SONNET.

ON MISTRESS NICELY, A PATTERN FOR HOUSEKEEPERS.

Written after seeing Mrs. Davenport in the character at Covent Garden

SHE was a woman peerless in her station,

With household virtues wedded to her name ;
Spotless in linen, grass-bleached in her fame,
And pure and clear-starched in her reputation; -
Thence in my Castle of Imagination

She dwells forevermore, the dainty dame,
To keep all airy draperies from shame,
And all dream furnitures in preservation:
There walketh she with keys quite silver bright,
In perfect hose, and shoes of seemly black,
Apron and stomacher of lily-white,

And decent order follows in her track:

The burnished plate grows lustrous in her sight, And polished floors and tables shine her back.

ON THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY.

TAKEN BY THE DAGUERREOTYPE.

YES, there are her features! her brow, and her hair,
And her eyes, with a look so seraphic;
Her nose, and her mouth, with the smile that is there,
Truly caught by the Art Photographic !

Yet why should she borrow such aid of the skies,
When, by many a bosom's confession,

Her own lovely face and the light of her eyes
Are sufficient to make an impression?

PARTY SPIRIT.

"WHY did you not dine," said a Lord to a Wit, "With the Whigs, you political sinner?"

(

Why, really, I meant, but had doubts how the Pit

Of my stomach would bear a Fox dinner ”

TO HOPE.

OH! take, young seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;
For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh! take thy harp!

Oh! sing as thou wert wont to do,
When, all youth's sunny season long,
I sat and listen'd to thy song,

And yet 'twas ever, ever new,
With magic in its heaven-tuned string,-
The future bliss thy constant theme.
Oh! then each little woe took wing
Away, like phantoms of a dream;
As if each sound

That flutter'd round

Had floated over Lethe's stream!

By all those bright and happy hours
We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs,

Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show,

Ere buds were come, where flowers would grow, And oft anticipate the rise

Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies;

By many a story of love and glory,

And friendships promised oft to me;
By all the faith I lent to thee,-
Oh! take, young seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily;

For grief is dark, and care is sharp,

And life wears on so wearily.

Oh! take thy harp!

Perchance the strings will sound less clear,
That long have lain neglected by
In sorrow's misty atmosphere;
It ne'er may speak as it has spoken

Such joyous notes so brisk and high;
But are its golden chords all broken?
Are there not some, though weak and low,
To play a lullaby to woe?

But thou canst sing of love no more,

For Celia show'd that dream was vain;
And many a fancied bliss is o'er,

That comes not e'en in dreams again.
Alas! alas!

How pleasures pass,

And leave thee now no subject, save
The peace and bliss beyond the grave!
Then be thy flight among the skies:

Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing,
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing
On skylark's wing!

Another life-spring there adorns
Another youth, without the dread
Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns
Is here for manhood's aching head.
Oh! there are realms of welcome day,
A world where tears are wiped away!
Then be thy flight among the skies:

Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing

On skylark's wing!

July, 1821.

SONG.

TO MY WIFE.

THOSE eyes that were so bright, love,
Have now a dimmer shine,-

But all they've lost in light, love,
Was what they gave to mine:
But still those orbs reflect, love,
The beams of former hours,-
That ripen'd all my joys, my love,
And tinted all my flowers!

Those locks were brown to see, love,
That now are turned so gray,-
But the years were spent with me, love,
That stole their hue away.

Thy locks no longer share, love,

The golden glow of noon,

But I've seen the world look fair, my love, When silvered by the moon!

That brow was smooth and fair, love,

That looks so shaded now,

But for me it bore the care, love,

That spoiled a bonny brow.
And though no longer there, love,
The gloss it had of yore,-

Still Memory looks and dotes, my love,
Where Hope admired before!

JARVIS AND MRS. COPE.

A DECIDEDLY SERIOUS BALLAD.

IN Bunhill Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mrs. Cope,
A pious woman she was call'd,
As Pius as a Pope.

Not pious in its proper sense,
But chatt'ring like a bird
Of sin and grace—in such a case
Mag-piety 's the word.

Cries she, "the Rev. Mr. Trigg
This day a text will broach,
And much I long to hear him preach,
So, Betty, call a coach.'

A bargain tho' she wish'd to make,

Ere they began to jog—

"Now, Coachman, what d' ye take me for?" Says Coachman, "for a hog."

But Jarvis, when he set her down,
A second hog did lack-
Whereas she only offered him

One shilling and "a track."

Says he "There ain't no tracks in Quaife,
You and your tracks be both—”
And, affidavit-like, he clench'd

Her shilling with an oath.