His talk was like a stream, which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses :
It slipt from politics to puns,

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses;
Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels, or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound Divine,
Of loud Dissent the mortal terror;
And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablish'd Truth, or startled Error,
The Baptist found him far too deep;
The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow;
And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or show'd

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious,

Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius:

And sure a righteous zeal inspired

The hand and head that penn'd and plann'd them,

For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smallei verses,

And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble Lords-and nurses;

True histories of last year's ghost,

Lines to a ringlet or a turban,

And trifles for the Morning Post,

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking;'
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.

And he was kind, and loved to sit
In the low hut or garnish'd cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild;
And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus;
From him I learnt the rule of three,
Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus:
I used to singe his powder'd wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig,
When he began to quote Augustine.

Alack the change! in vain I look

For haunts in which my boyhood trifled,—-
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled:
The church is larger than before;

You reach it by a carriage entry;
It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted up for gentry.
Sit in the Vicar's seat: you'll hear

The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
Whose hand is white, whose tone is clear,
Whose phrase is very Ciceronian.
Where is the old man laid ?-look down,
And construe on the slab before you,

"Hic jacet Gulielmus Brown,

Vir nulla non donandus lauru."

You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;

And the truth is, -as truth you will have, my sweet railer,—
There are two worthy persons I always feel loth
To take leave of at starting,-my mistress and tailor,-
As somehow one always has scenes with them both:
The Snip in ill-humour, the Syren in tears,

She calling on Heaven, and he on th' attorney,
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
A young gentleman risks being stopp'd in his journey.

But, to come to the point,-tho' you think, I daresay,
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honour you're wrong:--such a mere bagatelle
As a pestilence, nobody, now-a-days, fears:
And the fact is, my love, I'm thus bolting, pell-mell,
To get out of the way of these horrid new Peers;
This deluge of coronets, frightful to think of,
Which England is now, for her sins, on the brink of,
This coinage of nobles,—coin'd, all of them, badly,
And sure to bring Counts to a discount most sadly.

Only think, to have Lords overrunning the nation,
As plenty as frogs in a Dutch inundation;

No shelter from Barons, from Earls no protection,
And tadpole young Lords, too, in every direction,—
Things created in haste, just to make a Court list of,
Two legs and a coronet all they consist of!

The prospect's quite frightful, and what Sir George Rose
(My particular friend) says is perfectly true,

That, so dire the alternative, nobody knows,

'Twixt the Peers and the Pestilence, what he's to do; And Sir George even doubts,-could he choose his disorder,'Twixt coffin and coronet, which he would order.

This being the case, why, I thought, my dear Emma, 'Twere best to fight shy of so curst a dilemma;

And tho' I confess myself somewhat a villain

To 've left idol mio without an addio,

Console your sweet heart, and, a week hence, from Milan
I'll send you-some news of Bellini's last trio.

N.B.-Have just pack'd up my travelling set-out,
Things a tourist in Italy can't go without-

Viz., a pair of gants gras, from old Houbigant's shop,
Good for hands that the air of Mont Cenis might chap.

Small presents for ladies,—and nothing so wheedles
The creatures abroad as your golden-eyed needles.
A neat pocket Horace, by which folks are cozen'd,
To think one knows Latin, when-one, perhaps, doesn't.
With some little book about heathen mythology,
Just large enough to refresh one's theology:
Nothing on earth being half such a bore as

Not knowing the difference 'twixt Virgins and Floras,
Once more, love, farewell, best regards to the girls,
And mind you beware of damp feet and new Earls.

HENRY.

Thomas Moore.

CCCLIX.

A LETTER OF ADVICE,

From Miss Medora Trevilian, at Padua, to Miss Araminta Vavasour, in London.

You tell me you're promised a lover,

My own Araminta, next week;

Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek?

Alas! if he look like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say "No!

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion,

Taught us both how to sing and to speak,

And we loved one another with passion,
Before we had been there a week:

You gave me a ring for a token;
I wear it wherever I go;

I gave you a chain,-is it broken?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

O think of our favourite cottage,

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh!

How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage,

And drank of the stream from the brook;

How fondly our loving lips falter'd

"What further can grandeur bestow?"
My heart is the same;-is yours alter'd?
My own Araminta, say
"No!"

Remember the thrilling romances
We read on the bank in the glen;
Remember the suitors our fancies

Would picture for both of us then.
They wore the red cross on their shoulder,
They had vanquish'd and pardon'd their foe-
Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage
Drove off with your cousin Justine,
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage,
And whisper'd "How base she has been!"
You said you were sure it would kill you,
If ever your husband look'd so;
And you will not apostatize,—will you?
My own Araminta, say "No!"

When I heard I was going abroad, love,
I thought I was going to die;
We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love,
We look'd arm in arm to the sky;
And I said "When a foreign postillion
Has hurried me off to the Po,

Forget not Medora Trevilian :

My own Araminta, say 'No!'"

We parted! but sympathy's fetters
Reach far over valley and hill;

I muse o'er your exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still;
And he who would share it with me, love,-
The richest of treasures below, -

If he's not what Orlando should be, love,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,

If his brow or his breeding is low,
If he calls himself "Thompson" or
My own Araminta, say "No!"

Skinner,"