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TO —


I GAZE upon a city, - a city new and strange;
Down many a watery vista my fancy takes a range:
From side to side I saunter, and wonder where I am ;
And can you be in England, and I at Rotterdam !
Before me lie dark waters in broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.
Tall houses with quaint gables, where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges, and trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels from western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England, but I'm in Rotterdam.
Those sailors, how outlandish the face and form of each !
They deal in foreign gestures, and use a foreign speech ;
A tongue not learned near Isis, or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you ’re in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.
And now across a market my doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue, the Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus I offer my salaam ;
Who tells me you ’re in England, but I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open — I mingle in its crowd,—
The dominos are noisy — the hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavor now of Fearon's, that mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you ’re in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.
Then here it goes, a bumper — the toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry, tokay, or hock of Rhine ;
It well deserves the brightest, where sunbeam ever swam –
6. The Girl I love in England” I drink at Rotterdam !
March, 1835.

SUMMER 's gone and over!

Fogs are falling down ;
And with russet tinges

Autumn's doing brown.
Boughs are daily rifled

By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature

Getteth short of leaves.
Round the tops of houses,

Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,

Notices to quit.
Skies, of fickle temper,

Weep by turns, and laugh—
Night and Day together

Taking half-and-half.
So September endeth —

Cold, and most perverse —
But the month that follows

Sure will pinch us worse !

LOVE. 0, LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts,

Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suita ; A player, masquerading many parts

In life’s odd carnival ; — a boy that shoots,
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real —
A marriageable maiden's “beau ideal”?

O, Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,

Making green misses spoil their work at school ; A melancholy man, cross-gartering!

Grave ripe-faced Wisdom made an April fool ? A youngster, tilting at a wedding-ring? · A sinner, sitting on a cuttie-stool ? A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? 0, Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad

With palpitations of the heart — like mine — A poor bewildered maid, making so sad

A necklace of her garters — fell design A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ? 0, Love ! - but whither, now? forgive me, pray ; I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.


Young Ben he was a nice young man,

A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,

That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day,

They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The boatswain swore with wicked words,

Enough to shock a saint,
That though she did seem in a fit,

'T was nothing but a feint.

“Come, girl," said he, “ hold up your heaa

He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,

A boatswain he will be.”
So when they'd made their game of her,

And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was

A coming to herself.
“And is he gone, and is he gone?”

She cried, and wept outright: “Then I will to the water side,

And see him out of sight.” A waterman came up to her,

“Now, young woman,” said he, “If you weep on so, you will make

Eye-water in the sea.” “Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,

To sail with old Benbow ;”. And her woe began to run afresh,

As if she'd said, Gee woe! Says he, “They've only taken him

To the Tender-ship, you see;" “The Tender-ship,” cried Sally Brown,

“What a hard-ship that must be ! “O! would I were a mermaid now,

For then I'd follow him ;
But, 0!—I'm not a fish-woman,

And so I cannot swim.
“Alas ! I was not born beneath

The virgin and the scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars,

And walk about in Wales."

Now Ben had sailed to many a place

That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,

And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown,

To see how she got on,
He found she'd got another Ben,

Whose Christian name was John. O, Sally Brown, 0, Sally Brown,

How could you serve me so ?
I've met with many a breeze beforc,

But never such a blow!
Then reading on his 'bacco-box,

He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,

And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing “ All's Well,”'

But could not, though he tried ;
His head was turned, and so he chewed

His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,

At forty-odd befell :
They went and told the sexton, and

The sexton tolled the bell.


A VENETIAN STORY. BIANCA ! — fair Bianca ! — who could dwell

With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, Nor find there lurked in it a witching spell,

Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days ?

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