The gentleman that moves on wires-
The youth with such a frightful frown-
And "that extraordinary gown."
Now characters are much debated,
And witty speeches are narrated;
And Criticism delights to dwell
On conquest won by many a belle,
On compliments that ne'er were paid,
On offers that were never made,
Refusals-Lord knows when refused,
Deductions-Lord knows how deduced;
Alas! how sweetly Scandal falls
From lips of beauties-after Balls.

The music stops,-the lights expire,The dance is o'er,-the crowds retire; And all those smiling cheeks have flown! Away!—the rhymer is alone.

Thou, too, the fairest and the best,
Hast fleeted from him with the rest;

Thy name he will not, love! unite
To the rude strain he pours to-night;
Yet often hath he turned away
Amidst his harsh and wandering lay,
And often hath his earnest eye
Looked into thine delightedly,
And often hath his listening ear――

But thou art gone!-what doth he here i

TO JULIO,

ON HIS COMING OF AGE.

JULIO, while Fancy's tints adorn
The first bright beam of manhood's morn,
The cares of boyhood fleet away
Like clouds before the face of day;
And see, before your ravished eyes
New hopes appear, new duties rise;
Restraint has left his iron throne,
And Freedom smiles on twenty-one.

Count o'er the friends whom erst you knew, When careless boyhood deemed them true,— With whom you wiled the lazy hours Round fond Etona's classic towers, Or strayed beside the learned mud Of ancient Cam's meandering flood; The follies that in them you view, Shall be a source of good to you.

With mincing gait, and foreign air,
Sir Philip strays through park and square,
Or yawns in Grange's sweet recess,
In all the studied ease of dress;

Aptly the manling's tongue, I deem,
Can argue on a lofty theme,-
Which damsel hath the merrier eye,
Which fop the better-fancied tie,
Which perfume hath the sweetest savour,
Which soup the more inviting flavour;
And Fashion, at Sir Philip's call,
Ordains the collars rise and fall,
And shifts the Brummel's varying hue
From blue to brown, from brown to blue

And hence the motley crowd who e'er Bear Fashion's badge, or wish to bear, From Hockley Hole to Rotten Row, Unite to dub Sir Philip-beau.

And such is Fashion's empty fameSquire Robert loathes the very name; The rockets hiss, the bonfires blaze, The peasants gape in still amaze; The field unploughed-the ox unyoked, The farmer's mouth with pudding choked, The sexton's vest of decent brown, The village maiden's Sunday gown, In joyful union seem to say, "Squire Robert is of age to-day."

The bumpkins hurry to the Bell, And clam'rous tongues in riot swell;

Anger is hot-and so is liquor;

They drink confusion to the VicarAnd shout and song from lad and lass, And broken heads-and broken glass, In concert horrible, declare

Their loyal reverence for the heir.

Right justly may the youthful Squire These transports in his slaves inspire; At every fireside through the place He's welcome as the curate's grace; He tells his story, cracks his joke, And drinks his ale "like other folk;" Fearless he risks that cranium thick At cudgelling and single-stick;

And then his stud!-why! far and wide It is the county's chiefest pride!

Ah! had his steed no firmer brains

Than the mere thing that holds the reins, Grief soon would bid the beer to run Because the Squire's mad race was done, Not less than now it froths away, Because "the Squire's of age to-day."

Far different pomp inspired of old The youthful Roman's bosom bold, Soon as a father's honoured hand Gave to his grasp the casque and brand, And off the light prætexta threw,

And from his neck the bulla drew,
Bade him the toga's foldings scan,
And glory in the name of "Man."
Far different pomp lit ardour high
In the young German's eager eye,
When, bending o'er his offspring's head,
An aged sire, half-weeping, said,-
"Thy duty to thy father done,

Go forth-and be thy country's son."
Heavens! how his bosom burned to dare
The grim delight of manhood's war,
And brandish in no mimic field
His beaming lance and osier shield:
How his young bosom longed to claim
In war's wild tumult manhood's name,
And write it, midst the battle's foam,
In the best blood of trembling Rome!

Such was the hope, the barbarous joy, That nerved to arms the German boy; A flame as ardent, more refined, Shall brightly glow in Julio's mind; But yet I'd rather see thee smile Grimly on war's embattled file, I'd rather see thee wield in strife The German butcher's reckless knife, Thinking thy claims to manhood grow From each pale corse that bleeds below;-I'd rather view thee thus,-than see A modern blockhead rise in thee.