Sleep, Mr. Speaker, Harvey will soon
Move to abolish the sun and the moon:
Hume will no doubt be taking the sense
Of the House on a question of sixteen pence.
Statesmen will howl, and patriots bray-
Sleep, Mr. Speaker-sleep while you may!

Sleep, Mr. Speaker, and dream of the time,
When loyalty was not quite a crime,
When Grant was a pupil in Canning's school,
And Palmerston fancied Wood a fool.

Lord, how principles pass away

Sleep, Mr. Speaker-sleep while you may!

Winthrop M. Praed.

. CCII.

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.

An Election Ballad.

As I sate down to breakfast in state,
At my living of Tithing-cum-Boring,
With Betty beside me to wait,

Came a rap that almost beat the door in.
I laid down my basin of tea,

And Betty ceased spreading the toast,
"As sure as a gun, sir," said she,

"That must be the knock of the Post."

A letter and free-bring it here

I have no correspondent who franks.

No! yes! can it be? Why, my dear,

'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes.

"Dear sir, as I know you desire

That the Church should receive due protection

I humbly presume to require

Your aid at the Cambridge election.

"It has lately been brought to my knowledge,
That the ministers fully design

To suppress each Cathedral and College,
And eject every learned divine.

To assist this detestable scheme

Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday by steam,

And landed to dinner at Dover.

"An army of grim Cordeliers,

Well furnish'd with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine. Lollards' tower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up as a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how faggots have risen.

"The finance-scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax:

And he means to devote all the gains

To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks. Your living, so neat and compact

Pray, don't let the news give you pain? Is promised, I know for a fact,

To an olive-faced Padre from Spain."

I read, and I felt my heart bleed,
Sore wounded with horror and pity;
So I flew, with all possible speed,

To our Protestant champion's committee.
True gentlemen, kind and well bred!
No fleering! no distance! no scorn!
They asked after my wife who is dead,
And my children who never were born.

They then, like high-principled Tories,
Called our Sovereign unjust and unsteady,
And assailed him with scandalous stories,
Till the coach for the voters was ready.
That coach might be well called a casket
Of learning and brotherly love:

There were parsons in boot and in basket;
There were parsons below and above.

There were Sneaker and Griper, a pair
Who stick to Lord Mulesby like leeches;
A smug chaplain of plausible air,

Who writes my Lord Goslingham's speeches.

Dr. Buzz, who alone is a host,

Who, with arguments weighty as lead, Proves six times a week in the Post

That flesh somehow differs from bread.

Dr. Nimrod, whose orthodox toes

Are seldom withdrawn from the stirrup
Dr. Humdrum, whose eloquence flows,
Like droppings of sweet poppy syrup;
Dr. Rosygill puffing and fanning,

And wiping away perspiration;
Dr. Humbug, who proved Mr. Canning
The beast in St. John's Revelation.

A layman can scarce form a notion

Of our wonderful talk on the road; Of the learning, the wit, and devotion, Which almost each syllable show'd: Why divided allegiance agrees

So ill with our free constitution;
How Catholics swear as they please,
In hope of the priest's absolution:

How the Bishop of Norwich had barter'd
His faith for a legate's commission;
How Lyndhurst, afraid to be martyr'd,
Had stooped to a base coalition;
How Papists are cased from compassion
By bigotry, stronger than steel;

How burning would soon come in fashion,
And how very bad it must feel.

We were all so much touched and excited
By a subject so direly sublime,

That the rules of politeness were slighted,
And we all of us talked at a time;

And in tones, which each moment grew louder,
Told how we should dress for the show,
And where we should fasten the powder,
And if we should bellow or no.

Thus from subject to subject we ran,

And the journey pass'd pleasantly o'er,

Till at last Dr. Humdrum began:

From that time I remember no more.

At Ware he commenced his prelection,
In the dullest of clerical drones:

And when next I regained recollection

We were rumbling o'er Trumpington stones.
Thomas, Lord Macaulay. 1827.

ССІІІ.

ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA.

You meaner beauties of the night,

That poorly satisfy our eyes

More by your number than your light,

You common people of the skies!

What are you when the moon shall rise?

You curious chaunters of the wood,

That warble forth Dame Nature's lays,
Thinking your passions understood

By your weak accents; what's your praise,
When Philomel her voice shall raise?

You violets that first appear,

By your pure purple mantles known
Like the proud virgins of the year,

As if the spring were all your own;
What are you when the rose is blown?

So, when my mistress shall be seen
In form and beauty of her mind,
By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,
Tell me if she were not design'd
The eclipse and glory of her kind?

CCIV.

Sir Henry Wotton.

ON MR. GEORGE HERBERT'S BOOK, ENTITLED THE TEMPLE OF SACRED POEMS. SENT

TO A GENTLEWOMAN.

KNOW you, fair, on what you look?

Divinest love lies in this book,

Expecting fire from your eyes

To kindle this his sacrifice.
When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings;
One that gladly would be nigh
To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your well perfuméd prayer.

These white plumes of his he'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you,

To take acquaintance of the sphere,

And all the smooth-faced kindred there !

Richard Crashaw.

CCV.

THE CONSTANT SWAIN AND VIRTUOUS MAID.

SOON as the day begins to waste,

Straight to the well-known door I haste,
And, rapping there, I'm forced to stay
While Molly hides her work with care,
Adjusts her tucker and her hair.
And nimble Becky scours away.

Entering, I see in Molly's eyes
A sudden smiling joy arise,

As quickly check'd by virgin shame :
She drops a curtsey, steals a glance,
Receives a kiss, one step advance.-
If such I love, am I to blame?

I sit, and talk of twenty things,

Of South Sea Stock, or death of kings,
While only "Yes" or "No," says Molly;

As cautious she conceals her thoughts,
As others do their private faults:-
Is this her prudence, or her folly?

Parting, I kiss her lip and cheek,
I hang about her snowy neck,

And cry, 66

Farewell, my dearest Molly!"
Yet still I hang, and still I kiss,
Ye learned sages, say, is this

In me the effect of love, or folly?