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In the dreamy hour of night I'll hie,
When the hum is hushed of the weary fly,
When the lamps are lit, and the curtains drawn,
And sport on my wings till the morning dawn,
In the festive hall where all is joy ;
In the chamber hushed, where the sleepers lie;
In the garden bower, where the primrose smiles,
And the chirping cricket the hour beguiles ;

In these I'll sport through summer night,
And mortals to vex, I'll bite, I'll bite !

There's one I view with an evil eye;
A flame of pride in his breast I spy;
He breathes in a lute with a master's skill,
And listening souls the rich strains fill
With the rapturous thrill of melody;
But he carries his head so haughtily-
I'll play him a trick ;-in his happiest swell,
When the lingering trill, with a magic spell,

Holds all entranced, I'll wing my flight,

And pop on his nose ; and I'll bite, I'll bite ! There's a poet, I know,-in the still midnight He plies the pen by the taper's light,

And wearied of earth, in a world all his own,
With fancy he rambles, where flowers are strown
Of fadeless hue; and he images there
A creation of beauty in the pure, still air.
With the world around from his sense shut out,
He heeds not the buzz of


But when a new image has broken on his sight,
Ere he gives it existence, I'll bite, I'll bite !

In a snug

And the long-courted vision shall vanish-while I,


shall watch him so shy,
As he thumps his brow in a burning rage,
And dashes his pen o'er the well-filled page.
I see a young maid in her chamber napping,
And I know, that love at her heart is tapping;
She dreams of a youth, and smiles in bliss,
As she pouts out her lips to receive a kiss.

But she shall not taste the gentle delight;
For, I'll light on her lips, and I'll bite, I'll bite !

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Mr. Bailiff, I have spoken so often on this subject, that I am sure both you and the gentlemen here present, will be obliged to me for saying but little, and that favor I am as willing to confer, as you can be to receive it. I feel most deeply the event which has taken place, because, by putting the two houses of Parliament in collision with each other, it will impede the public business, and diminish the public prosperity. I feel it as a churchman, because I cannot but blush to see so many dignitaries of the church arrayed against the wishes and happiness of the people. I feel it more than all, because I believe it will sow the seeds of deadly hatred between the aristocracy and the great mass of the people. The loss of the bill I do not feel, and for the best of all possi

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ble reasons because I have not the slightest idea that it is
lost. I have no more doubt, before the expiration of the
winter, that this bill will pass, than I have that the annual tax
bills will pass, and greater certainty than this no man can
have, for Franklin tells us, there are but two things certain in
this world-death and taxes. As for the possibility of the
House of Lords preventing ere loug a reform of Parliament, I
hold it to be the most absurd notion that ever entered into
human imagination. I do not mean to be disrespectful, but
the attempt of the lords to stop the progress of reform, re-
minds me very forcibly of the great storm of Sidmouth, and of
the conduct of the excellent HIrs. Partington on that occasion.
In the winter of 1824, there set in a great flood upon that
town—the tide rose to an incredible height—the waves rushed
in upon the houses, and everything was threatened with
destruction. In the midst of this sublime and terrible storm,
Dame Partington, who lived upon the beach, was seen at the
door of her house with mop and pattens, trundling the mop,
squeezing out the sea water, and vigorously pushing away the
Atlantic Ocean. The Atlantic was roused. Mrs. Parting-
ton's spirit was up; but I need not tell you that the contest
, was unequal. The Atlantic Ocean beat Mrs. Partington.
She was excellent at a slop or a puddle, but she should not
have meddled with a tempest.

Gentlemen be at your easebe quiet and steady. You will beat Mrs. Partington.


Dan Phaëthon,--so the histories run,-
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the Sun;
Or rather of Phoebus, but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another !
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of Aurora !


Now old Father Phoebus, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,
Drove a very fast coach by the name of 'The Sun';

Running, they say,

Trips every day,
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way,)
All lighted up with a famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's 6 shay',
With never a fare, and nothing to pay !
Now Phaëthon begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he was n't by any means Phoebus's boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,
To darken the brow of the son of the Sun !
By the terrible Styx !' said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
• To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire !'

Then by my head,

The youngster said,
I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed !-
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive !'

Nay Phaëton don't

I beg you won't, -
Just stop a moment and think upon't !
Your quite too young,' continued the sage,
To tend a coach at your early age !

Besides, you see,

Twill really be
Your first appearance on any stage !

Desist, my child,

The cattle are wild,
And when their mettle is thoroughly “riled',



Miss Prudence has just run away,

And Miss Steady assisted her flight.
But success to the fair--one and all-

No misapprehensions be making;
Though wrong the dear sex to miss-call,

There's no harm, I should hope, in mis-taking !



“ Mr. Coper, as kept the Red Lion Yard, in High street, was the best to sell a horse I ever know'd, sir, and I know'd some good 'uns, I have; but he was the best. He'd look at you as tho' butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, and his small wall eyes seemed to have no more life in 'em than a dead whiting's. My master, Captain Simple, stood his hosses there; and, o' course, I saw a good deal of Mr. Coper. One day, a gent came to look at the stable, and see if he could buy a hoss. Coper saw in a minit that he knew nothing about horse-flesh, and so was uncommon civil. The first thing he showed him was a great grey coach-hoss, about seventeen hands and an inch, with a shoulder like a Erkilus.'' “ I suppose you mean Hercules ?" I suppose

I do, sir. The gent was a little man; so, o' course,


grey was took in agen, and a Suffolk punch cob, that 'ud a done for a bishop, was then run up the yard. But, lor! the little gent's legs 'ud never have been of any use to him; they'd a stuck out on each side, like a curricle-bar. So he wouldn't do. Coper show'd him three or four others, good things in their way, but not at all suited to the gent. At last Coper says to him, with a sort o' sigh, 'Well, sir, I'm afear'd we shan't make a deal of it to-day, sir. You're wery particular, as you've a right to be, and I'll look about; and if I can find one that I think ’ll do, I'll call on you.' By this time he had walked the gent down the stable to opposite a stall where was a brown hoss, fifteen hands, or about. Now, there 'ud be the thing to suit you, sir,' says he; "and I only wish I could find




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