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 treė,
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,

"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

That fowl's avenging sprite
Set his cruel foot for spite
Near her eye.

Her rounded form was lean,
And her silk was bombazine:
Well I wot

With her needles would she sit,
And for hours would she knit,
Would she not?

WHAT IS LONDON'S LAST NEW LION?

HAT is London's last new lion?

inform me if you can;

Pray,

Is't a woman of Kamschatka or an

Otaheite man?

For my conversazione you must send me something 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

soon,

Unless you send me some one who has travell❜d to the moon.

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.

ZHAT ecstasies her bosom fire!

How her eyes languish with desire !
How blest, how happy should I be,
Were that fond glance bestow'd 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;