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The simple shepherd's love is still
To bask upon a sunny hill,
The herdsman roams the vale—
With both their fancies I agree;
Be mine the swelling, scooping Sea,
That is both hill and dale !

I yearn for that brisk spray—I yearn
To feel the wave from stem to stern
Uplift the plunging keel;
That merry step we used to dance
On board the Aidant or the Chance,
The ocean ‘toe and heel.”

I long to feel the steady gale
That fills the broad distended sail—
The seas on either hand
My thought, like any hollow shell,
Keeps mocking at my ear the swell
Of waves against the land.

It is no fable—that old strain
Of syrens !—so the witching main
Is singing—and I sigh !
My heart is all at once inclined
To seaward—and I seem to find
The waters in my eye

Methinks I see the shining beach;
The merry waves, each after each,
Rebounding o'er the flints;
I spy the grim preventive spy
The jolly boatmen standing nigh !
The maids in morning chintz

And there they float—the sailing craft
The sail is up—the wind abaft—
The ballast trim and neat.
Alas! 'tis all a dream—a lie!
A printer's imp is standing by,
To haul my mizzen sheet !

My tiller dwindles to a pen—
My craft is that of bookish men—
My sale—let Longman tell
Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray !
Men—maidens—chintzes—fade away 1

Tom Woodgate, fare thee well !

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on THE PUBLICATION OF “THE GARDENS AND MENAGERIE OF THE zoologICAL sociFTY.”

“Give you good den.”—SHAKEspears.

So Mr. W., no Vigors—I beg pardon—
You've published your Zoological Garden
A book of which I’ve heard a deal of talk,
And your Menagerie—indeed, 'tis bad o' me,
But I have never seen your Beast Academy
Or set my feet
In Brute-on street,
Or ever wandered in your “Bird-cage Walk.”

Yet, I believe that you were truly born
To be a kind of brutal overseer,
And, like the royal quarterings, appear
Between a lion and a unicorn:
There is a sort of reason about rhyme
That I have pondered many, many a time;
Where words, like birds of feather,
Likely to come together,
Are quite prophetically made to chime;

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