And when the supple politician
Bestows his bow of recognition,
Or forces on th' averted ear

The flattery it affects to fear,

They look, and laugh behind the fan,
And dub Sir Paul "the young old man."

Look! as he paces round, he greets, With nod and simper, all he meets :"Ah! ha! your Lordship! is it you? “Ah!

Still slave to Beauty and beaux yeux ?
Well! well! and how's the gout, my Lord?-
My dear Sir Charles! upon my word,
L'air de Paris, since last I knew you,
Has been Medea's caldron to you:-
William! my boy! how fast you grow!
Yours is a light fantastic toe,
Winged with the wings of Mercury!
I was a scholar once, you see!
And how's the mare you used to ride?
And who's the Hebe by your side?—
Doctor! I thought I heard you sneeze!
How is my dear Hippocrates?

What have you done for old John Oates,
The gouty merchant with five votes?
What! dead? well! well! no fault of yours!
There is no drug that always cures!
Ah! Doctor, I begin to break,
And I'm glad of it, for your sake.”
VOL. II.-3

As thus the spruce M. P. runs on, Some quiet dame, who dotes upon His speeches, buckles, and grimace, Grows very eloquent in praise. "How can they say Sir Paul is proud? I'm sure, in all the evening's crowd, There's not a man that bows so low; His words come out so soft and slow; And when he begged me 'keep my seat,' He looked so civil and so sweet.""Ma'am," says her spouse, in harsher tone, "He only wants to keep his own." Her Ladyship is in a huff,

And Miss, enraged at Ma's rebuff, Rings the alarm in t'other ear: "Lord! now, Papa, you're too severe; Where in the country will you see Manners so taking, and so free?” "His manners free? I only know Our votes have made his letters so!" "And then he talks with so much ease→→ And then he gives such promises." "Gives promises? and well he may! You know they're all he gives away!" "How folks misrepresent Sir Paul !” "Tis he misrepresents us all !" "How very stale! but you'll confess He has a charming taste in dress; And uses such delightful scent;

And when he pays a compliment—”
"Eh! and what then, my pretty pet?
What then?-he never pays a debt!"

Sir Paul is skilled in all the tricks
Of politesse, and politics;
Long hath he learned to wear a mien
So still, so open, so serene,

That strangers in those features grave
Would strive in vain to read a knave.
Alas! it is believed by all

There is more "Sir" than "Saint" in Paul;
He knows the value of a place;
Can give a promise with a grace;
Is quite an adept at excuse;
Sees when a vote will be of use;
And, if the Independents flinch,
Can help his Lordship at a pinch.
Acutely doth he read the fate
Of deep intrigues, and plans of State;
And if, perchance, some powdered Peer
Hath gained or lost the Monarch's ear,
Foretells, without a shade of doubt,
The comings in, and goings out.
When placemen of distinguished note
Mistake, mislead, misname, misquote,
Confound the Papist and the Turk,
Or murder Sheridan and Burke,
Or make a riddle of the laws,

Sir Paul grows hoarse in his applause:

And when, in words of equal size,
Some oppositionist replies,

And talks of taxes and starvation,
And Catholic emancipation,

The Knight, in indolent repose,

Looks only to the ayes and noes.

Let youth say "grand!" Sir Paul says "stuff!" Let youth take fire!-Sir Paul takes snuff.

Methinks, amid the crowded room,

I see one countenance of gloom;

Whence is young Edmund's pain or pique?
Whence is the paleness of his cheek?
And whence the wrathful eye, that now
Lowers, like Kean's, beneath the brow;
And now again on earth is bent,
'Twixt anger and embarrassment?
Is he poetical-or sad?

Really-or fashionably mad?

Are his young spirits colder grown
At Ellen's-or the Muses' frown?
He did not love in other days
To wear the sullens on his face,
When merry sights and sounds were near;

Nor on his unregarding ear

Unheeded thus was wont to fall

The music of the County Ball.

I pity all whom Fate unites To vulgar Belles on gala-nights;

But chiefly him who haply sees
The day-star of his destinies-
The Beauty of his fondest dreaming,
Sitting in solitude, and seeming
To lift her dark, capricious eye
Beneath its fringe reproachingly.
Alas! my luckless friend is tied
To the fair Hoyden by his side,
Who opens, without law or rule,
The treasures of the Boarding-school:
And she is prating learnedly

Of Logic and of Chemistry,
Describing chart and definition
With geographical precision,
Culling her words, as bid by chance,
From England, Italy, or France,
Until, like many a clever dunce,
She murders all the three at once.
Sometimes she mixes by the ounce
Discussions deep on frill and flounce;
Points out the stains that stick, like burrs,
To ladies' gowns-or characters;
Talks of the fiddles, and the weather,
Of Laura's wreath, and Fannie's feather;-
All which obedient Edmund hears,
With passive look, and open ears,
And understands about as much
As if the lady spoke in Dutch;
Until, in indignation high,