horses have won at Newmarket, and then I will come back and finish this directly.

NOTE BY BARTHOLOMEWw Bouverie.

Coming into Mr. Jermyn's room at a time when his compositions ought to have been ready for the press, I found the room empty, and this unfinished essay on the table, where, I was informed by a lower boy, who came in whilst I was there, it had lain ever since the morning. As the Number was very late, and as this vindication itself affords a good practical apology for my accusation of Idleness, which Mr. Jermyn seems so bitterly to resent, I sent it off as it was, without waiting for the return of its volatile author.

GUATIMOZIN'S DEATH SONG.

No longer sounds the battle cry,

The sword reposes in its sheath ;

No longer peal the rocks on high,

With shouts of strife, and woe, and death :
The chain is on my red right hand,
Another wields my father's brand;
And, in mid space, 'twixt life and death,
Receive my brief, my parting breath.

The hand is bound, the sword is cold,
The warrior hastens to his grave;

Yet ere the fleeting time be told,
Hark to the death-song of the brave!

I could not do the villain deed,
I could not see my country bleed;
Nor buy the splendor of a throne,

With widow's curse, and orphan's moan.

Go, tyrants! seek your distant home,
And traverse back the swelling main
Yet, never, o'er its plains of foam,
Behold your country's hills again :

Let wind and storm in fury rise,
And darken round the azure skies;
Nor ocean wave, nor earth, nor air,
The villain and the traitor bear ;

Or bear ye back to curse and ban,

To stain with blood your father's land ; The pest, the hate, of Gods and man,

To bring the vengeful Furies' brand.
Away! ye bear the seeds of war,
That Guilt hath purchas'd from afar,
And many a harvest, rich in woe,
Shall spring from that ye proudly sow.

Then, when the dales of verdant Spain, Resounding with the widow's cries, Shall hear the battle-shout again,

In thunder to the heavens rise: Look back along the stream of TimeBehold the blot of dark'ning crimeBehold the dust ye bleed to win, The fountain of your country's sin.

Ye men of blood, of iron heart,
Unfeeling as the swords ye wield,
Ye knew my swift unerring dart,

Ye knew me in the bloody field;
Ye knew me in the battle-shock-
I met it like the tow'ring rock;
Ye knew me, when my country's shore
Was redd'ning with the Spaniard's gore.

Yet, did this bound and tortur'd hand Still feel the strength it felt before, Still wield my father's glitt'ring brand, Still hurl the dart it hurl'd of yoreSome victims on my tomb should fall, Some mourners bear the fun'ral pall; And tears of friends, and tears of foes, Bedew me in my last repose.

And yet I deem'd another fate

Was riding on the breeze's wings,
And other destiny should wait

The children of an hundred kings,
Than that the malice of my foes
Should mock my parting spirit's throes,
And Spaniard's sword and lance should wave
In triumph o'er the warrior's grave.

I felt the breeze that fann'd your sail,
I saw ye on the eastern wave;
Would that the wild and roaring gale

Had plunged ye in an ocean grave;
Would that my heart, in wisdom steel'd,
Had warn'd ye from our battle-field,
Nor met ye on the swelling seas,
With hand of love, and kiss of peace.

Pure is my soul, and pure my fame;

Then pure depart my dying breath,
And welcome, dread and raging flame,
And welcome, agonies of death!
Far sweeter than the roses' bed,
Lead to the mansions of the dead ;
And bid my spirit wing its flight
To regions of ethereal light.

Ye Gods, who guard my father's throne,
And watch the coming of its foes,
Avenge my country's wrongs-my own
Leave to Oblivion's deep repose;
Then rest upon the Spaniard's head,
The ban and vengeance of the dead
And ill on ill, and woe on woe,
Light on the villain and the foe!

VOL. II.

M

ON FLATTERY.

Sir;

I cannot, for the life of me, conceive, why this most useful and agreeable talent should every where be so unmercifully mauled: it is really quite disgusting to hear the way in which some surly rascals abuse it, who, because they themselves never either said or deserved a civil thing, think it proper to dignify all gentle eulogiums with the names of lying stuff, fulsome nonsense, &c.; though they must themselves be conscious that they would leap as eagerly at the most despicable attempt at a panegyric, and swallow it down with as much greediness, as a half-starved cur would the wing of a chicken, or a half-starved author a good beef-steak.

But, lest these gentry, who frankly tell you their mind, and so kindly "inform you as a friend," that you are the veriest fool in the universe, should fall martyrs some day to their considerate and affectionate openness, I would recommend to them to take a small lesson from a hero, hight Daniel O'Rourke, if they are acquainted with him, if not, to form the acquaintance as soon as possible. "Why, then,' says I, very civilly, because why? I was in his power entirely, Sir,' says I, 'plase your honour's glory, and with submission to your better judgment,” ”—and so forth. It is quite delightful to contemplate the perseverance with which he, under every circumstance, “thinks it best to keep a civil tongue in his head any way." Poor man! that so much urbanity should meet so little return!

I will try, however, for the benefit of those who are not blinded enough to slight this estimable pursuit, to draw up a few rules, and right well shall I be pleased, if I aid in the slightest degree any young aspirant after these honours.

In the first place, flattery may be well divided into two great branches, the practical and the colloquial. And now first for the practical.

This species of flattery requires hardly any of that ability, without which the colloquial sinks into nothing; the chief requisite is an imperturbable patience. It consists chiefly in permitting the intended gull to win in every trial of skill, strength, or learning, which may be proposed; particularly, of course, on those points of which he is, justly or unjustly, vain. For example; if he be a gentleman of the fancy, you must, with unshrinking fortitude, put on the gloves with him, as long and as often as he pleases, and must bear, like any martyr, the head-aches and bloody noses which will be the natural consequences of your exhibition, always taking care to display just as much skill as you can without foiling him. If he piqué himself on being an excellent pedestrian (for these trifles are of course the things in which he is to be indulged), and, with intent to prove his prowess, takes you a walk of a few miles, you, on your return, must throw yourself eagerly in an arm-chair, declare you were never so "done" before in your life, that you never felt such a fagging walk; seasoning the whole (though this belongs more properly to the colloquial), with suitable compliments to his own “iron frame" and "indefatigable powers."