trouble of performing his office. Even then, he trusts, he shall still enjoy a posthumous existence.

Meanwhile, my nine Numbers must certainly become in the estimation of men the

I positively will not, in compassion, read them out in public at any of our assemblies, lest the enraptured audience should rob the temples of Herodotus to crown the locks of Bouverie: and should declare our lucubrations far more worthy than those of the Father of History, to bear the names of the Pierian damsels.

Behold, then, the pragmatical Quiz, the modest nondescript, while he yet remains before you. Behold him, forced as he has been into the world by an extraordinary birth, and discordant parents. And, when you have dubbed his nine literary children with the names of the Muses, he still hopes that you will be kind enough to add a tenth to the number, if it be only for the purpose of bestowing it on his next, and positively ultimate progeny.

THE LADDER OF THE LAW.

As once I mus'd on m man's terrestrial state, red; and'.
The wheel of Fortune, and the nod of Fate,
Wrapp'd in the mantle of a d

a dream, I saw cd The grand ascent, the Ladder of the Law.

And thou, my Muse! assist mine infant wing,
And teach to write, the Bard that may not sing;
Although Parnassus, and its blest retreat,
Are full e'en now, and few can find a seat-

When mills and men make paper scarce enough
For all our Prose, our Poetry, our Stuff;
When all must publish-some from humble press,
Some bright and proud, and clad in gorgeous dress;
When daily journals boast their daily rhymes,
From Globe and Sun, to Chronicle and Times
Give too to me-to others 'tis allow'd-
To try my fortune in the scribbling crowd;
Although, to see our wits, should strangers come,
We answer straightway, with a "Not at Home."
Although no Butler's gems, no Milton's fire
Beam in my page, or flashes from my lyre;
My bark's unmoor'd, I venture from the shore,
Set all my sails, and ply my joyous oar.

Nay, those that rhyme not, fear not to do worse
In sleepy Epic and in slow blank verse;
Not that we speak of poets; 'twere a crime
To chain a Milton in the bonds of rhyme ;
As well enslave a nation of the free,
And lavish fetters on the swelling sea.

Yet, where is nought to captivate the mind,

Th' expanding soul in pleasing thrall to bind,

There, there, at least (chime in, ye makers, chime!)
The ear is captur'd by the sounds of rhyme.

But, ho! my Muse! so soon, so far, astray?
When scarce begun our long and toilsome way?
In themes like ours, digression is—a fláw ;

Return, and sing the Ladder of the Law!

Th' ascent, which thousands in their course sustains, Rests its broad foot on wide-extended plains; Form'd by the labours of a by-gone race, Profound in depth, and measureless in space. An hundred voices of Stentorian sound Too few to tell the makers of the ground; Cases on Cases, and disputes on Law— Report and Trial-Summons, Writ, and FlawAll, all, combine to form th' extended plain, And dim the visions of the toilsome train.

Ah! happy they who hail the setting sun, Their bodies weary, yet their labours done.

Let not the haughty arrogance of pride
The humble blessings of the meek deride;
By them no midnight lamp is dimly fed,
No dusky tome in midnight silence read;
And Heaven hears the poor man's lowly pray'r,
And Peace, and Health, and Innocence, are there.
Some o'er the plain all light and joyous skip,
Swift their career, but frail and slight their ship;
Youth on their cheek, and lightness in their eye,
They live for pleasure, and by pleasure die.
Amid the thousands buried in their toil,
They course, unheeding, o'er the pond'rous soil;
No weapons they to pierce its bosom bear,
Self is their god, and Idleness their snare;
They sport and gambol round the Ladder's base,
Nor seek the prize, nor run the doubtful race.

Yet some to Fortune and to Cunning bend,
And deem the means made holy by the end;
Behind-below-in silence, on they creep,
Climb o'er their honest neighbours on the steep;
They seek a new and hidden path, and leave
The dull and just to labour and to grieve:
By stealth and plunder find a swifter flight,
E'en to the summit of the Ladder's height.
But when, that summit of the Ladder nigh,
They dare look downward with exulting eye;
While they the harvest of their labours reap,
In plenty revel, or in leisure sleep-
Then, then, ye rash, ye valiant, who shall dare
The path to question, which hath led them there?
What if the waves of adverse Fortune roll,
The haughty threaten, and the strong control?
Shall Heav'n's vindictive Justice suffer all?
The bad to triumph, and the good to fall?
A little while your tyrant course pursue,
Despise the humble, and revile the true :
Your quiv'ring bands in conscious guilt shall part,
And vainly seek to 'scape th' impending dart :
Riches have wings! could you but on them fly,
And seek a dwelling 'neath a milder sky!

The word has sounded, and the bolt has sped-
The base are prostrate 'mid th' unhonour'd dead.
As thickest darkness treads on clearest light,
Their fall is deepest from their loftiest height.

Ye few, who soar on Virtue's gladd'ning wing, And serve your God, your Country, and your King; Ye who have learn'd to scorn the base man's wile, The tongue of Flatt'ry and the lip of Guile; If aught avail one feeble voice's praise The pealing thunders of acclaim to raise Blest be your labours, and your fortunes blest, Your joys unceasing, and your cares at rest. Go ye triumphant on your onward way, Still Honour's children, Virtue's surest stay; Each one, sustain blind Fortune's impious rage, And pass unblemish'd on, from stage to stage; And ne'er to guile, to fraud, to falsehood, trust, Nor deem expedient what thou doubtest juste anal Turn we to see the wan and haggard eye, To watch the bosom heave in many a sigh; To see bright Health, and Beauty's angel grace Fled from the care-worn and emaciate face; Where, young in years, but old in stage of life, Fame spurs her destin'd victim to the strife. Yes! he, poor youth, a phantom to pursue, Gave up the homely and the tranquil view; No charms for him had soft domestic bliss, The plains of Leisure and the stream of Peace. He fled from all, and, hapless, fled to be A wayward wanderer on a stormy sea. One, one faint light, that glimmer'd from afar, He fondly dream'd a kind, a guiding, star; Yet little knew how many a surge would rise, And toss his fragile vessel to the skies And little deem'd, that, those dread perils past, Yon meteor light would vanish in the blast. The fairy vision, that Ambition spread— The beaning torch, that kindly Hope hath fedAll, all have vanish'd from the troubled air, And left him woe, and darkness, and despair.

At the deep tolling of the midnight bell,
A little while he'd leave his 'custom'd cell ;
Far from the tumult and the hum of men,
He stray'd by desert rock, and silent glen ;
By gentle stream, or unfrequented wood,
He pour'd the musings of his pensive mood;
Now in deep thought and forward prospect lost,
Now by the waves of Care or Sorrow tost;

And 'times, in thought of brighter, happier years,
Beam'd the soft smile amidst the mourner's tears.
With upward gaze he'd wring his hands and sigh-
Bold was the cast, and hazardous the die ;
Pursuing Fame from first to latest breath,
He sow'd for Glory, but he reap'd in Death!
In broken health and broken spirit sad,
He mourns the prospects that were fair and glad :
Mourns all his dreams of fleeting honours gone,
Unown'd, uncherish'd, silent, and alone;
He sees Oblivion wrap in murky gloom
His humble mem'ry and unhonour'd tomb;
His darling idol, vainly-worshipp'd Fame,
Snatch'd from his grasp, a vision and a name ;
Smiles his last smile, and sighs his latest sigh,
And seeks his cot, to linger and to die.

He spoke not, wept not, murmur'd not: for he
Bent meek and lowly to high Heav'n's decree :
Yet, as the rising Spirit strove to fly,
And claim its birth-right in the realms on high,
Cast one faint look around, 'mid dark'ning gloom-
Saw none to weep the dying Victim's doom
To bend in sorrow o'er his lowly bed-

To cheer him living, or to mourn him dead—
To cool his parch'd lip with Affection's stream-
To shed around him Hope's effulgent beam-
His manly bosom heav'd one parting sigh-
""Tis this," in agony he cried, "to die ;
"With none to succour, and with none to save,
"To stay the hunger of the rav'nous grave;
"And yet 'tis mine-I sow'd the deadly seed,
'I struck the blow, I did the murd❜rous deed ;