LINES.

TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempests make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juiceA wine more praised than it deserves to be! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice, And think of me!

Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth,
Making a midnight meal of he and she;
Go where the Lion in his hunger howleth,
And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,
Or lies along at full length like a tree,
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,
And think of me!

Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth
In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,
And like a woman, all she can revealeth,
And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,
And parasols of straw where hats should be,
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,

And think of me!

Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills,
And tall bamboos-may none bamboozle thee!
Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles,
And think of me !

Go where a cook must always be a currier,
And parch the pepper'd palate like a pea,
Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier,
And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,
Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay,
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,
And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,

Go to the land of pagod and rupee,

Where every black will be your slave and servant,

And think of me!

SONNET.

ALONG the Woodford road there comes a noise
Of wheels, and Mr. Rounding's neat postchaise
Struggles along, drawn by a pair of bays,
With Rev. Mr. Crow and six small Boys;
Who ever and anon declare their joys,
With trumping horns and juvenile huzzas,
At going home to spend their Christmas days,
At changing Learning's pains for Pleasure's toys.
Six weeks elapse, and down the Woodford way,
A heavy coach drags six more heavy souls,
But no glad urchins shout, no trumpets bray;
The carriage makes a halt, the gate-bell tolls,
And little Boys walk in as dull and mum
As six new scholars to the Deaf and Dumb.

DECEMBER AND MAY.

"Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together."

SHAKSPEARE.

SAID Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, "Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away?

You ought to be more fortified;"-" Ah, brute, be quiet,

do,

I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you!

“Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, You'd die for me, you swore, and I-I took you at your

word.

I was a tradesman's widow then-a pretty change I've

made;

To live, and die the wife of one, a widower by trade !”

66

Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober

truth,

You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth; Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you

huff."

Why, yes," she said, "and so I do but you're not old enough!"

"Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet

hive;

I'll be the best of men-I mean-I'll be the best alive! Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core." "I thank ye, sir, for telling me for now I'll grieve the

more !"

MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S.

THE man that pays his pence, and goes

Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul,

Looks over London's naked nose,

Women and men :

The world is all beneath his ken,

He sits above the Ball.

He seems on Mount Olympus' top,

Among the Gods, by Jupiter! and lets drop
His eyes from the empyreal clouds

On mortal crowds.

Seen from these skies,

How small those emmets in our eyes!
Some carry little sticks-and one
His eggs-to warm them in the sun :
Dear! what a hustle,

And bustle!

And there's my aunt. I know her by her waist,

So long and thin,

And so pinched in,

Just in the pismire taste.

Oh! what are men ?-Beings so small,

That, should I fall

Upon their little heads, I must

Crush them by hundreds into dust!

And what is life? and all its ages

There's seven stages!

Turnham Green! Chelsea! Putney! Fulham!
Brentford and Kew!

And Tooting, too!

And oh! what very little nags to pull 'em.

Yet each would seem a horse indeed, If here at Paul's tip-top we 'd got 'em ; Although, like Cinderella's breed, They're mice at bottom.

Then let me not despise a horse,

Though he looks small from Paul's high-cross! Since he would be-as near the sky

Fourteen hands high.

What is this world with London in its lap?
Mogg's Map.

The Thames, that ebbs and flows in its broad channel? A tidy kennel.

The bridges stretching from its banks?

Stone planks.

Oh me! hence could I read an admonition
To mad Ambition !

But that he would not listen to my call,
Though I should stand upon the cross, and ball!

A VALENTINE.

OH! cruel heart! ere these posthumous papers
Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath;
Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers,
Have only lighted me the way to death.
Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapors,
When I am gone, and green grass covereth
Thy lover, lost; but it will be in vain-
It will not bring the vital spark again.

Ah! when those eyes, like tapers, burned so blue,
It seemed an omen that we must expect
The sprites of lovers: and it boded true,

For I am half a sprite-a ghost elect;