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OME hither and listen, whoever
Would learn from our pages the

miracle
Of passing for witty and clever
Without being voted satirical !
He'd better be apt with his pen,

Than well-dressed and well-booted and gloved,
Who likes to be liked by the men,

By the women who loves to be loved:
And Fashion full often has paid

Her good word in return for a gay word,
For a song in the manner of Praed,

Or an anecdote worthy of Hayward.

And hither, you sweet schoolroom beauties,

Who only at Easter came out!
We'll teach

you your

dear little duties
At ball-room, and concert, and rout:
With whom you may go down to supper,

And where you may venture to please ;

B

And what you should say about Tupper,

And what of the cattle disease ;
And when you must ask a new member

Why he did not move the Address,
And hint how you laughed last November

On reading his squibs in the Press.
You Pitts of the future, we'll get you

To show yourselves modest and smart, And, if you speak hastily, set you

Three pages of Hansard by heart. Whenever with quoting you bore us

(As pert young Harrovians will) Your last repetition from Horace,

You'll write out a chapter of Mill. But if you can think of a hit

That's brilliant and not very blue, We'll greet it by piping “Tu-whit," And mark it by hooting “ Tu-whoo.”

GEORGE OTTO TREVELYAN.

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THE CONTRAST.

N London I never know what I'd be at,
Enraptured with this, and enchanted

with that;
I'm wild with the sweets of variety's

plan, And Life seems a blessing too happy for man. But the Country, Lord help me! sets all matters

right; So calm and composing from morning to night ; Oh! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen But an ass on a common, a goose on a green.

In town if it rain, why it damps not our hope,
The
eye

has her choice, and the fancy her scope; What harm though it pour whole nights or whole

days? It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. In the country what bliss, when it rains in the

fields, To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; Or go crawling from window to window, to see A pig on a dung-hill, or crow on a tree. In London if folks ill together are put, A bow may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut; We change without end; and if lazy or ill, All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. In the country you're naild, like a pale in the

park, To some stick of a neighbour that's cramm'd in

the ark; And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, You reach death ere the doctor can reach you

from town.

In London how easy we visit and meet,
Gay pleasure's the theme, and sweet smiles are

our treat ; Our morning's a round of good humour'd delight, And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night.

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In the country, how sprightly! our visits we make Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake With the coachman in drink, and the moon in a

fog, And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog.

In London the spirits are cheerful and light,
All places are gay and all faces are bright;
We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim,
Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim.

But how gay in the country! what summer delight To be waiting for winter from morning to night! Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee To relish the sweet rural subjects we see.

In town we've no use for the skies overhead,
For when the sun rises then we go to bed;
And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon;
She shines out of season, like satin in June.

In the country these planets delightfully glare
Just to show us the object we want isn't there;
O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise,
To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes !

But 'tis in the country alone we can find
That happy resource, that relief of the mind,
When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make,
And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake:

Indeed, I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete
To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet;
But what is all that

the transport we feel When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an

eel?

I have heard tho', that love in a cottage is sweet, When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy

meet: That's to come—for as yet I, alas ! am a swain Who require, I own it, more links to my chain.

Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among

trees, And chatter their transports in groves, if they

please : But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, And for groves, O! a good grove of chimneys for me. In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about; But in London, thank Heaven! our peace is secure, Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to

cure.

I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy,
That shoots through the soul, from the beam of

an eye ;
But in London these devils so quick fly about,
That a new devil still drives an old devil out.

In town let me live then, in town let me die,
For in truth I can't relish the country, not I.
If one must have a villa in summer to dwell,
O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall!

CHARLES MORRIS.

EPISTLE TO MISS BLOUNT

ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN AFTER THE

CORONATION (1715).

S some fond Virgin, whom her mother's

care,
Drags from the Town to wholesome

Country air,
Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,
And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

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