REFLECTIONS

ON A NEW YEAR'S DAY.

YES, yes, it's very true, and very clear!
By way of compliment and common chat,
It's very well to wish me a New Year;
But wish me a new hat!

Although not spent in luxury and ease,
In course a longer life I won't refuse;
But while you 're wishing, wish me if you please,
A newer pair of shoes!

Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat,
I own to one that I should not rebut—
Instead of this old rent, to have a coat
With more of the New Cut!

O yes, 't is very pleasant, tho' I'm poor,
To hear the steeple make that merry din;
Except I wish one bell was at the door,
To ring new trowsers in.

To be alive is very nice indeed,

Although another year at last departs;
Only with twelve new months I rather need
A dozen of new shirts.

Yes, yes, it's very true, and very clear,
By way of compliment, and common chat,
It's very well to wish me a New Year,
But wish me a new hat!

A FIRST ATTEMPT IN RHYME.

The attempt and not the deed.-LADY MACBETH.

A FEW days since it happened to me to look into a Lady's Album-one of those pretty nuisances which are sent to one like the Taxgatherers' Schedules, with a blank or two for the victim to fill up. The Book was of the usual kind : superbly bound, of course, and filled with paper of various tints and shades, to suit the taste of the contributors: baiting, one might fancy, with a bluish tinge for Lady with a light green for Mrs. Hall, or Miss Mitford, and with a French white for Miss Costello-for Moore with a flesh color, with gray for the Bard of Memory, and with rose color for the Poet of Hope-with stone color, for Allan Cunningham, with straw color for the Corn Law Rhymer, with drab and slate for Bernard Barton and the Howitts, and with a sulphur tint for Satan Montgomery. The copper color being, perhaps, aimed at the artists in general, who are partial to the warmth of its tone.

As yet, however, but few of our "celebrated pens" and pencils had enriched or ornamented the volume. The literary offerings were short and few, and the pictorial ones were still more rare. Thus, between the Mendicant begging for Scraps in the Frontispiece, and a water-colored branch of Fuchsia, there were no less than eighteen blank leaves: twenty-two more from the flower to the Group of Shellsif they were shells-for they looked more like petrifactions of a cracknel, a French roll, and a twist-and fifteen barren pages from the Conchology to the great Parrot-which, by the by, seemed purposely to have been put into the same livery as the lady's footman, namely, a pea-green coat, with

crimson smalls.

There was only one more drawing; a view of some Dutch place, done in sepia, and which some wag had named in pencil as "a Piece of Brown Holland."

The prose and verse were of the ordinary character: Extracts from Byron, Wordsworth, and Mrs. Hemans; a Parody of an Irish Melody, an Unpublished Ballad, attributed to Sir Walter Scott, and sundry original effusions, including a Sonnet of sixteen lines to an Infant. There were also two specimens of what is called Religious Poetry-the one working up a Sprig of Thyme into an "ETERNITY!" and the other setting out as jauntily as a Song, but ending in a

"( HIM.'

In glancing over these effusions it was my good fortune to be attracted to some verses by a certain singularity in their construction, the nature of which it required a second perusal to determine. Indeed, the peculiarity was so unobtrusive that it had escaped the notice of the owner of the Album, who had even designated the lines in question as “nothing particular." They were, she said, as the title implied, the first attempt in rhyme, by a female friend; and who, to judge from her manner and expressions, with respect to her maiden essay, had certainly not been aware of any thing extraordinary in her performance. the contrary, she had apologized for the homely and commonplace character of the lines, and had promised, if she ever improved in her poetry, to contribute another and a better sample. A pledge which Death, alas! had forbidden her to redeem.

On

As a Literary Curiosity, the Proprietress of the original Poem has kindly allowed me to copy and present it to the Public. Instead of a mere commonplace composition, the careful Reader will perceive that while aiming at, and so singularly missing, what Garrick called "the jingle of

verse,” the Authoress has actually invented a New Species of Poetry—an intermediate link, as it were, between Blank Verse and Rhyme, and as such likely to be equally acceptable to the admirers of Thomson and the lovers of Shenstone.

(COPY.)

If I were used to writing verse,
And had a Muse not so perverse,
But prompt at Fancy's call to spring
And carol like a bird in Spring;
Or like a Bee, in summer time,
That hums about a bed of thyme,
And gathers honey and delights.
From ev'ry blossom where it 'lights;
If I, alas! had such a Muse,
To touch the Reader or amuse,
And breathe the true poetic vein,
This page should not be fill'd in vain?
But ah! the pow'r was never mine
To dig for gems in Fancy's mine;
Or wander over land and main
To seek the Fairies' old domain-
To watch Apollo while he climbs
His throne in oriental climes;
Or mark the "gradual dusky veil"
Drawn over Tempé's tuneful vale,
In classic lays remembered long-
Such flights to bolder wings belong;
To Bards who on that glorious height
Of sun and song, Parnassus hight,
Partake the fire divine that burns
In Milton, Pope, and Scottish Burns,
Who sang his native braes and burns.

For me, a novice strange and new,
Who ne'er such inspiration knew,
But weave a verse with travail sore,
Ordain'd to creep and not to soar,
A few poor lines alone I write,
Fulfilling thus a friendly rite,
Not meant to meet the Critic's
eye,
For oh! to hope from such as I,

For

any thing that's fit to read, Were trusting to a broken reed!

E. M. G.

A DISCOVERY IN ASTRONOMY.

ONE day—I had it from a hasty mouth
Accustom'd to make many blunders daily,
And therefore will not name, precisely, South,
Herschel or Baily—

But one of those great men who watch the skies,
With all their rolling, winking eyes,

Was looking at that Orb whose ancient God
Was patron of the Ode, and Song, and Sonnet,
When thus he musing cried-" It's very odd
That no Astronomer of all the squad
Can tell the nature of those spots upon it!"

"Lord, master!" muttered John, a liveried elf,
"To wonder so at spots upon the sun!

I'll tell you what he 's done

Freckled hisself !"