"Immortelles” bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath,

And does not yon green elm contain a coffin ? O, cara mine, what lines of care are these ?

The heart still lingers with its golden hours, But fading tints are on the chestnut trees,

And where is all that lavish wreath of flowers ? The end is near-Life yields not what it gave,

But Death hath promises that call for praises ; As here a worthless rogue may dig the grave, But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.

(By permission of Messrs. Moxon and Co.)

THE FRENCHMAN IN A FIX ;

a

a

OR, A NEW MAP OF LONDON.

DOUGLAS JERROLD. I WELL remember sitting in a tavern, when a horrible noise arose in the house, and Monsieur Top-it-droit, a French dancing-master, not much higher than a venerable savoy cabbage, rushed into the coffee-room, foaming like ginger-beer in July :

“Ma foi-mi eye!—des bêtes anglais-here is a place. Dere is no street-dere is no leetle street-dere is no rue!"

“Rue!” said the waiter, “what do you mean by rue ?

you asked me for Bishopsgate Without.” “Certainement, oui ! oui ! And you make a me de map comme je vous ordonne, as I did tell you; and it was no map for de puppy dog, much less for de gentilhomme Français!” “Why how is this, Tom?” said the landlord.

Why you must know this man with the peaked nose and the sanguinary eyebrows"

“Pig nose, sare! Diable! vat you mean by pig

66

“He asks me if I could direct him to the beauties of the me-tro-po—lis; so I says, yes—and so I sends him down to Tower-hill."

“But dat is not all, diable !-de map-de map!"

“Ah, what is that about the map ?” asked the master.

Why, master, you see, as I know'd he was but a strange foreigner-only an alien, as they calls 'em in parliament-I makes him out a map of the streets. Here it is, you see I marked 'em all down: Strand, Fleet-street; and these four little dots are for the postes at the end on it—the big one for the obelisk, and the hair-stroke for the sweeper at the side of it. Here's what we called at school a carrot.”

“A caret! and what's the caret for, Tom ? "

“Why for the wegetable market; and liere's a dagger for the butchers' shops—the stocking warehouse is the letter K, and the Compter is L; but that you know he leaves and goes up Ludgate Hill; then here's the letter O, with the dropsy, for St. Paul's church, and here's the figures of interrogation."

Why, what are the interrogations for at St. Paul's church ?" “Why, they are the fellows asking you for money

into it, and here's signs of admiration for the whips of the omnibus drivers in the church-yardhere an X for the cross roads—a dash for Cheapside, and here's an amm-per-sant, like an eel lying upon its tail, for the Mansion House ; then here's

“Well, I see the map is all right, and

“ No, no, it is not all right, it is ver wrong—I take de papier-eh bien-I go up de Strand- de street of de Fleet—de Hill of de Ludgate come to de St. Paul's church, and button up my pockets at de notes of interrogation. Den I cross de X, and ven I look up

for Cheapside, at de corner dere, I see—Stick-no-bill Street-dere is no Stick-no-bill Street in de map, so I stick dere myself—dat it is vat I sall complain of, and will for ever! so vat for you no put him down ? "

afore you go

29

ODE FOR MUSIC ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

ALEXANDER POPE.

[Alexander Pope was one of those great geniuses of which literary history has but few names to record. He stands out and apart from the masses, and ranks only with the worthiest of England's worthies. He was born in Lombard-street, London, where his father carried on business as a linen-draper, in 1688. Both his parents being Roman Catholics, he was placed, at the age of eight, under the care of one Taverner, a priest, who taught him the rudiments of Greek and Latin. At the age of twelve he removed with his parents to Binfield, in Windsor Forest; and about the same time he wrote his “ Ode on Solitude"- -a most remarkable production for so young a genius. Here he studied Waller, Spenser, and Dryden, and, at the age of sixteen, wrote his “Pastorals,” which attracted the attention of the leading wits of the time. His “Essay on Criticism" was published in 1711, and the “Messiah"

appeared on the 1st of September in the same year. This was followed by the “Ode for St. Cecilia's Day," which appeared originally in "The Spectator." About the same time he wrote “The Rape of the Lock.” After bringing out " Abelard and Eloisa,''

;." The Temple of Fame," and "Windsor Forest,” he undertook the translation of the “Iliad,” which he published by subscription, and netted (fortunate author) above 50001. With a part of this he purchased his house at Twickenham, so long after fondly recognised as "Pope's Villa.”

On the completion of the “Iliad,” he undertook the "Odyssey;" but a spice of commercial enterprise was mixed up with his literary labours, for he not only got it subscribed to liberally, but he employed other learned men (among them Broome, Fenton, and Parnell) to assist him in his work. Pope's success was followed by the usual result. Other literary men became jealous of him, and jealousy begets enmity. Pope could have afforded to treat all this with silent contempt, but he took vengeance on his detractors in "The Dunciad;" and, unfortunately, the satirical vein, once indulged in, was found very difficult to control. Like Byron after him, he was induced to satirise some who had done him little or no injury. In 1729 he published his great ethical epic, the “Essay on Man." In 1737 he printed his “Letters," by subscription, and made money by them, but the publication was against all the tenets of literary honour and gentlemanly breeding. At the time of his death he was engaged in preparing a complete edition of his works. He died May 30th, 1744, aged 56.]

DESCEND, ye Nine! descend and sing :

!
The breathing instruments inspire;
Wake into voice each silent string,
And sweep the sounding lyre!

In a sadly-pleasing strain,
Let the warbling lute complain :

Let the loud trumpet sound,
Till the roofs all around

The shrill echoes rebound:
While, in more lengthen'd notes and slow,
The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. .

Hark! the numbers, soft and clear,
Gently steal upon the ear;
Now louder, and yet louder rise,

And fill with spreading sounds the skies;
Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,
In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats;

Till, by degrees, remote and small,

The strains decay,

And melt away,

In a dying, dying fall,

By Music, minds an equal temper know,

Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, Music her soft, assuasive voice applies;

Or, when the soul is press'd with cares,

Exalts her in enlivening airs.
Warriors she fires with animated sounds;
Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds :

Melancholy lifts her head,
Morpheus rouses from his bed,
Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes,

List’ning envy drops her snakes;
Intestine war no more our passions wage,
And giddy factions bear away their rage.

But when our country's cause provokes to arms, How martial music every bocom warms

So when the first bold vessel dar'd the seas,
High on the stern the Thracian rais’d his strain,

While Argo saw her kindred trees
Descend from Pelion to the main.

Transported demi-gods stood round,
And men grew heroes at the sound,

Inflam'd with glory's charms :
Each chief his sevenfold shield display'd,
And half unsheath'd the shining blade;
And seas, and rocks, and skies rebound,
To arms, to arms, to arms i

And when through all the infernal bounds,
Which flaming Phlegethon surrounds,

Love, strong as Death, the Poet led

To the pale nations of the dead.
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appear’d,

O'er all the dreary coasts !

Dreadful gleams,
Dismal screams,
Fires that glow,
Shrieks of woe,
Sullen moans,

Hollow groans,

And cries of tortured ghosts!
But hark! he strikes the golden lyre;
And see! the tortured ghosts respire,

See, shady forms advance!
Thy stone, O Sisyphus, stands still,
Ixion rests upon his wheel,

And the pale spectres dance
The Furies sink upon their iron beds,
And snakes uncurl'd hang listening round their heads.

By the streams that ever flow,
By the fragrant winds that blow

O'er th’ Elysian flow'rs;