That at first seemed no better than curses;

So, till things take a turn, live in hope, and depend, That whatever is wrong will come right in the end,

And console you for all your reverses.

But of errors why speak, when for beauty and truth
Your free, spirited Etching is worthy, in sooth,

Of that Club (may all honor betide it!)

Which, though dealing in copper, by genius and taste Has accomplished a service of plate not disgraced By the work of a Goldsmith beside it! *

So

your sketch superficially drawn on the plate
It becomes you to fix in a permanent state,
Which involves a precise operation,
With a keen-biting fluid, which eating its way-
As in other professions is common, they say
Has attained an artistical station.

And it's O! that some splenetic folks I could name,
If they must deal in acids, would use but the same
In such innocent graphical labors!

In the place of the virulent spirit wherewith
Like the polecat, the weasel, and things of that kith
They keep biting the backs of their neighbors!

But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's pitch,
You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in which
You may pour the dilute aquafortis.

For if raw, like a dram, it will shock you to trace
Your design with a horrible froth on its face,

Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure,
From the use of strong waters, without any pure,
A vile practice, most sad and improper!

The Deserted Village, illustrated by the Etching Club

For, from painful examples, this warning is found,
That the raw burning spirit will take up the ground,
In the church-yard, as well as on copper !

But the Acid has duly been lowered, and bites
Only just where the visible metal invites,

Like a nature inclined to meet troubles;
And, behold! as each slender and glittering line
Effervesces, you trace the completed design
In an elegant bead-work of bubbles!

And yet, constantly, secretly, eating its way,
The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey,
Like some sorrow beyond inquisition,

Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the while
That the face is illumed by its cheerfullest smile,
And the wit is in bright ebullition.

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff
Has corroded and deepened some portions enough—
The pure sky, and the water so placid-
And, these tenderer tints to defend from attack,
With some turpentine, varnish, and sooty lampblack,
You must stop out the ferreting acid.

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed,
Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed
From the other less innocent liquor-

After which, on whatever you want to protect,
Put a coat that will act to that very effect,

Like the black one that hangs on the Vicar.

Then the varnish well dried-urge the biting again, But how long at its meal the eau forte may remain,

Time and practice alone can determine :

But of course not so long that the Mountain, and Mill,

The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will,
Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap,
With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap,
is considered as rather Rembrandty;

And that very black cattle, and very black sheep,
A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep,
Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name,
All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,
From our birth to our final adjourning -
Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!
What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black
As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that pitch,
While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich
More transparent than ebony shutters,

Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say,
Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away,
As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat,
Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti, or sweet

For your hand a performance scarce proper
So some careful professional person secure
For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur
To assist you in cleaning the copper.

And, in truth, 't is a rather unpleasantish job,
To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob
Though as sure of an instant forgetting
When as after the dark clearing off of a storm-
The fair landscape shines out in a lustre as warm
As the glow of the sun in its setting!

7

Thus

your Etching complete, it remains but to hint, That with certain assistance from paper and print,

Which the proper Mechanic will settle, You may charm all your Friends

without any sad tale

Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-
With a fine India Proof of your Metal.

ODE

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.

Ан me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls!

What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!

Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!

Its chimneys in the rear!

And there's the iron rod so high,

That drew the thunder from the sky

And turned our table-beer!

There I was birched! there I was bred!

There like a little Adam fed

From Learning's woful tree!

The weary tasks I used to con!
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !--

Most fruitless leaves to me!

The summoned class! the awful bow! -
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,

How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!

And Mrs. S*** ?-- Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the palour) yet
Some favored two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize — bohea?

Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read! -

Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?

Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?

Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?

Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?

Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,'
And some have perished young! -

Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wayne of life ;
And blithe Carew-is hung!

Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To Savages at Owhyee;

Poor Chase is with the worms!

All, all are gone—the olden breed! !— New crops of mushroom boys succeed, "And push us from our forms!"