Without very well knowing for whom or for what.

The French, who of slaughter had had their full swing,

Were content with a shot, now and then, at their King;

While, in England, good fighting 's a pastime so hard to gain,

Nobody's left to fight with, but Lord Cardigan.

'T is needless to say then how monstrously happy

Old Mars has been made by what's now on the tapis;

How much it delights him to see the French rally,

In Liberty's name, around Mehemet Ali;

Well knowing that Satan himself could not find

A confection of mischief much more to his mind

Than the old Bonnet Rouge and the Bashaw combined.

Right well, too, he knows, that there

ne'er were attackers,

Whatever their cause, that they didn't find backers;

While any slight care for Humanity's

THOUGHTS ON PATRONS, PUFFS, AND OTHER MATTERS. IN AN EPISTLE FROM THOMAS MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS.

WHAT, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes, And, better still, a man of guineas, To talk of "patrons," in these times, When authors thrive like spinningjennies,

And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no- those times are past away, When, doomed in upper floors to star it,

The bard inscribed to lords his lay,

Himself, the while, my Lord Mount-
garret.

No more he begs with air dependent,
His "little bark may sail attendant"

Under some lordly skipper's steerage; But launched triumphant in the Row, Or taken by Murray's self in tow,

Cuts both Star Chamber and the peer-
age.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail
Is whiskt from England by the gale,
But bears on board some authors, shipt
For foreign shores, all well equipt

2 "This stroll in the metropolis is extremely well contrived for your Lordship's speech; but suppose, my dear Lord, that instead of going E and N. E. you had turned about," etc. - SYDNEY SMITH'S Last Letter to the Bishop of London.

Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they 've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse now taking to the till
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows);
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh" change comes o'er her
dream."

Drove his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,
Bookt for posterity "all thro';"
Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;-
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his nightcap on the way.1 1
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow
time,

Dash to posterity in no time!

Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author- that 's enough.
In vain the critics set to watch him
Try at the starting post to catch him:
He's off the puffers carry it hollow -
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they 've laid down their first posi-
tions,

He 's fairly blown thro' six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
Το young and touchy sons of rhyme) —
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch the Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.

But, bless me ! — while I thus keep fooling,

I hear a voice cry, " Dinner 's cooling."
That postman too (who, truth to tell,
'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)
Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally
That I must stop -

Yours sempiternally.