save one. Do not, we beseech you, mistake us for an alderman ; and recollect, that your mistaken kindness is only adding fuel to the fire of gout. Oh! at We had just written thus far, when Grizzy taps at our door." Come in ; what do you want now?" "Nothing at all," answers Grizzy, somewhat snappishly, "it is only this collection of letters, which Peter the postman handed in. They come to seven shillings and three pence.” 66 we "Seven devils and three pence!" returned we very unphilosophically, wish they may be worth half as much. There is the money," said we, taking the silver from our black silk breeches' pocket, and the three pence from the chimney-piece. "And shut the door after you, burd Grizzy.” A rare collection, indeed, thinks we to ourself, where the deuce have they all come from. Let us see, said we, adjusting our spectacles. By the powers this resembles the fist of the "laurel-honouring Laureate." What was our pleasure, surprise, and gratification, when, on breaking the seal, we found our hopes realised, and read as under. THE BENISON. ΚΑΤΑΡΑΙ, ΩΣ ΚΑΙ ΤΑ ΑΛΕΚΤΡΥΟΝΟΝΕΟΤΤΑ, ΟΙΚΟΝ ΑΕΙ ΟΨΕ ΚΕΝ ΕΠΑΝΗΞΑΝ ΕΓΚΑΘΙΣΟΜΕΝΑΙ. I laid me down in melancholy mind; My bosom's grief it foil'd me to gainsay; Far off I heard the murmurs of the wind, The cataracts roaring, and the watch-dogs bay; And, in a little space, the dews of sleep Fell on me with an influence calm, but deep. Methought that on a glorious mount I stray'd, And, stretching far around, a city lay, And open sky their towering summits sent; Methought that then I met a little Man, With glittering black eye, and with bristling hair; And in the front he stepp'd with haughty air; "Behold his cabbage laurel !" one exclaim'd; In indignation then I cursed the whole, And pray'd Destruction's wheels might o'er them roll. Nor was my prayer in vain; they hobbled on A more beatic vision on me broke ; Me he beheld, admiring as he ought, Me, the philologist, historian, bard, Whom Fame hath to her inner chamber brought, Around that masked man, as I have said, And cheer the land with intellectual light; My nobly won supremacy they own'd, Own'd as they ought to do; and, in return, Raising my brow with laurel chaplets crown'd, And feeling in my bosom reverence burn, I prophesied in sleep:-they gladden'd all, As on each head the benison did fall. But, chiefly, on that Veiled Man on high, Rested my thought; and, forward as I strode, I fix'd upon his chin my stedfast eye, And instant felt the workings of the god, Whose upward boiling inspirations came, Gushing between my lips, in words of flame. I condemn every foe There to burn, bake, and boil Whoe'er shall come forth As their master on thee, May they long take their doses, Bravo! Laureate, L. L. D. and member of the Royal Spanish Academy. Let the paltry dogs bark as they will, but thou art a noble fellow; and, even allowing the hexameters not to be in the best possible taste, there is not a poet iving who would not jump, on being called to father the Thalaba, the Madoc, and the Roderic. Long for thee may the butt of sherry run sparkling; may the laurel adorn thy living temples; and may thy enemies find, that " are like young chickens, they always come home to roost!" curses So, laying thee aside, who is this that comes next? The hand-writing is truly very neat, and unauthor like. Let us sée, said we, it bears the London post-mark. Crack goes the vermilion seal-another poem! the initials T. C. What, can this be Campbell? If so, why so diffident, as not write his name at large. EFFUSION OF FRIENDSHIP. As, at the sun's uprise, the shades of grey Shrink from the landscape's breast, and melt away, More bright her forests bend, her rivers flow, Star of the Northern sky! whose glittering ray Hail to thee, North! in vision'd bliss, I see Turns many a wistful look, and longs for thee; And, by the dying embers' fitful glow, Proclaims thee wisest of thy kind below. Unrivall'd North! when discord was abroad, By thee the plotting crew were overthrown, And their dark omens on the breezes strown: When thou must yield—far distant be the hour, To Time the tyrant's arbitrary power, Admiring pilgrims from all lands will come, Thanks to thee, Thomas, thou truly art one of the Scots Worthies, and deservest credit for thy liberality in thus addressing us. You would, no doubt, like "Ye pugilists of England," which has almost (we are no egotists) as much lyrical animation as "Ye Mariners of England;" and which evinces our respect for your talents; in our making you our model in lyrical composition. We heartily commiserate you, in observing that you have so much uphill work with the New Monthly. You had better give the Nympholept your thanks, and dismiss him; and, I am sure you would find it, in every respect, more heartsome, to be enrolled in our triumphant corps. But this is only a hint; and we do not like to press matters; so you need not mention this to Colbourn, unless you are thoroughly convinced of its propriety. Tom Moore for a guinea! exclaimed we, as we broke open a third packet. This is mindful now; and it raises you in our estimation. Certainly, Tom, thou art a "clever old fellow ;" and, though now and then radico-whiggish, still most of your compositions are much above" Fudge.” EPISTLE TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ. DEAR KIT, Though lately I have been With fruit and flowers for ever bright, Have wander'd o'er, with bounding heart; Hath been in memory's mirror dim: Thy imaged form, in lith and limb, Think not, dear Kit, when Lauerwinkel Thou first to fright, or to cajole us : Though forced to gulp the bitter bolus: Go on, old boy, I love thy fun, And laugh at all the stupid pigs, Who shake their heads; but, rum old one, Or, by St Patrick, I'm afraid, That, ere another Christmas fall, Farewell, old boy! on New-Year's day, To all the ends of Europe fly! Farewell, dear North! success to thee, Thou peerless, restless, jocund fellow; Though thou hast caused my friends and me To look a little blue and yellow! Good Heavens! all poetry together! said we, as the fourth epistle displayed ts snowy square before us. We are acquainted, as we before took an opporunity of letting the Public know, with three thousand versifiers, among whom tre 1850 men of the greatest genius; but, in gratitude for this acknowledgnent of our friendship, we never expected that we were to be inundated with uch a torrent of New-Year's day compliments. But modesty ever has its own 'eward. Whether luckily or not, this one is short. 1 TO THE VEILED MAGICIAN. NORTH! many a time upon thy glory musing, Beside the meek cow ruminant. I feel That thou hast beat and buffeted me about, Therefore, may thy bright fountain never fail, And Wisdom's long-jerk'd feather o'er thee swale! The hepdomadal hand! hear it, O Heavens! and believe, O Earth! The Jupiter of the Olympus of Cockaigne has, instead of launching thunderbolts at us, as he has often threatened, poured a phial of nectar, in the shape of a sonnet, on our bald crown; its kindly influence has extended itself even to the skirts of our robe; and acted as a balsam, also to the ball of our rheumatic toe itself. Well, this is kind, warm-hearted, and just as it should be. When a wanderer returns from the error of his ways, and volunteers a civil call, we know better than to slap the door in his face. Wonders will never cease; and, for all that has happened yet, there may yet subsist between Rimini and ourselves, something "like a how-d'ye-do-Georgy-my-boy sort of familiarity." But we must get on; for we do not deny, that we sometimes require a nap, like other folks, though we have no ambition that our writings should be considered as soporifics. Well do we know this Miltonic fist! Well do we re |