Her prayer, it seemed, was heard;

For in three little weeks, exactly reckoned,
As blithe as any bird,

She stood before the Priest with Hans the Second;

A fact that made her gratitude so hearty,

To" Unser Frow," and her propitious shrine,
She sent two waxen candles superfine,
Long enough for a Lapland evening party!

Rich was the Wedding Feast and rare-
What sausages were there!

Of sweets and sours there was a perfect glut:
With plenteous liquors to wash down good cheer,
Brantwein, and Rhum, Kirsch-wasser, and Krug

Bier,

And wine so sharp that every one was cut.
Rare was the feast-but rarer was the quality
Of mirth, of smoky-joke, and song, and toast,-
When just in all the middle of their jollity-
With bumpers filled to Hostess and to Host,
And all the unborn branches of their house,
Unwelcome and unasked, like Banquo's Ghost,
In walked the long-lost Spouse!

What pen could ever paint

The hubbub when the Hubs were thus confronted! The bridesmaids fitfully began to faint;

The bridesmen stared-some whistled and some grunted:

Fierce Hans the First looked like a boar that's hunted;

Poor Hans the Second like a suckling calf:

Meanwhile, confounded by the double miracle, The twofold bride sobbed out, with tears hys

terical,

"Oh Holy Virgin, you're too good-by half!"

Moral.

Ye Coblenz maids, take warning by the rhyme,

And as our Christian laws forbid polygamy,
For fear of bigamy,

Only light up one taper at a time.

LOVE LANGUAGE OF A MERRY YOUNG SOLDIER.

(FROM THE GERMAN.)

"Ach, Gretchen, mein täubchen."

O GRETEL, my Dove, my heart's Trumpet,
My Cannon, my Big Drum, and also my Musket,
O hear me, my mild little Dove,

In

your still little room.

Your portrait, my Gretel, is always on guard,
Is always attentive to Love's parole and watch-
word;

Your picture is always going the rounds,
My Gretel, I call at every hour!

My heart's Knapsack is always full of you;
My looks, they are quartered with you;

And when I bite off the top end of a cartridge,
Then I think that I give you a kiss.

You alone are my Word of Command and orders, Yea, my Right-face, Left-face, Brown Tommy, and

wine,

And at the word of command "Shoulder Arms!' Then I think you say, “ Take me in your arms."

Your eyes sparkle like a Battery,

Yea, they wound like Bombs and Grenades;
As black as Gunpowder is your hair,
Your hand as white as Parading breeches!

Yes, you are the Match and I am the Cannon; Have pity, my love, and give quarter,

And give the word of command, "Wheel round Into my heart's Barrack Yard."

TOWN AND COUNTRY.

AN ODE.

IMITATED FROM HORACE.

OH! well may poets make a fuss
In summer time, and sigh " O rus!"
Of London pleasures sick :
My heart is all at pant to rest
In greenwood shades-my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick!

What joy have I in June's return?
My feet are parched, my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust:

But faint the flagging zephyr springs,
With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me "dust to dust."

My sun his daily course renews
Due east, but with no Eastern dews;
The path is dry and hot!

His setting shows more tamely still,
He sinks behind no purple hill,

But down a chimney's pot!

Oh! but to hear the milkmaid blithe;
Or early mower whet his scythe

The dewy meads among!
My grass is of that sort-alas,

That makes no hay-called sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue

Oh! but to smell the woodbines sweet!
I think of cowslip cups-but meet
With very vile rebuffs!

For meadow-buds I get a whiff
Of Cheshire cheese, or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff''s.

How tenderly Rousseau reviewed
His periwinkles!--mine are strewed!
My rose blooms on a gown!-
I hunt in vain for eglantine,
And find my blue-bell on the sign
That marks the Bell and Crown:

Where are ye, birds! that blithely wing
From tree to tree, and gayly sing
Or mourn in thickets deep?
My cuckoo has some ware to sell,
The watchman is my Philomel,
My blackbird is a sweep!

Where are ye, linnet, lark, and thrush!
That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song?
Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor
Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my "tuneful throng."
Where are ye, early-purling streams,
Whose waves reflect the morning beams
And colours of the skies?

My rills are only puddle-drains
From shambles, or reflect the stains

Of calimanco-dyes!

Sweet are the little brooks that run

O'er pebbles glancing in the sun,

Singing in soothing tones:-
Not thus the city streamlets flow;
They make no music as they go,
Though never" off the stones."

Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep,
That wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams?
Alas! instead of harmless crooks,
My Corydons use iron hooks,

And skin-not shear-the lambs.

The pipe whereon, in olden day,
The Arcadian herdsman used to play
Sweetly-here soundeth not;

But merely breathes unwholesome fumes,
Meanwhile the city boor consumes
The rank weed-" piping hot."

All rural things are vilely mocked,
On every hand the sense is shocked
With objects hard to bear:
Shades-vernal shades !-where wine is sold!
And for a turfy bank, behold

An Ingram's rustic chair!

Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent of flowers

Wherein the zephyr wons!

Alas! Moor Fields are fields no more:
See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er;
And that bare wood-St. John's.

No pastoral scenes procure me peace;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease,

No cot set round with trees:
No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks;
And omnium furnishes my banks,
Who brokers-not with bees.