And gave my brush a drink; Dipping" as when a painter dips. In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," That is -in Indian ink.

O then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows! What clouds of dingy hue!

In spite of what the bard has penned, I fear the distance did not "lend

Enchantment to the view."

Not Radclyffe's brush did e'er design
Black forests half so black as mine,
Or lakes so like a pall;

The Chinese cake dispersed a ray
Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin, over all.

Yet urchin pride sustained me still;
I gazed on all with right good will,
And spread the dingy tint;
"No holy Luke helped me to paint ;
The Devil, surely not a Saint,

Had any finger in't!”

But colors came!

-like morning light,

With gorgeous hues displacing night,

Or Spring's enlivened scene :

At once the sable shades withdrew;

My skies got very, very blue;
My trees, extremely green.

And, washed by my cosmetic brush,
How Beauty's cheek began to blush!
With lock of auburn stain

(Not Goldsmith's Auburn) — nut-brown hair That made her loveliest of the fair;

Not "loveliest of the plain!"

Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame!

A young Pygmalion, I adored

The maids I made

With evil

but time was stored

and it came!

Perspective dawned · and soon I saw

My houses stand against its law;
And "keeping" all unkept!
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings;

But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist-wise ?

It only serves to hint

What grave defects and wants are mine;

That I'm no Hilton in design

In nature no Dewint!

Thrice happy time! — Art's early days!

When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seemed,
And such Old Masters all were deemed

As nothing to the young!

A FAIRY TALE.

ON Hounslow heath and close beside the road,
As western travellers may oft have seen,
A little house some years ago there stood,
A minikin abode ;

And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood;
The walls of white, the window-shutters green;
Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West
(Though now at rest,)

On which it used to wander to and fro,
Because its master ne'er maintained a rider,
Like those who trade in Paternoster Row
But made his business travel for itself,
Till he had made his pelf,

And then retired if one may call it so,
Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran,
Made him more relish the repose and quiet
Of his now sedentary caravan ;

Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common,
And so he might impale a strip of soil,

That furnished, by his toil,

Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower.
Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil
His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour,
A stray horse came and gobbled up his bower!

But, tired of always looking at the coaches,

The same to come, when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife

Began to suffer N U E's approaches,

And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,
So, having had some quarters of school-breeding,
They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading;
But setting out where others nigh have done,

And being ripened in the seventh stage,

The childhood of old age,

Began, as other children have begun,
Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,
Or Bard of Hope,

Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, -
But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,
And then relaxed themselves with Whittington,
Or Valentine and Orson

But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,
And being easily melted in their dotage,
Slobbered, and kept

Reading, - and wept

Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

Thus reading on the longer

They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger
In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,
If talking trees and birds revealed to him,
She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons,
And magic fishes swim

In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,
Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons;
When, as it fell upon a summer's day,

As the old man sat a feeding
On the old babe-reading,

Beside his open street-and-parlor door,

A hideous roar

Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.

Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed,
Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels,
Or Durham feed,

With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils,
From nether side of Tweed,

Or Firth of Forth;

Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,
With dusty hides, all mobbing on together,-
When, whether from a fly's malicious comment
Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank;
Or whether

Only in some enthusiastic moment,
However, one brown monster, in a frisk,
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,

Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;
And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a
Hornpipe before the basket-maker's villa,
Leapt o'er the tiny pale,

Backed his beef-steaks against the wooden gable
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail
Right o'er the page

Wherein the sage

Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,

Could not peruse

who could ?

two tales at once;

And being huffed

At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft,
Banged-to the door,

But most unluckly enclosed a morsel

Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:

The monster gave a roar,

And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,