Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. And now his curious majesty did stoop And lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, "What's this? hae, hae? What's that? What's this? What's that? So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break its neck. Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl, Things that too oft provoke the public scorn; Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew; On which the king with wonder swiftly cried: 'What if they reach to Kew, then, side by side, What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?' To whom, with knitted calculating brow, The man of beer most solemnly did vow, Almost to Windsor that they would extend: On which, quick turning round his haltered head, Now did the king for other beers inquire, This was a puzzling disagreeing question, Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took With gilded leaves of ass's-skin so white, MEMORANDUM, A charming place beneath the grates MEM. "Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer, Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere. " QUÆRE. Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? MEM. To try it soon on our small beer- MEM. To remember to forget to ask Old Whitbread to my house one day. MEM. Not to forget to take of beer the cask, Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd, To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say: And that, an 't please your majesty, are grains.' 'Grains, grains,' said majesty, 'to fill their crops? Grains, grains ?-that comes from hops-yes, hops, hops, hops ?' Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault 'Sire,' cried the humble brewer, 'give me leave Your sacred majesty to undeceive; Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.' "True,' said the cautious monarch with a smile, Now did the king admire the bell so fine, On which the bell rung out-how very proper!- Exclaimed: 'O heavens! and can my swine Heavens! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal ?' On which the brewer bowed, and said: "Good God!' Significant of wonder and of bliss, Who, bridling in her chin divine, And then her lowest curtsy made For such high honour done her father's swine. Now did his majesty, so gracious, say To Mister Whitbread in his flying way. 'Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? 'D'ye hunt?-hae, hunt? No no, you are too old; 'Whitbread, d' ye keep a coach, or job one, pray? Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best. Hae, Whitbread? You have feathered well your nest. Now Whitbread inward said: May I be cursed Then searched his brains with ruminating eye; Lord Gregory. Burns admired this ballad of Wolcot's, 'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door, 'Who comes with woe at this drear night, and wrote another on the same subject. 'But shouldst thou not poor Marion know, Epigram on Sleep. Thomas Wharton wrote the following Latin epigram to be placed under the statute of Somnus, in the garden of Harris, the philologist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original. Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago Come, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer, THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE. WILLIAM CROWE (circa 1746-1829) was the son of a carpenter at Winchester, and was admitted upon the foundation as a poor scholar. He was transferred to New College, Oxford, and was elected Fellow in 1773. He rose to be Professor of Poetry and Public Orator, holding at the same time the valuable rectory of Alton Barnes. Crowe was author of Lewesdon Hill' (1786), a descriptive poem in blank verse, and of various other pieces. Several editions of his Poems' have been published, the latest in 1827. There is poetry of a very high order in the works of Crowe, though it has never been popular. Wreck of the Halsewell,' East Indiaman. See how the sun, here clouded, afar off To the Philippines o'er the southern main From Acapulco, carrying massy gold, Were poor to this; freighted with hopeful youth, And beauty and high courage undismayed By mortal terrors, and paternal love, Strong and unconquerable even in death- The Miseries of War. From 'Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre of Oxford, on the Installation of the Duke of Portland as Chancellor of the University.' If the stroke of war Fell certain on the guilty head, none else; If they that make the cause might taste th' effect, Then might the bard, though child of peace, delight *The Halsewell. Captain Pierce, was wrecked in January 1786, having struck on the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck, between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head. All the passengers perished; but out of 240 souls on board, 74 were saved. Seven interesting and accomplished young ladies (two of them daughters of the captain). were among the drowned. To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow; To do their bidding.-Oh, who then regards As at an altar wet with human blood, And flaming with the fire of cities burnt, Sing their mad hymns of triumph-hymns to God, O'er the destruction of his gracious works! CHARLOTTE SMITH. The Several ladies cultivated poetry with success at this time. Among these was MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH (whose admirable prose fictions will afterwards be noticed). She was the daughter of Mr. Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and born on the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for precocity of talents, and for a lively playful humour that shewed itself in conversation, and in compositions both in prose and verse. Being early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly though expensively educated, and introduced into society at a very early age. Her father having decided on a second marriage, the friends of the young and admired poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, and she was induced to accept the hand of Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. husband was twenty-one years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash union was productive of mutual discontent and misery. Mr. Smith was careless and extravagant, business was neglected, and his father dying, left a will so complicated and voluminous that no two lawyers understood it in the same sense. Law-suits and embarrassments were therefore the portion of this ill-starred pair for all their after-lives. Mr. Smith was ultimately forced to sell the greater part of his property, after he had been thrown into prison, and his faithful wife had shared with him the misery and discomfort of his confinement. After an unhappy union of twenty-three years, Mrs. Smith separated from her busband, and, taking a cottage near Chichester, applied herself to her literary occupations with cheerful assiduity, supplying to her children the duties of both parents. eight months she completed her novel of Emmeline,' published in 1788. In the following year appeared another novel from her pen, entitled 'Ethelinde;' and in 1791, a third under the name of 'Celestina.' She imbibed the opinions of the French Revolution, and embodied them in a romance entitled 'Desmond.' This work arrayed In |