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I'm busy, now, with state affairs;

I prate of Pitt and Fox;
I ask the price of rail-road shares,

I watch the turns of stocks.
And this is life ! no verdure blooms

Upon the withered bough:
I save a fortune in perfumes ;-

I'm not a lover now!
I may be yet, what others are,

A boudoir's babbling fool,
The flattered star of Bench or Bar,

A party's chief, or tool :-
Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,

The palace or the plough,
My heart and lute are broken here;-
I'm not a lover now !
Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;

I'm not a lover now !

TIME'S SONG. O’ER the level plains, where mountains greet me as I go, O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding flow, On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night, I am riding hence away : who will chain my fight? War his weary watch was keeping,—I have crushed his

spear ; Grief within her bower was weeping,- I have dried her


Pleasure caught a minute's hold,—then I hurried by,
Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.
Power had won a throne of glory : where is now his

fame ? Genius said, “I live in story :” who hath heard his

name? Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered “Why so fast?" And the roses on his brow withered as I past."

I have heard the heifer lowing o'er the wild wave's bed; I have seen the billow flowing where the cattle fed ; Where began my wandering? Memory will not say! Where will rest my weary wings ? Science turns away!


Look down within the glassy stream

That hathes this sylvan shrine,
And see the eyes whose glances beam

So brightly back on thine :
So-couldst thou read my heart--thou’dst see,

Reflected all as fair,
A faithful image, sweet, of thee,

Mirrored for ever there !

The breeze that curls that summer-tide

(Type of the rude world's din), May, with its envious ripple, hide

The Naiad form within :

But sunshine brings the nymph again,

So, when my toil is o'er,
On my heart's glass thine image then

Shines, cloudless as before !


“So runs the world away."-Hamlet.


Good night to the Season !- 'Tis over!

Gay dwellings no longer are gay ;
The courtier, the gambler, the lover,

Are scattered like swallows away :
There's nobody left to invite one

Except my good uncle and spouse ;
My mistress is bathing at Brighton,

My patron is sailing at Cowes :
For want of a better enjoyment,

Till Ponto and Don can get out,
I'll cultivate rural employment,

And angle immensely for trout.

Good night to the Season !—the lobbies,

Their changes, and rumours of change, Which startled the rustic Sir Bobbies,

And made all the Bishops look strange ; The breaches, and battles, and blunders,

Performed by the Commons and Peers; The Marquis's eloquent blunders,

The Baronet's eloquent ears;

Denouncings of Papists and treasons,

Of foreign dominion and oats ; Misrepresentations of reasons,

And misunderstandings of notes. Good night to the Season !—the buildings

Enough to make Inigo sick; The paintings, and plasterings, and gildings

Of stucco, and marble, and brick; The orders deliciously blended,

From love of effect, into one;
The club houses only intended,

The palaces only begun;
The hell, where the fiend in his glory

Sits staring at putty and stones,
And scrambles from storey to storey,

To rattle at midnight his bones.

Good night to the Season !—the dances,

The fillings of hot little rooms, The glancings of rapturous glances,

The fancyings of fancy costumes ; The pleasures which Fashion makes duties,

The praisings of fiddles and flutes, The luxury of looking at Beauties,

The tedium of talking to Mutes; The female diplomatists, planners

Of matches for Laura and Jane; The ice of her Ladyship's manners,

The ice of his Lordship's champagne.

Good night to the Season !—the rages

Led off by the chiefs of the throng, The Lady Matilda's new pages,

The Lady Eliza's new song ;

Miss Fennel's macaw, which at Boodle's

Was held to have something to say ;
Mrs. Splenetic's musical poodles,

Which bark Batti, Batti, all day;
The pony Sir Araby sported,

As hot and as black as a coal,
And the Lion his mother imported,

In bearskins and grease, from the Pole.


Good night to the Season !—the Toso,

So very majestic and tall ;
Miss Ayton, whose singing was so-so,

And Pasta, divinest of all ;
The labour in vain of the ballet,

So sadly deficient in stars ;
The foreigners thronging the Alley,

Exhaling the breath of cigars ;
The loge where some heiress (how killing !)

Environed with exquisites sits,
The lovely one out of her drilling,

The silly ones out of their wits.

Good night to the Season !-the splendour

That beamed in the Spanish Bazaar ;
Where I purchased—my heart was so tender-

A card-case, a pasteboard guitar,
A bottle of perfume, a girdle,

A lithographed Riego, full grown,
Whom bigotry drew on a hurdle

That artists might draw him on stone;
A small panorama of Seville,

A trap for demolishing flies,
A caricature of the Devil,

And a look from Miss Sheridan's eyes.

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