But no doubt Sir Francis G-
And his myrmidons agree,
Peerless angels such as you

Should be “ skyed!”

Ah! were I but twenty-two,
I would hinge the knee to you,
And most humbly kiss your glove

At
your

throne:
Thrice happy he whose sighs
Draw this sweet Heart Union prize
In the lottery of love

For his own!

If I knew but your papa,
Could I only « ask mamma,"
It is clear enough to me

As the sun,
That all through this weary life,
'Mid its pleasures, pain, and strife,
All my care and love should be
Number One."

J. ASHBY STERRY.

TO MY GRANDMOTHER.

(SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY MR. ROMNEY.)

HIS relative of mine,
Was she seventy-and-nine,

When she died ?
By the canvas may be seen
How she look'd at seventeen,

As a bride.

Beneath a summer tree,
Her maiden reverie

Has a charm;
Her ringlets are in taste ;
What an arm !--what a waist

For an arm !
With her bridal-wreath, bouquet,
Lace farthingale, and gay

Falbala,
Were Romney's limning true,
What a lucky dog were you,

Grandpapa!
Her lips are sweet as love ;
They are parting! Do they move ?

Are they dumb ?
Her eyes are blue, and beam
Beseechingly, and seem

To
say,

6. Come!”
What funny fancy slips
From atween these cherry lips ?

Whisper me,
Sweet sorceress in paint,
What canon says I mayn't

Marry thee?
That good-for-nothing Time
Has a confidence sublime !

When I first
Saw this lady, in my youth,
Her winters had, forsooth,

Done their worst.
Her locks, as white as snow,
Once shamed the swarthy crow:

By-and-by

O, if you now are there,
And-sweet as once you were,

Grandmamma,
This nether world agrees
'Twill all the better please
Grandpapa.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION ?

W

CHAT is London's last new lion ? Pray,

inform me if you can ; Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an

Otaheite man? For my conversazione you must send me some

thing new, Don't forget me! Oh I sigh for the éclat of a

début! I am sick of all the “minstrels," all the “brothers”

this and that, Who sing sweetly at the parties, while the ladies

laugh and chat; And the man who play'd upon his chin is passé, I

suppose, So try and find a gentleman who plays upon his

nose.

Send half-a-dozen authors, for they help to fill a

rout, I fear I've worn the literary lionesses out! Send something biographical, I think that fashion

spreads, But do not send a poet, till you find one with two

heads. The town has grown fastidious, we do not care a

straw For the whiskers of a bandit, or the tail of a

bashaw ! And travellers are out of date, I mean to cut them Oh! if you send a singer, he must sing without a

throat ! Oh, if you send a player, he must harp upon one

note ! I must have something marvellous, the marvel

makes the man; What is London's last new lion ? pray inform me if you can.

THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

TO A LADY,

ON HER PASSION FOR

OLD CHINA.”

W

HAT ecstasies her bosom fire!

How her eyes languish with desire !
How blest, how happy should I be,

Were that fond glance bestowd on me!
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near ?—a China jar!
China's the passion of her soul;
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her rest.

Some gems collect; some medals prize,
And view the rust with lovers' eyes ;
Some court the stars at midnight hours,
Some dote on nature's charms in flow'rs;
But every beauty I can trace
In Laura's mind, in Laura's face ;
My stars are in this brighter sphere;
My lily and my rose is here.

Philosophers, more grave than wise,
Hunt science down in butterflies;