain

Of an Juglis or Tindal to talk hier to death. Chain, persecute, plunder, -do all that you will,

But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Gloucester, wlio, dully prophetic of ill,

Is, at once, the two instruments, ACGUR2 and DORE. Bring legions of Squires—if they 'll only be mute

And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repute, 3

Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight. Pour out, from each corner and hole of the Court,

Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter wbat sort, llave their consciences tach'd to their patents and

staves. Cuch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings,

Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim, With all the base, time-serving toadies of kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship

ev'n him : And while, on the one side, each name of renown,

That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pills, and the Canpings look down, i

And drop o'er the cause their rich manties of Mind; Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, And, counting of noses the quantum desired,

During the discussion of the Catbolic Question in the House of (onimons last session.

? This is more for the car than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.

s Fabíus, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy. • Res lisci est, ubicumque natat, --- Juvenal.

See those cherries, low they cover

Yonder sunny garden-wall; -Had they not that net-work over,

Thieving birds would cat them all. So, lo guard our posts and pensions,

Ancient sages wove a net, Through whose holes, of smali dimensions,

Only certain knaves can get. Shall we then this net-work widen?

Shall we stretch these sacred boles, Through which, ev'n already, slide in

Lots of small dissenting souls ? « God forbid!» old Testy crieth;

« God forbid!» so echo I; Every ravenous bird that licih

Then would at our cherries fly. Ope but half an inch or so,

And, bebold, what bevies break in ;Here, some curst old Popislı crow

Pops his long and lickerishi beak in :

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1. Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod..

Pore'. Homer, » Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation

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For, lo, what a service we Irish have done thee:

Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St Patrick, we've scrawld such a lesson upon thee

As never was scrawld upon foolscap before. Come, -on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend

you,) Read Vescy all o'er-as you can't read a bookAnd improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send

you; A lesson, in large Roman characters traced,

Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sliected statesmen will ne'er be effaced,

Unless, 'stead of paper, you 're sheer asses' skin. Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods,

Could I risk a translation, you should have a rare

ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.

BY ONE OF THE BOARD.

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one;

But pen against sabre is desperate odds,
And

you, my Lord Dukc (as you hinted once), wear

one.

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Let other bards to groves repair,

Where linnets struin their tuneful throats, Mine be the Woods and Forests, where

The Treasury pours ils sweeter notes. No whispering winds have charms for me,

Nor zephyr's balmy siglis I ask;
To raise the wind for Royalty

Be all our sylvan zeplıyr's task !
And 'stead of crystal brooks and floods,

And all such vulgar irrigation,
Let Gallic rhino through our Woods

Divert ils « course of liquid-ation.»
Ah, surely, Virgil knew full well

What Woods and Forests ought to be, Wben, sly, he introduced in tell

Dis guinea-plant, bis bullion-iree.' Nor see I wliy, some future day,

When short of cash, we should not sead Our Herries down-he knows the way

To see if Woods in bell will lend. Long may ye tlourish, sylvan haunts,

Beneath whose « branches of expense >> Our gracious King gets all he wants, –

Except a little taste and sense. Long, in your golden shade reclined,

Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some wood-nymph fiud,

To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours : To rest from toil the Great Untaught,

And soothe the panys his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought,

It tries to think, and-tries in vain. Oh long may Woods and Forests be

Preserved, in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory Bards, like me,

Who take delight in Sylvan places ! »

Again and again I say, read Vesey o'cr;

You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus, That Egypt e'er fill'd with nonsensical lore,

Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us. All blank as he was, we've return'd him on hand,

Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, Whose plain, simple drift if they won't understand, Though caress'd at St James's, they 're fit for St

Luke's. Talk of leaves of the Sibyls !--more meaning con

vey'd is In one single leaf snch as pow we have spelld on, Than e'er bath been utter'd by all the old ladies

Thatever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.

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« IF » AND « PERHAPS.»

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Ou tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope !

Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,

From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee. « If mutely the slave will endure and obey,

Nor clanking his felters, nor breathing his pains, His masters, perhaps, at some far distant day,

May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains.» Wise «if» and « perhaps!»--precious salve for our

wounds, If he, who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes, Could check the free spring-tide of Mind, that re

sounds, Even now, at his feel, like the sea at Canute's.But, no, 't is in vain-the grand impulse is given,Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will

clair: ; And if rnin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs, who have forged them, the guilt and the

shame.

STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE

SHANVON.

Take back the virgin page.

Joore's Irish Mel dies.

No longer, dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy

At hearing it said by thy Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, iny Vesey, And he, the dear innocent placeman, another. 'Called by Virgil, Fotanically, species auri frondentis.» : Tu facis, ut silras, ot amem loci

"Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828.

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Ev’n now I feel the coming light,

Ev'n pow, could Folly Jure
My Lord Mountcashiel, too, to write,

Emancipation 's sure.
By geese (we read in history)

Old Rome was saved from ill;
And now, to quills of geese, we see
Old Rome indebted still.

Write on, write on, etc. Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,

Nor beat for sense about, -
Things, little worth a Noble's while,

You 're better far without.
Oh ne'er, since asses spoke of yore,

Such miracles were done;
For, write but four such letters more,

And Freedom's cause is won!

« If the slave will be silent!»--vain Soldier, beware

There is a dead silence the wrong'd may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair,

But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;When the blush, that long burnd on the suppliant's

cheek, Gives place to thi' avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue, that once threaten'd, disdaining to

speaki, Consigns to the arm the high office-10 do. If men, in that silence, should think of the hour,

When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, Presenting, alike, a hold front-work of

power To the despot on land and the foe on the flood ;That bionr, when a Voice had come forth from the west,

To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson, long look'd for, was taught the opprest,

That kings are as dust before freemen in arms! If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet

day At length seem'd to break through a long night of

thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;-If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good,

Though swiftly its light died away from his chain, Though darkly it set in a nation's best blood,

Now wants but invoking to shine out again ;If-if, I say-breathings like these should come o'er

The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, Then, perhaps, -ay, perhaps--but I dare not say

more; Thou hast will'd that thy slaves should be mute-I

am duml.

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WRITE ON, WRITE ON.

A BALLAD

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A RECENT DIALOGUE.
A Bishop and a bold Dragoon,

Both beroes in their way,
Did thus of late, one afternoon,

Unto each other say :« Dear Bishop!» quoth the brave Hussar,

« As nobody denies That you a wise logician are,

And I am-otherwise ; « 'T is fit that, on this question, we

Stick each to his own artThat yours

should be the sophistry, And mine the fighting part. · My crecd, I need not tell you,

is Like that of Wellington, To whom po harlot comes 3 miss,

Save Her of Babylon;' « And when we're at a loss for words,

If laughing reasoners tlout us, For lack of seuse we ll draw our swords

The sole things sharp about us,» « Dear bold Dragoou!» the Bishop said,

«T is true for var thou art meant; And reasoning (bless that dandy head!)

Is not in thy department. « So leave the argument to me

And, when my holy labour Hath lie the fires of bigotry,

Thou 'li poke them with thy sabre. « From pulpit and from sentry-box

We'll make our joint attacks, 1, at the head of my cassocks,

And you, of your cossacks. « So here's your health, my brave Hussar!

My exquisite old fighter-
Success to Bigotry and War,

The musket and the initre.)
Thus pray'd the minister of Heaven-

While York, just entering then,
Snored out (as if some Clarke bad given

llis nose the cue) « Amen!» Cui nulla meretrix displicuit, præter Babylonicam.

A18--Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,

Salvete, fratres Asini.-ST FRANCIS

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WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Ye Dukes, write bard and fast;
The good we 've sought for many a year

Your quills will bring at last.
One letter more, Newcastle, peo,

To watch Lord Kenyon's two,
And more than Ireland's host of inen,
One brace of Peers will do.

Write

on, etc.

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on, write

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Sure, never, since the precious use

Of pen and ink began,
Did letters, writ by fools, produce

Such signal good to man.
While intellect, 'mong high and low,

Is marching on, they say,
Give me the Dukes and Lords, who go,
Like crabs, the other way.

Write on, write on, etc.

2

Look on it now! deserted, bleachd, and grim,

Is this, thou feverish man, thy festal bowl ?
Is this the cup wherein thou seek'st the balm

Each brighter chalice to thy lip denies ?
Is this the oblivious bowl whose floods becalm

The worm that will not sleep, and never dies ? Woe to the lip to which this cup is held !

The lip that's pall'd with every purer draught ; For which alone the rifled grave can yield

A goblet worthy to be deeply quaff d.
Strip, then, this glittering mockery from the skull,

Restore the relic to its tomb again,
And seek a healing balm within the bowl,

The blessed bowl that never flow'd in vain!

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THE DAY-DREAM.' They both were hush'd, the voice, the chords ;

I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words,

My spell-bound memory brought away; Traces, remember'd here and there,

Like echoes of some broken strain;Links of a sweetness lost in air,

That nothing now could join again. Evin these, too, ere the morning, fled ;

And, though the charm still linger'd on
That o'er each sense her song had shed,

The song itself was faded, gone ;-
Gone, like the thoughts that once were ours,

On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,

Though what they were, we now forget. In vain, with hints from other strains,

I wood this truant air to come, As birds are taught, on eastern plains,

To lure their wilder kindred home. In vain :—the song that Sappho gave,

In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave

Than this within my memory. At length, one morning, as I Jay

In that half-waking mood, when dreams Unwillingly at last give way

To the full truth of day-light's beams, A face, the very face, methought,

From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought,

Came with its music close to mine; And sung the long-lost measure o'er,

Each note and word, with every tone
And look, that lent it life before,

All perfect, all again my own.
Like parted souls, when, 'mid the blest,

They meet again, each widow'd sound Through Memory's realm had wing'd in quest

Of its sweet mate, till all were found. Nor ev'n in waking, did the clue,

Thus strangely caught, escape again;
For never lark its matins knew

So well as now I know this strain.
And oft, whep Memory's wondrous spell

Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
I sing this lady's song, and tell

The vision of that morning hour.

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ALARMING INTELLIGENCE-REVOLUTION IN

THE DICTIONARY-ONE GALT AT THE HEAD

OF IT. God preserve us! there's nothing now safe from assault, Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the

bammer; And accounts have just reach'd us that one Mr Galt

Has declared open war against English and grammar! fle had long been suspected of some such design

And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong C-Ib-rn's troops of the line

(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private. There schooľd, with a rabble of words at command,

Scotch, English, and slang, in promiscuous alliance, lle at length against Syntax has taken his stand,

And sets all the nine parts of speech at defiance. Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford ;

In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And who he 'll next murder the Lord only knows!

Wednesday Evening. Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene

Though the rebel, 't is stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder-no-Puff Magazine,

And th' explosions are dreadful in every direction. What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,

As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical « ichor,»' « gelatinous » prose,?

And a mixture called « amber immortalization.»3 Now he raves of a bard, he once happen'd to meet, Seated high « among rattlings » and « churming » a

sonnel, Now talks of a Mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet,

With a halo (by way of a night-cap) upon it! We shudder in tracing these terrible lines Something bad they must mean, though we can't

make it out; For whate'er may be guess’d of Galt's secret designs,

That they're all anti-English no Christian can doubt,

'. That dark diseased icbor, which coloured his effusions.,Gali's Life of Byron.

; . That gelatinous character of their effusions..-I. 1. The poetical embalmment, or rather amber immortalization..

. . Sitting amidst tbe shrouds and rattlings, churming an inarticulate melody..-12.

5. He was a mystery in a winding-sheet, crowded with a balo..

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