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save one. Do not, we beseech you, mistake us for an alderman ; ând recollect, oid of that your mistaken kindness is only adding fuel to the fire of gout. Oh! ate had bee: tend we pray you.

We had just written thus far, when Grizzy taps at our door."Come in; Flotation

what do you want now ?” tificata

Nothing at all," answers Grizzy, somewhat snappishly, “it is only this of the collection of letters, which Peter the postman handed in. They come to seven d; itb shillings and three pence.”

“ 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 C.

chimney-piece. “ And shut the door after you, burd Grizzy.” 00 triti

A rare collection, indeed, thinks we to ourself, where the deuce have they all ters ds come from. Let us see, said we, adjusting our spectacles. By the powers this as sher resembles the fist of the “ laurel-honouring Laureate.” What was our plea, for the sure, surprise, and gratification, when, on breaking the seal, we found our

hopes realised, and read as under. al fictia zanguage triumphi

to, at






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I laid me down in melancholy mind;

My bosorn'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,

With tombs and an observatory crown'd;
And, overtopp'd with flag that nobly sway'd,

A monumental pillar huge and round,
Raised to the manes of that naval star,
Whose glory set in blood at Trafalgar.
And, stretching far around, a city lay,

With spires and battlements magnificent,
And castellated domes, that to the day

And open sky their towering summits sent;
With palace old, where nobles made resort,
Where Rizzio died, and Mary held her court.
Methought that then I met a little Man,

With glittering black eye, and with bristling hair;
Attendant were his sneering, dark divan,

And in the front he stepp'd with haughty air ;
In blue and yellow were the legion clad,
A. pert, precise, and domineering squad.
« Behold his cabbage laurel !" one exclaim'd;

“Look on the renegado,” said the next;
"Lo! poor Hexameter all torn and maim'd,”.

Yeli'd out a third, “ the L. L. D. perplex'd :"
In indignation then I cursed the whole,
And pray'd Destruction's wheels might o'er them roll.

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Nor was my prayer in vain ; they hobbled on

Short way, and then evanish'd all to smoke;
And, sitting on a purple girded throne,

A more beatic vision on me broke;
The vision of a veil'd Man, ripe in years,
Sitting elate amid his joyous peers.
Me he beheld, admiring as he ought,

Me, the philologist, historian, bard,
Whom Fame hath to her inner chamber brought,

And crown'd to consummate my labours hard ;
Me, whom all after ages must admire,
For bold historic truth, and glowing lyre.
Around that masked man, as I have said,

Sate a great crowd of chosen spirits bright;
Destined the reign of loyalty to spread,

And cheer the land with intellectual light;
No other legion might with that compare,
Men of all arts and sciences were there.

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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.

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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

As their master on thee,
To the regions below,

And each page of thy book
In torture and toil

Like a talisman be,
There to burn, bake, and buil To enlighten the land,
Through all ages ; while thou, And to link them in whole;
When I am no more,

To nerve every hand,
Shall wear on thy brow,

And to strengthen each soul;
If the King wishes so,

That Britain may nourish
The laurels I wore.

True loyalty's fires;
For, none can there be

And liberty flourish,
More worthy than thee

In the land of our sires.
To sit under that crown,

May the gout, and the radical,
That green wreath of renown,

Shun thee, and fly thee,
Which has come down to me

And state quacks, and medical,
From great Spenser and Dryden;

Fear to come nigh thee !--
And, of course, goes to thee,

And, may thy bright divan
If the flesh you abide in.

Be all true to a man';
Whoe'er shall come forth

And oh, may their wit,
Against Christopher North

For all purposes fit,
Shall have death for his lot ;

Never flash' in the pan!
He shall look like a zany,

May each head be as clear
His fears shall be many

As a glass of champaign,
As peas in a pot.--.

And dimness, and dulness ne'er
Long, long mayst thou reign

Trouble the brain !,
Over science and art;

May they long take their doses,
dlay no arrow of pain

Ard wag their smart tongues
Ever come near thy heart;

At lofty Ambrose's,
May the wise ever look

Or gentle Bill Young's!


May coughs and catarrhs

And, sound in the intellects,
Be affrighted to steer them;

Fancy, and liver,
And gripes, and rheumatics,

Keep their youth like the eagles,

. And other ecstatics,

For ever, and ever !!!
Be ashamed to come near them;

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 illowing 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 !"

So, laying thee aside, who is this that comes next? The hand-writing is truly very neat, and unauthor like. Let us see, 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.






coul; .

As, at the sun's uprise, the shades of grey
Shrink from the landscape's breast, and melt away,
Earth feels abroad a renovated glow,
More bright her forests bend, her rivers flow,
And, high in air, when other pipes are mute,
Soars up the lark young morning to salute;
So, when the intellectual sun appears,
The shadowy eloud of ignorance and fears
Disperses momently; and leaves the land,
As by the wave of some enchanter's wand,
Reclaim'd from all the ills of earthly care,
A second Eden, beautiful and fair !

Star of the Northern sky! whose glittering ray
Streams like a host of suns, a milky way;
What other planet rolls, whose powerful shine
Fades not to littleness, compared with thine ;
What other glory can with thee compare,
Like Saturn mighty, and like Venus fair !

Hail to thee, North ! in vision'd bliss, I see
Long years of happiness roll on to thee;
And far withdrawing, mellow'd, but sublime,
Thy glowing path along the march of Time!
Lo! o'er wide ocean deep thy powers extend,
And, to thy wisdom, Bramah's children bend;
The quiver'd Hindoo, deck'd in gorgeous weeds,
Mid cocoa forests, kindles as he reads;
The giant Patagonian to the sea
Turns many a wistful look, and longs for thee;
While the dwarf'd Laplander his sledge forsakes,
The ashes of his hearth together rakes,
And, by the dying embers' fitful glow,
Proclaims thee wisest of thy kind below.

Unrivali'd North! when discord was abroad, hasil
Then did'st thou mount thy steed, and take the road ; ?
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,
And, weaving laurel wreaths, adorn thy tomb.

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Thanks to thee, Thomas, thou truly art one of the Scots Worthies, and dext servest 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


your talents; in our making you our model in lyrical componenti del sition. We heartily commiserate you, in observing that you have so much up. Tel bill 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 mare hint ; and we do not like to press matters; so you need not mention this to a ler 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, fed thou art a “clever old fellow ;” and, though now and then radico-whiggish, kada still most of your compositions are much above “ Fudge.”

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Dear Kit,

Though lately I have been
Inclined, I scarce know why, to roam,

The visitant of many a scene,
More lovely far than aught at home;
Though I have trod Italian vales,

With fruit and flowers for ever bright,
Where daylight comes, ere moonlight fails,

And nightingales enchant the night
With the soft tone, which memory loves,
By glittering streams and bloomy groves.
Though I the wine-clad hills of France

Have wander'd o'er, with bounding heart;
Where, through the evening, peasants dance,

And vow to meet, though doom'd to part;
Yet think not that the shade of thee

Hath been in memory's mirror dim:
Ah, no! old boy, I often see

Thy imaged form, in lith and limb,
Stamped like the sceptred shades, that pass
Before the shrine of Banquo's glass;
And then, absorb’d for season brief,

Upon my outspread hand I lean,
And think of many a dazzling leaf

In Erin's only Magazine !
Think not, dear Kit, when Lauerwinkel

Did drag me from Parnassus' top,
I e'er could force my heart to think ill

of thee, although the noble fop
Within thy boards could foist his paper,

Translated from unwritten German ;
And try, with cant, and cut, and caper,

To please the land's malicious vermin.
No, Kit, I love thy frankness yet;

Thou first to fright, or to cajole us :
Nor did I for a moment fret,

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,

Don't be so hard upon the Whigs ;

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Or, by St Patrick, I'm afraid,

That, ere another Christmas fall,
Thy battery guns, so fiercely play'd

With chain-shot, shall destroy us all.
Farewell, old boy! on New-Year's day,

In love, I write this hurried letter,
In hopes the cough is now away,
And that the gnawing gout is better ;-
For long, long years, oh mayst thou shine,

The planet of the northern sky,
And Ebony's peerless Magazine

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
its snowy square before us. We are acquainted, as we before took an oppor-
tunity of letting the Public know, with three thousand versifiers, among whom
are 1850 men of the greatest genius; but, in gratitude for this acknowledge
ment of our friendship, we never expected that we were to be inundated with
such a torrent of New-Year's day compliments. But modesty ever has its own
reward. Whether luckily or not, this one is short.

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many a time

upon thy glory musing,
Mid leafiness, I roam up Hampstead Hill,
When through white clouds Apollo is infusing

Brightness, and milk-maids kneel their pails to fill,
Beside the meek cow ruminant. I feel

That thou hast beat and buffeted me about,

More than the cook-maid doth an old dish-clout;
Yet I must still admire thee;-ribs of steel,
Like Spenser's man, are thine; thou carest not

For blows from soft Italian palms like mine.

Since it must be so, brightly mayst thou shine,
And long. I came to curse, but I cannot ;

Therefore, may thy bright fountain never fail,
And Wisdom's long-jerk'd feather o'er thee swale !

The hepdomadal hand! hear it, 0 Heavens! and believe, 0 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 familia arity."

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

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