A dozen of the bravest up the stair,

Well lighted and well watched, began to clamber; They sought the door-they found it—they were there, A dozen heads went poking in the chamber; And lo! with one hand planted on his hurt, There stood the Body bleeding thro' his shirt,—

No passive corse—but like a duellist

Just smarting from a scratch-in fierce position,
One hand advanced, and ready to resist ;
In fact, the Baron doffed the apparition,
Swearing those oaths the French delight in most,
And for the second time "gave up the ghost?"

A living miracle !—for why?—the knife
That cuts so many off from grave gray hairs,
Had only carved him kindly into life:
How soon it changed the posture of affairs!
The difference one person more or less
Will make in families, is past all guess.

There stood the Baroness-no widow yet:
Here stood the Baron-" in the body" still:
There stood the Horses' Master in a pet,
Choking with disappointment's bitter pill,
To see the hope of his reversion fail,
Like that of riding on a donkey's tail.

The Baron lived-'t was nothing but a trance:
The lady died-'t was nothing but a death:
The cupboard-cut served only to enhance
This postscript to the old Baronial breath: -
He soon forgave, for the revival's sake,
A little chop intended for a steak!

THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.

"Alas! what perils do environ

That man who meddles with a siren !"

HUDIBRAS.

ON Margate beach, where the sick one roams, And the sentimental reads;

Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes—
Like the ocean-to cast her weeds

Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships—
Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells-
And the Chandler for watery dips;-

There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim,
As lovely and fair as sin!

But woe, deep water and woe to him,
That she snareth like Peter Fin!

Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares,
And her locks are golden and loose :
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs,
To stand, of course, in her shoes!

And, all day long, she combeth them well,
With a sea-shark's prickly jaw;

And her mouth is just like a rose-lipped shell,
The fairest that man e'er saw !

And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be,
Hath planted his seat by her side;
"Good even, fair maid! Is thy lover at sea,
To make thee so watch the tide?"

She turned about with her pearly brows,
And clasped him by the hand;
"Come, love, with me; I've a bonny house
On the golden Goodwin Sand."

And then she gave him a siren kiss,

No honeycomb e'er was sweeter;

Poor wretch! how little he dreamt for this
That Peter should be salt-Peter:

And away with her prize to the wave she leapt, Not walking, as damsels do,

With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept, But she hopt like a Kangaroo ;

One plunge, and then the victim was blind,
Whilst they galloped across the tide;
At last, on the bank he waked in his mind,
And the beauty was by his side.

One half on the sand, and half in the sea,
But his hair all began to stiffen;

For when he looked where her feet should be,
She had no more feet than Miss Biffen!

But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth,
In the dabbling brine did soak;
At last she opened her pearly mouth,
Like an oyster, and thus she spoke :

"You crimpt my father, who was a skate;

And sister you

my

sold—a maid;

So here remain for a fish'ry fate,

For lost you are, and betrayed!"

And away she went, with a sea-gull's scream,
And a splash of her saucy tail;

In a moment he lost the silvery gleam
That shone on her splendid mail!

The sun went down with a blood-red flame,
And the sky grew cloudy and black,
And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came,
Each over the other's back!

Ah, me! it had been a beautiful scene,
With the safe terra-firma round;

But the green water hillocks all seemed to him,
Like those in a churchyard ground;

And Christians love in the turf to lie,
Not in watery graves to be;
Nay, the very fishes will sooner die
On the land than in the sea.

And whilst he stood, the watery strife
Encroached on every hand,

And the ground decreased-his moments of life
Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand

And still the waters foamed in, like ale,
In front, and on either flank,

He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail,
There was such a run on the bank.

A little more, and a little more,

The surges came tumbling in;

He sang the evening hymn twice o'er,
And thought of every sin!

Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart,

As cold as his marble slab;

And he thought he felt in every part,
The pincers of scalded crab.

The squealing lobsters that he had boiled,
And the little potted shrimps,

All the horny prawns he had ever spoiled,
Gnawed into his soul, like imps!

And the billows were wandering to and fro,
And the glorious sun was sunk,

And Day, getting black in the face, as though
Of the nightshade she had drunk!

Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift, One tub, or keg, to be seen;

It might have given his spirits a lift,

Or an anker where Hope might lean!

But there was not a box or a beam afloat,
To raft him from that sad place;
Not a skiff, nor a yawl, or a mackerel boat,
Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.

At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,

He saw a sail and a mast,

And called "Ahoy!"—but it was not a hoy,

And so the vessel went past.