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And that it ne'er could day-light see,
Was plain to them as A, B, C.
Therefore he used their "firm," ungently,
Colburn reviled, and slandered Bentley.
And like the toad that whispered Eve,
Did fair Regina's ear deceive;

*

Of rancour full as Bell, or fuller-
Suborned attacks on Lytton Bulwer,
Which though he read with vast delight,
Poor as they were, he could not write.

Thus have I seen some blow-fly small,
Over a noble sirloin crawl-

On Giblett's ample counter placed,
Tainting the meat it could not taste;
And thus, for even the meanest things
Can void their filth and use their stings,
The veriest vermin of the press,

The

power

of mischief still possess ;

For jests inflict a double smart,

"When some low blockhead points the dart; "

This person must not be confounded with a cleverer and honester man, Mr. H. G. Bell, the author of "Summer and Winter Hours," nor with any other Mr. Bell; for "none but himself can be his parallel." He is the dictatorial, pragmatical, vigilant (see his libels on Lord and Lady Lyndhurst), and acrimonious editor of the "largest newspaper in England:" and as the chief supporter of such an Atlas, must of necessity be a person of no ordinary muscle; for if it be the "largest," it is no less certainly the heaviest newspaper in Great Britain.

And dirt is dirt, and mud annoys,

Even from a knot of blackguard boys
Collected in the public street,

To run-a-muck at all they meet:

Who as their ordure round they scatter,

And every decent coat bespatter,

Conceive themselves—the more's the pityYouths of a vein immensely witty;

And deem no humour half so good

As calling names, and throwing mud!

Yes, it is sweet from care and toil,

The busy Babel's wild turmoil,
The hollow and obstreperous crowd,
Its Io Pæans long and loud,
To steal away and taste the bliss
Of quiet, in a nook like this!

With all that can to earth endear me,

And only fondly loved ones near me;

All that to life enjoyment lends,—

Books, leisure, health, and cherished friends;

With nothing in the world to do,

But range my ample garden through;

Or loiter in the chequered shade,

By these wide-spreading branches made ;—

Suspend the dashing oar, and dream
Hour after hour on yonder stream,
That sweeps its flowery meads among,
Glorious as Hope when Hope is young;
With all the rainbow colours rife,

That sometimes make a heaven of life!
With one young Palinure, whose pride
Is still his father's skiff to guide,
And skilless strand me on the shore

As he has often done before:
Nor let my graver Mentors blame,
Since older pilots do the same.

Or else, to while the lingering day
With some antique romantic lay
Of maiden fair and baron bold,
Hallowed alike to young and old;

And watch that cherry cheek grow pale,
As shifts from joy to grief the tale;
See gladness in his watery eyes,

Like sunshine flashed from April skies,-
Childhood's first bliss without alloy,—
Whene'er the story breathes of joy;
Of hopes no longer overcast,
And perils now for ever past.

I would my bitterest foe could come,
And see my rural Tusculum;

Y

And stay awhile, and learn the art
Of living in that world-the heart;
Which from enchantment seems to win
Its flowers without and peace within!

A low-roofed cot embowered in trees,
So sheltered from the sun and breeze,
That if the radiance bursts its screen,
'Tis but to chequer o'er the green
With evening's mild, attempered light,
A flood of glory, calm as bright;

Or when some sudden storm-blast blows,
Piercing its interlacing boughs,

It does but stir spring's sweet perfume,
And bathe our brows with falling bloom;
The apple-blossom's fragrant flower,
The Catherine pear-tree's shining shower;
And strew them on our out-spread page,
Thick as the timeless snows of age,-
When grief forestalls the spoiler's part,
Whitens the brow and cools the heart.

But bend your head, and pass between Yon clustering jasmine's tendrils green; Put thoughts of grandeur and of pride With those intrusive boughs aside; And each sublimer fancy quelling, Enter your poet's humble dwelling!

And, sight unknown to vulgar ken,
Pierce, if you will, his inmost den!
Nor startle, should you chance to find
Some tokens of his heart and mind;
Which, howsoe'er his foes may blame,
Are far less Gothic than his name.
Another step! now shut the door,
And tread with care the encumbered floor;
Lest, pacing on before you look,

You kill a child, or spoil a book ;

Lest into dark eclipse you throw

Barret's calm twilight, Turner's glow;
Mar one of Leslie's loveliest faces,

Or put your foot through Chalon's graces!
For, strewn above, below, around,

They made this chamber haunted ground.
Not stay! by every Muse you must,
So hang your hat on Wordsworth's bust.
What! not a chair unoccupied !
Then lay that cracked guitar aside;
No civil faces, sit you down,

And tell me all the news of town!
But mind, I've no desire to hear
What's doing in "Reform" or "Beer;"-
Whether the Lords will pass the "Bill;"
The effect of honest Chandos' pill;—
Whether the "Times" has ceased to urge
The virtues of the Russell Purge;-

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