I had hoped that it would have been in my power to gratify the reader with several of Mr GREGSON's lyrical productions, but I have only been able to procure copies of Two Songs, or Chaunts, which were written by him for a Masquerade, or Fancy Ball, given lately at one of the most Fashionable Cock-and-Hen clubs in St. Giles's. Though most of the company were without characters, there were a few very lively and interesting maskers; among whom, we particularly noticed BILL RICHMOND, as the Emperor of Hayti,' attended by SurTON, as a sort of black Mr V-N-S-T-T; and IKEY PIG made an excellent L-s D-xn-т. The beautiful Mrs CROCKEY, who keeps the Great Rag Shop in Bermondsey, went as the Old Lady of Threadneedle Street. She was observed to flirt a good deal with the black Mr V—ns—r—t, but, to do her justice, she guarded her Hesperidum mala» with all the vigilance of a dragoness. JACK HOLMES, the pugilistic Coachman, personated Lord C-ST-R—GH, and sang in admirable style

Ya-hip, my Hearties! here am I

That drive the Constitution Fly.

This Song (which was written for him by Mr GREGSON, and in which the language and sentiments of Coachee are transferred so ingeniously to the Noble person represented) is as follows:

YA-HIP, MY HEARTIES!

Sung by Jack HOLMES, the Coachman, at a late Masquerade in St.
Giles's, in the Character of Lord C-STAGE.

I FIRST was hired to peg a Hack4
They call «The Erin,» sometime back,
Where soon I learn'd to patter flash,
To curb the tits and tip the lash-
Which pleased the Master of THE CROWN
So much, he had me up to town,
And gave me lots of quids7 a year,
To tools « The Constitution » here.
So, ya-hip, Hearties! here am I
That drive the Constitution Fly.

Some wonder how the Fly holds out,
So rotten 't is, within, without;
So loaded too, through thick and thin,
And with such heavy creturs In.
But, Lord, 't will last our time-or if
The wheels should, now and then, get stiff,

His Majesty (in a Song which I regret I cannot give) professed his intentions

To take to strong measures like some of his kin—
To turn away Count LEMONADE, and bring in
A more spirited ministry under Duke Gis!

3A relative of poor Crockey, who was lagged some time since.

3 The same. I suppose, that served out Blake (alias Tom Tough) some years ago, at Wisden Green. The Fancy Gazette, oa that occasion, remarked, that poor Holmes's face was rendered perfectly unintelligible.

4 To drive a hackney coach. Hark, however, seems in this place to mean an old broken down stage-coach.

5 To talk slang, parliamentary or otherwise.

Oil of Palm's the thing that, flowing, Sets the naves and felloes going!

So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

Some wonder, too, the tits that pull
This rum concern along, so full,
Should never back or bolt, or kick
The load and driver to Old Nick.
But, never fear-the breed, though British,
Is now no longer game or skittish;
Except sometimes about their corn,
Tamer Houyhnhnms3 ne'er were born.
So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

And then so sociably we ride!-
While some have places, suug, inside,
Some hoping to be there anon,
Through many a dirty road hang on.
And when we reach a filthy spot
(Plenty of which there are, God wot),
You'd laugh to see, with what an air
We take the spatter-each his share!
So, ya-hip, Hearties! etc.

The other song of Mr Gregson, which I have been lucky enough to lay hold of, was sung by Old Prosy, the Jew, who went in the character of Major C-RTW-GHT, and who having been, at one time of his life, apprentice to a mountebank doctor, was able to enumerate, with much volubility, the virtues of a certain infallible nostrum, which he called his ANNUAL PILL. The pronunciation of the Jew added considerably to the effect.

THE ANNUAL PILL.

Sung by OLD PROst, the Jew, in the Character of Major CATW-GET. VILL nobodies try my nice Annual Pill,

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?

Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill, Not a Christian or Slentleman minds vat I say! 'Tis so pretty a bolus!--just down let it go,

And at vonce, such a radical shange you vill see, Dat I'd not be surprish'd, like de horse in de show, If our heads all vere found, vere our tailsh ought to be! Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, etc.

In Me Gregson's MS. these words are spelled knaves and fellows, but I have printed them according to the proper wheelwright orthography.

3. The extent of Mr. Gregson's learning will, no doubt, astonish the reader; and it appears by the following lines, from a Panegyric amtea upon him, by One of the Fancy, that he is also a considerable adept in the Latin language:

• As to sciences-Bos knows a little of all,
And, in Latin, to show that he's no ignoramus,
He wrote once an Ode on his friend, Major Paul,
And the motto was Paulo majora canamus !•

'T would be tedious, ma tear, all its peauties to paintBut, among oder tings fundamentally wrong, It vill cure de Proad Pottom-a common complaint Among M. P's. and weavers-from sitting too long.' Should symptoms of speeching preak out on a dunce, (Vat is often de case) it vill stop de disease, And pring avay all de long speeches at vonce,

Dat else vould, like tape-vorms, come by degrees! Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill,

Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?
Pless ma heart, pless ma heart, let ma say vat I vill,
Not a Chrishtian or Shentleman minds vat I say!

No. V.

The following poem is also from the Morning Chronicle, and has every appearance of being by the same pen as the two others I have quoted. The Examiner, indeed, in extracting it from the Chronicle, says, we think we can guess whose easy and sparkling hand it is..

TO SIR HUDSON LOWE.

Effare causam nominis,

Utrum ne mores hoc tui

Nomen dedere, an nomen hoe

Secuta morum regula.

AUSONIUS.

SIR Hudson Lowe, Sir Hudson Low

(By name, and ah! by nature so),

As thou art fond of persecutions, Perhaps thou 'st read, or heard repeated, How Captain Gulliver was treated, When thrown among the Lilliputians.

They tied him down-these little men did-
And having valiantly ascended

Upon the Mighty Man's protuberance,
They did so strut!-upon my soul,
It must have been extremely droll

To see their pigmy pride's exuberance!

And how the doughty mannikins
Amused themselves with sticking pins

And needles in the great man's breeches;
And how some very little things,
That pass'd for Lords, on scaffoldings
Got up and worried him with speeches.

Alas, alas! that it should happen

To mighty men to be caught napping!—
Though different, too, these persecutions;
For Gulliver, there, took the пар,
While, here, the Nap, oh sad mishap,
Is taken by the Lilliputians!

THE Gentleman, from whose Journal the following extracts are taken, was obliged to leave England some years ago (in consequence of an unfortunate attachment, which might have ended in bringing him into Doctors' Commons), and has but very recently been able to return to England. The greater part of these poems were, as he himself mentions in his Introduction, written or composed in an old calèche, for the purpose of beguiling the ennui of solitary travelling; and as verses made by a gentleman in his sleep have lately been called « a psychological curiosity,» it is to be hoped that verses made by a gentleman to keep himself awake may be honoured with some appellation equally Greek.

1 Meaning, I presume, Coalition Administrations.

2 Whether sedentary habits have any thing to do with this peculiar shape, I cannot determine, but that some have supposed a sort of conBexion between them, appears from the following remark, quoted in Kornmann's curious book, de Virginitatis Jure-Ratio perquam lepida est apud Kirchner. in Legato, cum natura illas partes, quæ ad sessionem sunt destinatæ, latiores in fæminis fecerit quam in viris, innuens domi eas manere debere. Cap. 40.

INTRODUCTORY RHYMES.

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.-Bayes,
Henry Stephens, Herodotus, etc.-Writing in Bed-
in the Fields.-Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.-
Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.-Madame de
Staël.-Rhyming on the Road, in an old Calèche.
WHAT various attitudes, and ways,

And tricks, we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like BAYES,
Usually stand while they 're inditing.
Poets there are, who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;
While some,
like HENRY STEPHENS, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen, while they ride.1

HERODOTUS wrote most in bed;

And RICHERAND, a French physician,

Pleraque sua carmina equitans composuit.-Paravicin. Singular.

Declares the clock-work of the head

Goes best in that reclined position. If you consult MONTAIGNE and PLINY on The subject, 't is their joint opinion That Thought its richest harvest yields Abroad, among the woods and fields; That bards, who deal in small retail,

At home may, at their counters, stop; But that the grove, the hill, the vale, Are Poesy's true wholesale shop.

And truly I suspect they 're right

For, many a time, on summer eves,
Just at that closing hour of light,

When, like an eastern Prince, who leaves
For distant war his Haram bowers,
The Sun bids farewell to the flowers,

Whose heads are sunk, whose tears are flowing 'Mid all the glory of his going—

Even I have felt beneath those beams.

When wand'ring through the fields alone, Thoughts, fancies, intellectual gleams,

That, far too bright to be my own, Seem'd lent me by the Sunny Power, That was abroad at that still hour.

If thus I've felt, how must they feel,
The few, whom genuine Genius warms,
And stamps upon their soul his seal,

Graven with Beauty's countless forms;-
The few upon this earth who seem
Born to give truth to PLATO's dream,
Since in their souls, as in a glass,

Shadows of things divine appear-
Reflections of bright forms that pass

Through fairer worlds beyond our sphere!

But this reminds me I digress:

For PLATO, too, produced, 't is said (As one indeed might almost guess, His glorious visions all in bed,2

'T was in his carriage the sublime
Sir RICHARD BLACKMORE used to rhyme:
And (if the wits don't do him wrong),
Twixt death and epics pass'd his time,
Scribbling and killing all day long-
Like Phœbus in his car, at ease,

Now warbling forth a lofty song.
Now murdering the young Niobes.

There was a hero 'mong the Danes,

Who wrote, we 're told, 'mid all the pains

And horrors of exenteration,

Nine charming odes, which, if you look,
You'll find preserved, with a translation,

By BARTHOLINUS in his book.3

1 Mes pensées dorment, si je les assis.-MONTAIGNE. Animus eorum, qui in aperto arre ambulant, attollitur.-PLINY.

2 The only authority I know for imputing this practice to Plato and Herodotus, is a Latin poem by M. de Valois on his Bed, in which he

says:

In short, 't were endless to recite
The various modes in which men write.
Some wits are only in the mind

When beaux and belles are round them prating : Some, when they dress for dinner, find

Their muse and valet both in waiting,
And manage, at the self-same time,
To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.

Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove, to tear or nibble,
Or a small twig to whisk abont-
As if the hidden founts of Fancy,
Like those of water, were found out

By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
Such was the little feathery wand'
That, held for ever in the hand
Of her who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seem'd the conductor, that drew down
Those words of lightning on her page.

As for myself to come at last,

To the odd way in which I write-
Having employed these few months past
Chiefly in travelling, day and night,
I've got into the easy mode,
You see, of rhyming on the road-
Making a way-bill of my pages.
Counting my stanzas by my stages-
'Twixt lays and re-lays no time lost-
In short, in two words, writing post.
My verses, I suspect, not ill
Resembling the crazed vehicle

(An old calèche, for which a villain

Charged me some twenty Naps at Milan)
In which I wrote them-patch'd-up things,
On weak, but rather easy, springs,
Jingling along, with little in 'em,

And (where the road is not so rough,
Or deep, or lofty, as to spin 'em,

Down precipices safe enough.-
Too ready to take fire, I own,
And then, too, nearest a break-down;
But, for my comfort, hung so low,
I have n't, in falling, far to go.—
With all this, light, and swift, and airy,
And carrying (which is best of all)
But little for the Doganieri1

Of the Reviews to overhaul.

RHYMES ON THE ROAD.

EXTRACT I.

Georva.

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.3--Anxions to reach it before the Sun went down.- Obliged to proceed on Foot.-Alps.-Mont Blanc.-Effect of

the Scene.

"T WAS late-the sun had almost shone His last and best, when I ran on,

1 Made of paper, twisted up like a fan or feather. Custom-house officers.

› Between Vattay and Gex.

Anxious to reach that splendid view
Before the day-beams quite withdrew;
And feeling as all feel, on first

Approaching scenes where, they are told, Such glories on their eyes shall burst

As youthful bards in dreams behold.
T was distant yet, and, as I ran,
Full often was my wistful gaze
Turn'd to the sun, who now began
To call in all his out-post rays,
And form a denser march of light,
Such as beseems a hero's flight.

Oh, how I wish'd for Josura's power,
To stay the brightness of that hour!
But no--the sun still less became,

Diminish'd to a speck, as splendid
And small as were those tongues of flame,
That on th' Apostles' heads descended!

T was at this instant-while there glow d This last, intensest gleam of lightSuddenly, through the opening road,

The valley burst upon my sight! That glorious valley, with its lake.

And Alps on Alps in clusters swelling. Mighty, and pure, and fit to make

The ramparts of a Godhead's dwelling!

I stood entranced and mute-as they
Of ISRAEL think th' assembled world
Will stand upon that awful day,

When the Ark's Light, aloft unfurl'd, Among the opening clouds shall shine, Divinity's own radiant sign!

Mighty MONT BLANG! thou wert to me, That minute, with thy brow in Heaven, As sure a sign of Deity

As e'er to mortal gaze was given.

Nor ever, were I destined vet

To live my life twice o'er again,

Can I the deep-felt awe forget-
The ecstasy that thrill'd me then!

power,

T was all that consciousness of
And life, bevond this mortal hour.-
Those mountings of the soul within
At thoughts of Heaven-as birds begin
By instinct in the cage to rise,

When near their time for change of skies-
That proud assurance of our claim

To rank among the Sons of Light,
Mingled with shame-oh, bitter shame!-
At having risk'd that splendid right,
For aught that earth, through all its range
Of glories, offers in exchange!

T was all this, at the instant brought,
Like breaking sunshine, o'er my thought-
T was all this, kindled to a glow

Of sacred zeal, which, could it shine
Thus purely ever-man might grow,
Even upon earth, a thing divine,
And be once more the creature made
To walk unstain'd the Elysian shade'

No-never shall I lose the trace

Of what I've felt in this bright place.

And should my spirit's hope grow weak;
Should I, oh Gop! e'er doubt thy power,
This mighty scene again I'll seek,

At the same calm and glowing hour,
And here, at the sublimest shrine
That Nature ever rear'd to Thee,
Rekindle all that hope divine,
And feel my immortality!

EXTRACT II.

Venice.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented.-Former Glory. -Expedition against Constantinople.-Giustinianis.— Republic.—Characteristics of the old Government.-Golden Book.-Brazen Mouths.-Spies.Dungeons.-Present Desolation.

MOURN not for VENICE-let her rest
In ruin, 'mong those States unbless'd,
Beneath whose guilded hoofs of pride,
Where'er they trampled, Freedom died.
No-let us keep our tears for them,

Where'er they pine, whose fall hath been
Not from a blood-stain'd diadem,

Like that which deck'd this ocean-queen,
But from high daring in the cause

Of human Rights-the only good
And blessed strife, in which man draws
His powerful sword on land or flood.

Mourn not for VENICE-though her fall
Be awful, as if Ocean's wave
Swept o'er her-she deserves it all,
And Justice triumphs o'er her grave.
Thus perish every King and State

That run the guilty race she ran,
Strong but in fear, and only great
By outrage against GoD and man!

True, her high spirit is at rest,

And all those days of glory gone, When the world's waters, east and west. Beneath her white-wing'd commerce shone; When, with her countless barks she went To meet the Orient Empire's might,' And the GIUSTINIANIS sent

Their hundred heroes to that fight.”

Vanish'd are all her pomps, 't is true.

But mourn them not-for, vanish'd, too, (Thanks to that Power, who, soon or late, Hurls to the dust the guilty Great), Are all the outrage, falsehood, fraud,

The chains, the rapine, and the blood, That fill'd each spot, at home, abroad, Where the Republic's standard stood!

Desolate VENICE! when I track

Thy haughty course through centuries back,-

1 Under the Doge Michaeli, in 1191.

La famille entière des Justiniant, l'une des plus illustres de Venise, voulut marcher toute entière dans cette expedition, elle fournit cent combattans; c'était renouveler l'exemple d'une illustre famille de Rome; le même malheur les attendait. Histoire de Venise, par DARE.

Thy ruthless power, obey'd but cursed,—
The stern machinery of thy State,
Which hatred would, like steam, have burst,
Had stronger fear not chill'd even hate;
Thy perfidy, still worse than aught
Thy own unblushing SARPI taught,-
Thy friendship, which, o'er all beneath
Its shadow, rain'd down dews of death,-2
Thy Oligarchy's Book of Gold,

Shut against humble Virtue's name,3
But open'd wide for slaves who sold
Their native land to thee and shame,-4
Thy all-pervading host of spies,

Watching o'er every glance and breath,
Till men look'd in each other's eyes,

To read their chance of life or death,Thy laws, that made a mart of blood, And legalized the assassin's knife,- 5 Thy sunless cells beneath the flood,

And racks, and leads that burn out life;When I review all this, and see

What thou art sunk and crush'd to now; Each harpy maxim, hatch'd by thee,

Return'd to reost on thy own brow,—— Thy Nobles towering once aloft,

Now sunk in chains-in chains, that have Not even that borrow'd grace, which oft

The master's fame sheds o'er the slave,
But are as mean as e'er were given
To stiff-neck'd Pride by angry Heaven-
I feel the moral vengeance sweet,
And, smiling o'er the wreck, repeat—-
«Thus perish every King and state,

That tread the steps which VENICE trod,
Strong but in fear, and only great
By outrage against man and GoD! >>

EXTRACT III.

Venice.

L--d B's Memoirs, written by himself.-Reflections, when about to read them.

LET me, a moment-ere with fear and hope
Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope-

As one, in fairy tale, to whom the key

Of some enchanter's secret halls is given, Doubts, while he enters, slowly, tremblingly,

If he shall meet with shapes from hell or heavenLet me, a moment, think what thousands live O'er the wide earth this instant, who would give, Gladly, whole sleepless nights to bend the brow Over these precious leaves, as I do now. How all who know-and where is he unknown? To what far region have his songs not flown, Like PSAPHON'S birds,' speaking their master's name, In every language syllabled by Fame?How all, who've felt the various spells combined Within the circle of that splendid mind, Like powers, derived from many a star, and met Together in some wonderous amulet, Would burn to know when first the light awoke In his young soul,-and if the gleams that broke From that Aurora of his genius, raised

More bliss or pain in those on whom they blazedWould love to trace the unfolding of that power, Which hath grown ampler, grander, every hour; And feel, in watching o'er its first advance,

As did the Egyptian traveller, when he stood By the young Nile, and fathom'd with his lance The first small fountains of that mighty flood.

They, too, who 'mid the scornful thoughts that dwell
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams,
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell

On earth of old, and touch'd them with its beams,
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate,
From Nature's hands came kind, affectionate;
And which, even now, struck as it is with blight,
Comes out, at times, in love's own native light-
How gladly all, who 've watch'd these struggling rays
Of a bright, ruin'd spirit through his lays,
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips,
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven
That noble nature into cold eclipse-

Like some fair orb that, once a sun in Heaven, And born, not only to surprise, but cheer With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, Is now so quench'd. that, of its grandeur, lasts Nought but the wide cold shadow which it casts!

Eventful volume! whatsoe'er the change

A l'exception des trente citadins admis au prand conseil pendant la guerre de Chiozzi, il n'est pas arrivé une seule fois que les talens ou les services aient paru à cette noblesse orgueilleuse des titres suffisans pour s'asseoir avec elle..-DAB.

Among those admitted to the honour of being inscribed in the Libro d' Oro were some families of Brescia, Treviso, and other places,

whose only claim to that distinction was the zeal with which they prostrated themselves and their country at the feet of the republic.

5 By the infamous statutes of the State Inquisition, not only was

assassination recognized as a regular mode of punishment, but this secret power over life was delegated to their minions at a distance. with nearly as much facility as a licence is given under the game laws of England. The only re triction seems to have been the neces sity of applying for a new certificate, after every individual exercise of the power.

6. Les prisons des plembe, c'est-à-dire ces fournaises ardentes qu'on avait distribuces en petites cellules sous les terrasses qui couvrent le palais..

The griefs-the frailties, but too frankly told—
The loves, the fends thy pages may unfold;

If truth with half so prompt a hand unlocks
His virtues as his failings-we shall find
The record there of friendships, held like rocks,
And eumities, like sun-touch'd snow, resign'd-
Of fealty, cherish'd without change or chill,
In those who served him young, and serve him stil-
Of generous aid, given with that noiseless art
Which wakes not pride, to many a wounded heart-
Of acts-but, no-not from himself must aught
Of the bright features of his life be sought.

1 Psaphon, n order to attract the attention of the world, us mulutades of birds to speak his name, and then let them By as various directions whence the proverb, Psaphonis aves •

2 Bruce