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That manhood's mirth ?-Oh, go thy ways To Drury-lane when - plays,

And see how forced our fun ! Thy taws are brave !-thy tops are rare ! Our tops are spun with coils of care,

Our dumps are no delight !The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game

To fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead,
Our topmost joys fall dull and dead

Like balls with no rebound !
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh

Towards that merry ground !
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot ;

There's sky-blue in thy cup !
Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast-
Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last
A sorry breaking-up !

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXIX.

LORD HARRY has written a novel,

A story of elegant life;
No stuff about love in a hovel,

No sketch of a commoner's wife :
No trash, such as pathos and passion,

Fine feelings, expression and wit ; But all about people of fashion,

Come look at his caps—how they fit : (), Radcliffe! thou once wert the charmer

Of girls who sat reading all night ; Thy heroes were striplings in armour,

Thy heroines damsels in white. But past are thy terrible touches,

Our lips in derision we curl, Unless we are told how a Duchess,

Conversed with her cousin the Earl.

We now have each dialogue quite full

Of titles—“I give you my word, My lady, you're looking delightful.”

“O dear, do you think so, my lord !” “You've heard of the marquis's marriage,

The bride with her jewels new set, Four horses, new travelling carriage,

And déjeûner à la fourchette." Haut Ton finds her privacy broken,

We trace all her ins and her outs;
The very small talk that is spoken

By very great people at routs,
At Tenby Miss Jinks asks the loan of

The book from the innkeeper's wife,
And reads till she dreams she is one of
The leaders of elegant life.

Thomas H. Bayly.

CCCLXX.

TO MINERVA.

From the Greek.

My temples throb, my pulses boil,

I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad—
So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil,
And
pour

it on a lobster salad. My brain is dull, my sight is foul, I cannot write

verse, or read, Then Pallas take away thine Owl, And let us have a Lark instead.

Thomas Houd.

CCCLXXI.

A LOVE SONG.

In the Modern Taste. 1733
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.
Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre!
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm’d.in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Mæander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.
Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

Fonathan Swift.

CCCLXXII.

THE FLOWER.

ALONE, across a foreign plain,

The Exile slowly wanders, And on his Isle beyond the main

With sadden'd spirit ponders:

This lovely Isle beyond the sea,

With all its household treasures;
Its cottage homes, its merry birds,

And all its rural pleasures:
Its leafy woods, its shady vales,

Its moors, and purple heather;
Its verdant fields bedeck'd with stars

His childhood loved to gather:
When lo! he starts, with glad surprise,

Home-joys come rushing o'er him,
For “modest, wee, and crimson-tipp'd,"

He spies the flower before him!
With eager haste he stoops him down,

His eyes with moisture hazy,
And as he plucks the simple bloom,
He murmurs,

Lawk-a-daisy!”

Thomas Hood,

CCCLXXIII.

TO A FISH OF THE BROOKE.

Why flyest thou away with fear?
Trust me there's nought of danger near,

I have no wicked hooke
All cover'd with a snaring bait,
Alas, to tempt thee to thy fate,

And dragge thee from the brooke.
O harmless tenant of the flood,
I do not wish to spill thy blood,

For Nature unto thee
Perchance hath given a tender wife,
And children dear, to charm thy life,

As she hath done for me. Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish; And when an angler for his dish,

Through gluttony's vile sin, Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee out, God give thee strength, O gentle trout, To pull the raskall in!

Dr. John Wolcot.

CCCLXXIV.

SONG BY ROGERO.

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon, that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me in the U

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen. (Weeps, and pulls out a blue 'kerchief, with which he

wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.) Sweet ’kerchief check’d with heavenly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in,
Alas, Matilda then was true,
At least I thought so at the U-

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen. (At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains

in cadence.) Barbs! barbs! alas ! how swift ye flew,

Her neat post-waggon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U.

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen. This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I enter'd at the U.

-niversity of Gottingen

-niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew,

Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu-tor, Law Professor at the U

-niversity of Gottingen-
-niversity of Gottingen.

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