Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,

That kings and priests are plotting in; Here doom'd to starve on water-gru-el, never shall I see the U.

-niversity of Gottingen!

-niversity of Gottingen! (During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head re

peatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony.

The curtain drops—the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.)

Anti-Jacobin.

CCCLXXV.

THE BURNING OF THE LOVE LETTER.

No morning ever seem'd so long !-
I tried to read with all my might!
In my left hand “My Landlord's Tales,”
And threepence ready in my right.
'Twas twelve at last---my heart beat high!--
The Postman rattled at the door!--
And just upon her road to church,
I dropt the

Bride of Lammermoor!”
I seized the note-I flew up stairs-
Flung-to the door, and lock'd me in-
With panting haste I tore the seal-
And kiss'd the B in Benjamin!
'Twas full of love-to rhyme with dove-
And all that tender sort of thing-
Of sweet and meet-and heart and dart-
But not a word about a ring !--
In doubt I cast it in the flame,
And stood to watch the latest spark-
And saw the love all end in smoke-
Without a Parson and a Clerk!

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXVI.

THE WATER PERI'S SONG. FAREWELL, farewell to my mother's own daughter,

The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave! The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water,

Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.
This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,

This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall,
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear

Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all !
Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan,

My mother's own daughter—the last of her race-She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.

Thomas Hood, CCCLXXVII. “PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore: Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door: So he call'd upon Lucy —'twas just ten o'clockLike a spruce single man, with a smart double knock. Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat: So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more Had question’d the stranger and answer'd the door. The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe; For the moment will come when such comers must go. So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing. “ The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

Thomas Hood.

CCCLXXVIII.

If the man who turnips cries,
Cry not when his father dies,
'Tis a proof that he had rather
Have a turnip than his father.

Samuel Johnson.

X

CCCLXXIX.

REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE, NOT TO

BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS.
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,

The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,

To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause

With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning; While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,

So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear,

Which amounts to possession time out of mind. Then holding the spectacles up to the court

Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,

Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle. Again, would your lordship a moment suppose

('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose,

Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then ? On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,

With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.
Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or but~
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut !

William Cowper.

CCCLXXX.

THE LAY OF THE LEVITE.

THERE is a sound that's dear to me,

It haunts me in my sleep; I wake, and, if I hear it not,

I cannot choose but weep. Above the roaring of the wind,

Above the river's flow, Methinks I hear the mystic cry

Of “ Clo!--old Clo!"

The exile's song, it thrills among

The dwellings of the free,
Its sound is strange to English ears,

But 'tis not strange to me;
For it hath shook the tented field

In ages long ago,
And hosts have quail'd before the cry

Of “ Clo!-old Clo!”

O, lose it not! forsake it not!

And let no time efface
The memory of that solemn sound,

The watchword of our race;
For not by dark and eagle eye,

The Hebrew shalt thou know, So well as by the plaintive cry

Of “Clo!-old Clo!”

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks,

Or Sidon's sunny walls,
Where, dial-like, to portion time,

The palm-tree's shadow falls,
The pilgrims, wending on their way,

Will linger as they go,
And listen to the distant cry
Of “ Clo!-old Clo!”

William E. Aytoun,

CCCLXXXI.

SONG.

My mother bids me spend my smiles

On all who come and call me fair,
As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles,

To all the sparrows of the air.
But I've a darling of my own

For whom I hoard my little stock-
What if I chirp him all alone,
And leave mamma to feed the flock !

Thomas Hood,

CCCLXXXII.

AN IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.

THERE is a river clear and fair,

'Tis neither broad nor narrow;
It winds a little here and there-
It winds about like any hare ;
And then it takes as straight a course
As on the turnpike road a horse,

Or through the air an arrow.
The trees that grow upon the shore,
Have grown a hundred years or more ;

So long there is no knowing.
Old Daniel Dobson does not know
When first these trees began to grow;
But still they grew, and grew, and grew,
As if they'd nothing else to do,

But ever to be growing.
The impulses of air and sky
Have rear'd their stately heads so high,

And clothed their boughs with green ;
Their leaves the dews of evening quaff

, And when the wind blows loud and keen, I've seen the jolly timbers laugh,

And shake their sides with merry glee-
Wagging their heads in mockery.