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Go, call the lawyer from his pleas,

The schoolboy from his Latin ;
Be stoics here in ecstasies,

And savages in satin ;
Let young and old forego—forget

Their labour and their sorrow,
And none_except the Cabinet-

Take counsel for the morrow.

Begone, dull care ! This life of ours

Is very dark and chilly; We'll sleep through all its serious hours,

And laugh through all its silly. Be mine such motley scene as this,

Where, by established usance, Miss Gravity is quite amiss,

And Madam Sense a nuisance !

Hail, blest Confusion! here are met

All tongues, and times, and faces, The Lancers Airt with Juliet,

The Brahmin talks of races ; And where's your genius, bright Corinne ?

And where's your brogue, Sir Lucius ? And Chinca Ti, you have not seen

One chapter of Confucius.

Lo! dandies from Kamschatka flirt

With beauties from the Wrekin ; And belles from Berne look very pert

On Mandarins from Pekin; The Cardinal is here from Rome,

The Commandant from Seville ; And Hamlet's father from the tomb,

And Faustus from the Devil.

O sweet Anne Page !—those dancing eyes

Have peril in their splendour; “O sweet Anne Page !”.

—so Slender sighs, And what am I, but slender ? Alas! when next your spells engage

So fond and starved a sinner,
My pretty Page, be Shakespeare's Page,

And ask the fool to dinner!

What mean those laughing Nuns, I pray,

What mean they, nun or fairy ?
I guess they told no beads to-day,

And sang no Ave Mary :
From mass and matins, priest and pix,

Barred door, and window grated,
I wish all pretty Catholics

Were thus emancipated !

Four Seasons come to dance quadrilles

With four well-seasoned sailors; And Raleigh talks of railroad bills,

With Timon, prince of railers ; I find Sir Charles of Aubyn Park

Equipt for a walk to Mecca ; And I run away from Joan of Arc

To romp with sad Rebecca.

Fair Cleopatra's very plain ;

Puck halts, and Ariel swaggers ; And Cæsar's murdered o'er again,

Though not by Roman daggers : Great Charlemagne is four feet high ;

Sad stuff has Bacon spoken ; Queen Mary's waist is all awry,

And Psyche's nose is broken.

Our happiest bride-how

very

odd !-
Is the mourning Isabella ;
And the heaviest foot that ever trod

Is the foot of Cinderella ;
Here sad Calista laughs outright,

There Yorick looks most grave, sir,
And a Templar waves the cross to-night

Who never crossed the wave, sir !

And what a Babel is the talk :

“ The Giraffe "_"plays the fiddle " “ Macadam's roads”—“ Í hate this chalk!”

“Sweet girl ”—“a charming riddle" “ I'm nearly drunk with ”—“ Epsom salts ”

“Yes, separate beds”. _“ such cronies !”– “Good heaven! who taught that man to waltz?”–

“A pair of Shetland ponies.”

“Lord Nugent "_"an enchanting shape"" Will move for ".

—“Maraschino". Pray, Julia, how's

your

mother's ape?”— “ He died at Navarino!” “ The gout, by Jove, is ”—“ apple pie

“ Don Miguel ”—“Tom the tinker”. “ His Lordship’s pedigree's as high

As”—“Whipcord, dam by Clinker.”

“Love's shafts are weak”—“my chestnut kicks”.

“ Heart broken ”—“ broke the traces “What say you now of politics ?”.

“ Change sides and to your places.”" A five-barred gate ”- a precious pearl

“ Grave things may all be punned on!”. “ The Whigs, thank Heaven! are _“out of

curl!”
“Her age is ”—“ four by London !

Thus run the giddy hours away,

Till morning's light is beaming,
And we must go to dream by day

All we to-night are dreaming, -
To smile and sigh, to love and change :

Oh, in our heart's recesses,
We dress in fancies quite as strange
As these our fancy dresses !

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

GOOD NIGHT.

[graphic]

FOOD night to thee, Lady! Though many

Have join'd in the dance of to-night, Thy form was the fairest of any,

Where all was seducing and bright; Thy smile was the softest and dearest,

Thy form the most sylph-like of all,
And thy voice the most gładsome and clearest

That e'er held a partner in thrall.
Good night to thee, Lady ! 'tis over

The waltz, the quadrille, and the song-
The whisper'd farewell of the lover,

The heartless adieu of the throng;
The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,

The eyelid that long'd for repose-
The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,

The girls that were dreaming of beaux. 'Tis over—the lights are all dying,

The coaches all driving away; And

many a fair one is sighing, And many a false one is gay;

And beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homeward she drivesAnd some are gone home to their slumbers,

And some are gone home to their wives.

And I while my cab in the shower

Is waiting, the last at the door, Am looking all round for the flower

That fell from your wreath on the floor. I'll keep it—if but to remind me,

Though wither'd and faded its hueWherever next season may

find meOf England-of Almack's—and you ! There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely

Our path be o'er mountain or sea;
There are looks that will part from us only

When memory ceases to be ;
There are hopes which our burthen can lighten,

Tho' toilsome and steep be the way;
And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten

With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, tho'nameless,

For aye on the lip they may be;
There are hearts that, tho' fetter'd, are tameless,

And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free!
And some are too grave for a rover,

And some for a husband too light,The Ball and my dream are all overGood-night to thee, Lady, Good-night!

EDWARD FITZGERALD.

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