Dropping sad daffodils; and rosepinks true!

Ye Passions proud! with lips of bright despair;
Ye Sympathies! with eyes like evening star,
When on the glowing east she rolls her crimson car.
Oh, bard-like spirit! beautiful and swift!

Sweet lover of pale night; when Luna's lamp
Shakes sapphire dew-drops through a cloudy rift;
Purple as woman's mouth, o'er ocean damp;
Thy quivering rose-tinged tongue-thy stealing tramp;
The dazzling glory of thy gold-tinged tail;
Thy whisker-waving lips, as o'er the swamp
Rises the meteor, when the year doth fail,

Like beauty in decay, all, all are flat and stale."

This poem strikes us as an evidence of the improvement that an appropriate subject makes in a writer's style. It is incomparably less nonsensical, verbose, and inflated, than Adonais; while it retains all its knowledge of nature, vigour of colouring, and felicity of language. Adonais has been published by the author in Italy, the fitting soil for the poem, sent over to his honoured correspondents throughout the realm of Cockaigne, with a delightful mysteriousness worthy of the dignity of the subject and the writer.

First Notes of an Incipient Ballad-Metre-Monger.*

DEAR CHRISTOpher,

I AM true to my new profession as a poet, but for the life of me I cannot find out what line I am most fitted for. At one time I think I have an epic genius, and am half tempted to take up the "Caledoniad," which Jonathan Oldbuck recommended to Mr. Lovel, and offered to decorate with notes-indeed, I have gone so far as to send a letter or two to that eminent antiquary, directed to Monkbarns, via Fairport, but I know not how it is, he is slow in replying; can they have miscarried? perhaps he is not so much bent upon the work as he was formerly. In other moments I believe myself to be rather possessed of a talent for lyrics; and whether this shall be cultivated by the composition of gratis birth-day and new-year odes, since the Laureate cuts. off the court with an exercise of hexameters, or whether I shall tune my throat to something bacchanalian, under the title of Devil's Punch-Bowl Melodies, is yet undetermined. For blank verse I find I have a decided partiality—and as our bards measure it out to us at present, (five feet more or less in a verse, and those not always free from symptoms of lameness) it is the very "writing made easy" of all the poetic schools now going; but it by no means forms a "reading made easy" to the purchasers of their light labours. I call their labours light, because it is owing to the compositor in many instances that the poems assume the semblance of being verse at all. Let him, however, take care that the lines begin with capitals, and the world is goodnatured enough to believe there is rhythm in them, if it could be but discovered.

My present attempt, as a ballad-writer, arises from a disappointment I experienced from that arrant jiltflirt Maga. A lithographic print from a very clever sketch stopt the veering weather-cock of my imagination, and you see it now points due north. The drawing I allude to is by a lady, who is more capable than I am of doing poetical justice by her pen to the handicrafts of her pencil. However, it has fallen to me to illustrate * From Blackwood for July, 1822.-M.

this amusing production of hers, and I have not introduced a single extraneous character-all are to be seen in the graphic "Packing up;" and the only liberty I take with the puppets is, like Punch and Judy's master, to squeak for them, and makebelieve that the conversation is theirs. My ballad is but the vestibule of the ball-room which I have as yet painted. Perhaps success will induce me to attempt to portray the inner regions. But I shall wait and see how the public receives my first essay, and listen to hear a similar eulogy which Goldsmith gave Tickell, namely, that there was a vein of ballad-thinking throughout his works. Should I hear any such decision, I shall march forward with a bold step, and, perhaps, purchase a fiddle or bagpipe, till when,-I am yours,

BLAISE FITZTRAVESTY.

PACKING UP AFTER AN ENGLISH COUNTRY BALL.

THE clock has struck the midnight hour, and the chandeliers burn low,
And the final couple are dancing down on somewhat wearied toe;
Each belle now takes her partner's arm, who squires her to her sent,
And chaperoning matrons talk right solemnly of heat.

The gallery is clearing of the drowsy fiddlers twain;

And he who blew the clarionet, with all his might and main,

And he who made the tambourine ring and vibrate with his thumb,
Have oped their eyes and stopp'd their yawns, for their release is come.

The Ball at the Red Lion is, at last, then at an end;

All agree it has been a pleasant night, us down the stairs they wend;
And we'll descend along with them to see the ladies muffle
Their finery in hoods and shawls, and in cloaks of serge and duffle.

But oh! alas! and well-a-day! 'tis raining cats and dogs,
And men and maids have brought umbrellas, pattens, boots, and clogs;
And lest white satin shoes be soil'd, they supply some pairs of stouter,
And lanterns, lest their mistresses should flounder in the gutter.

The ladies rather wish, 'tis true, that the gentlemen were gone,
And had left them to pack up their duds, at leisure and alone;

But Captain Cartridge has engaged, and so has Ensign Sabre,

To guard the three Miss Johnsons home, and their ancient maiden neighbour.

So they're lolling on the table, waiting the damsels' hest,

Yet though these beaux so welcome are, it still must be confess'd,

That Miss Amelia would prefer, while tugging her boot lace,

That the Captain who's short-sighted, should not raise his quizzing glass,

Come, little merry Mrs. Cushion is first and foremost ready,
And stands in act to issue forth on her clicking pattens steady,
With gown drawn through her pocket-holes, secure from dirt suburban,
And with a safe-guard handkerchief, enveloping her turban.

But see what's going on behind, where Emma Parkes is dressing!
Sure young John Leigh's attentions are most marvellously pressing;
With what an air of tenderness, he enshawls each ivory shoulder-
An offer sure will come of this, ere he is twelvemonths older!

At least so think the tabbies-and I see, Miss Prudence Herring,
(Who, with sister Grace, is cloak'd to the chin, so at leisure to be peering,)
Has had enough side-glances at this love-scene to instruct her
How to frame on it by inference, a gossip's superstructure.

But their tall prim niece is packing too, Miss Patience Prettyjohn,
Demurely settling her calash those towering plumes upon:

(Calashes are good things enough, when the weather's wet and muggy,
But they make a woman's head look like the head of an old buggy.)

“Well, sister Grace," says Prue, "thank Heaven! our niece takes after us;
You never find the men round her, making that odious fuss,
Whispering such stuff! No, she can tie her cloak without assistance,
For I've always told her -Patience dear! keep fellows at a distance.

"Uphold your dignity, my love! The boldest men, you see,—

The most presuming, never take such liberties with me;

Once when a suitor knelt to me, imagine, if you can,

The air with which I waved my hand, and said, Begone, base Man!

That was a moment-oh, my dear! I felt exalted so

In conscious virtue-Sister Grace! I've always preach'd, you know,

Thus to our niece, and she, good girl, is an attentive hearer;

Patience does keep the men in awe-observe, not one comes near her."

But hark! a strife—some silver pipes are pitch'd above the key,
Which maiden's meekness best befits, and lady's courtesy ;

""Tis mine," resounds in tones so shrill, we cannot call them polish'd,
And a bonnet seems to run the risk of being there demolish'd.

For Julia Graves has seized it, and hers it is, she swears,

And Mary Russell, chiding her, protests that is hers,

And o'er Miss Julia's shoulder she darts her hand to snatch it,

Who at arm's length holds the fragile prey, baffling her foe to catch it.

"Miss Russell, you have spoilt my sleeve, what can be your design?" I only mean to get, Miss Graves, what you have seiz'd of mine.' 'Yours, Ma'am ?"—Yes, Ma'am,- this very day I pinn'd that ribbon on it— A very likely thing indeed I should not know my bonnet!'

“Pray, Ma'am, don't push so." Ma'am, you've pok'd your elbow in my eye.' "That's your fault, Ma'am-I shan't let go." No, Ma'am, no more shall I—-'

One should be more particular what company one's in,

For really, some folks now-a-days think stealing not a sin;

Things have walk'd off in the strangest way from routs and balls of late'"You'd best take care, Ma'am, what you say My Pa's a magistrate.” 'Well, Ma'am, and what's your Pa to me?'-Then comes a desperate tustle, But the powers that guard meek innocence, keep watch for gentle Russell.

For up comes Betty Chambermaid-" Here, ladies! arn't this he?"

46

What, that squabb'd thing? that's none of mine." That don't belong to me?' Cry both at once-but-lights are brought-a second glance upon it,

And poor Miss Julia's spirits fall-'tis sure enough her bonnet.

Miss Russell triumphs loudly, nor spares recrimination;

Her antagonist is cow'd beneath the deep humiliation,

And she whining says, "I'm sure I thought" Yes, Ma'am, I understand,
Having lost your own, you thought you'd take the best that came to hand.

Captain Cartridge has been enjoying this, and to the Ensign sware he
That if it came to fisticuffs, he'd bet on tart Miss Mary;

What a wreck of flowers and gauze had been the fruits of such contention!
But the fates were kind and stopt the fray by Betty's intervention.

While all this hubbub fills the room, Mrs. Moss heeds not the clash,
But shawl'd, fur-tippeted, and glov'd, and with head in huge calash,
She wants but one protection more to save her silks and satins,
And her little footboy's on his knees to mount her on her pattens.
Mind, Tommy, mind, 'tis a tender job-press gently, 'twill not suit
To handle with a clumsy paw an ancient lady's foot.

Oh! the matron twists, for the awkward chit has hit upon a corn,
Which has laugh'd her nostrum, ivy leaves and vinegar, to scorn.
A start is made-umbrellas flap and rustle as they sprend,
And, the threshold past, the pattering rain beats on them overhead;
The bespattered beaux have hard ado to wield these bucklers light,
For while they guard the ladies left, the gusts assail their right.
The noise of pattens waxeth faint, as homeward-bound they travel,
Now clattering on the pavement-stones, now grinding in the gravel;
This dies—though ever and anon, the listening ear is roused,
By some front-door's slam betokening a party snugly housed.
The lanterns, which so brightly stream'd, have vanish'd one by one,
As a lane was turn'd, or a rat-tat-tat announced the journey done;
And a few were on a sudden quench'd by puffs of winds uproarious,
Envious of those "carth-treading stars" which made dark night so glorious.
But who encounter'd these mishaps—and who caught cold and fever-
And who drest well-and who drest badly spite of best endeavour-
And what new lights in love or hate, from the meeting we must borrow,
We shall learn at length when we call upon our partners fair to-morrow.