A play-bill for dramatic folks to con,

In letters such as those may read, who run,

6.66

KING JOHN "-oh yes,-I recollect King John!

"My Lord, they say five moons"-five moons!-well done! I wonder Ellen was content with one!

'Five moons—all full !—and all at once in heav'n!

She should have lived in that prolific reign!'

Here he arrived in front of number seven,
Th' abode of all his joy and all his pain;
A sudden tremor shot through every vein,

He wish'd he'd come up by the heavy waggon,
And felt an impulse to turn back again,
Oh, that he ne'er had quitted the Old Dragon!
Then came a sort of longing for a flagon.

His tongue and palate seem'd so parch'd with drouth,—
The very knocker fill'd his soul with dread,

As if it had a living lion's mouth,

With teeth so terrible, and tongue so red, In which he had engaged to put his head. The bell-pull turn'd his courage into vapour,

As though 't would cause a shower-bath to shed Its thousand shocks, to make him sigh and caperHe look'd askance, and did not like the scraper.

'What business have I here? (he thought) a dunce
A hopeless passion thus to fan and foster,
Instead of putting out its wick at once;

She's gone-it 's very evident I've lost her,

And to the wanton wind I should have toss'd her-
Pish! I will leave her with her moon, at ease,

To toast and eat it, like a single Gloster,
Or cram some fool with it, as good green cheese,
Or make a honey-moon, if so she please.

'Yes-here I leave her,' and as thus he spoke,
He plied the knocker with such needless force,
It almost split the panel of sound oak;

And then he went as wildly through a course
Of ringing, till he made abrupt divorce
Between the bell and its dumbfounded handle;
Whilst up ran Betty, out of breath and hoarse,
And thrust into his face her blown-out candle,
To recognise the author of such scandal.

Who, presto! cloak, and carpet-bag to boot,

Went stumbling, rumbling, up the dark one pair,

With other noise than his whose 'very foot

Had music in't as he came up the stair :'

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690

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710

And then with no more manners than a bear,
His hat upon his head, no matter how,
No modest tap his presence to declare,
He bolted in a room, without a bow,
And there sat Ellen, with a marble brow!

Like fond Medora, watching at her window,
Yet not of any Corsair bark in search-
The jutting lodging-house of Mrs. Lindo,

The Cheapest House in Town' of Todd and Sturch,
The private house of Reverend Doctor Birch,

The public-house, closed nightly at eleven,

And then that house of prayer, the parish church, Some roofs, and chimneys, and a glimpse of heaven, Made up the whole look-out of Number Seven.

Yet something in the prospect so absorbed her,

She seemed quite drowned and dozing in a dream;
As if her own belov'd full moon still orb'd her,
Lulling her fancy in some lunar scheme,
With lost Lorenzo, may be, for its theme-
Yet when Lorenzo touch'd her on the shoulder,
She started up with an abortive scream,
As if some midnight ghost, from regions colder,
Had come within his bony arms to fold her.

'Lorenzo!'-' Ellen!'-then came Sir!' and 'Madam!'
They tried to speak, but hammer'd at each word,

As if it were a flint for great Mac Adam;

Such broken English never else was heard,
For like an aspen leaf each nerve was stirr'd,
A chilly tremor thrill'd them through and through,
Their efforts to be stiff were quite absurd,
They shook like jellies made without a due
And proper share of common. joiner's glue.

'Ellen! I'm come-to bid you-fare-farewell'

They thus began to fight their verbal duel;

740

'Since some more hap-hap-happy man must dwell—'
'Alas-Loren-Lorenzo !-cru-cru-cruel ! '

For so they split their words like grits for gruel.
At last the Lover, as he long had plann'd,
Drew out that once inestimable jewel,
Her portrait, which was erst so fondly scann'd,
And thrust poor Ellen's face into her hand.

There-take it, Madam-take it back I crave, The face of one-but I must now forget her, Bestow it on whatever hapless slave

Your art has last enticed into your fetter

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And there are your epistles-there! each letter ! I wish no record of your vow's infractions,

Send them to South-or Children-you had betterThey will be novelties-rare benefactions

To shine in Philosophical Transactions!

'Take them-pray take them—I resign them quite !
And there's the glove you gave me leave to steal-
And there's the handkerchief, so pure and white

Once sanctified by tears, when Miss O'Neill-
But no-you did not-cannot-do not feel
A Juliet's faith, that time could only harden!
Fool that I was, in my mistaken zeal !

I should have led you,-by your leave and pardon-
To Bartley's Orrery, not Covent Garden!

'And here's the birth-day ring-nor man nor devil Should once have torn it from my living hand, Perchance 'twill look as well on Mr. Neville;

And that-and that is all-and now I stand Absolved of each dissever'd tie and bandAnd so farewell, till Time's eternal sickle

Shall reap our lives; in this, or foreign land Some other may be found for truth to stickle Almost as fair-and not so false and fickle !'

And there he ceased: as truly it was time,

For of the various themes that left his mouth,
One half surpass'd her intellectual climb :

She knew no more than the old Hill of Howth
About that Children of a larger growth,'

Who notes proceedings of the F. R. S.'s;

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So long as this poor throbbing heart is mine-
I false the world shall change its course as soon!
True as the streamlet to the stars that shine-
True as the dial to the sun at noon,
True as the tide to "yonder blessed moon

And as she spoke, she pointed through the window,
Somewhere above the houses' distant tops,
Betwixt the chimney-pots of Mrs. Lindo,

And Todd and Sturch's cheapest of all shops
For ribbons, laces, muslins, silks, and fops ;-
Meanwhile, as she upraised her face so Grecian,
And eyes suffused with scintillating drops,
Lorenzo looked, too, o'er the blinds venetian,
To see the sphere so troubled with repletion.

The Moon!' he cried, and an electric spasm
Seem'd all at once his features to distort,
And fix'd his mouth, a dumb and gaping chasm-
His faculties benumb'd and all amort-
At last his voice came, of most shrilly sort,
Just like a sea-gull's wheeling round a rock-

Speak!-Ellen !-is your sight indeed so short!
The Moon !-Brute! savage that I am, and block!
The Moon! (O, ye Romantics, what a shock !)
Why, that's the new Illuminated Clock !'

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How sweet thus clad, in Autumn s mellow Tone,

With serious Eye, the russet Scene to view!

No Verdure decks the Forest, save alone

The sad green Holly, and the olive Yew.

The Skies, no longer of a garish Blue,

Subdued to Dove-like Tints, and soft as Wool,
Reflected show their slaty Shades anew
In the drab Waters of the clayey Pool.

Meanwhile yon Cottage Maiden wends to School,
In Garb of Chocolate so neatly drest,
And Bonnet puce, fit object for the Tool,

And chasten'd Pigments, of our Brother West;
Yea, all is silent, sober, calm, and cool,
Save gaudy Robin with his crimson Breast.

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