STANZAS.

WRITTEN UNDER THE FEAR OF BAILIFFS.

ALAS! of all the noxious things

That wait upon the poor,

Most cruel is that Felon-Fear

That haunts the "Debtor's Door!"

Saint Sepulchre's begins to toll,

The Sheriffs seek the cell :

So I expect their officers,

And tremble at the bell!

I look for beer, and yet I quake
With fright at every tap;
And dread a double-knock, for oh!
I've not a single rap!

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE.

Он, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask:
The overseer is gone-that vandal elf—
And hemp, unpick'd, may go and hang itself,
While I, untask'd, except with Cowper's Task,
In blessed literary leisure bask,

And lose the workhouse, saving in the works
Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes;
Eat
prose and drink of the Castalian flask;

The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence,
The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair-
Unlearned toil, unletter'd labours hence!
But, hark! I hear the master on the stair
And Thomson's Castle, that of Indolence,
Must be to me a castle in the air.

SONNET.-A SOMNAMBULIST.

"A change came o'er the spirit of my dream."-BYRON.
METHOUGHT for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven-
Methought that I ascended Jacob's ladder,

With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:
Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;

And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware;

Step after step in endless flight seem'd there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,

To gain that blessed haven from all care,

Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill, When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair

Tramp-tramp-tramp-tramp-upon the Brixton Mill!

FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.
"Aurum potabile:"-Gold biles the pot.-FREE TRANSLATION.
FAREWELL then, my golden repeater,

We're come to my Uncle's old shop;
And hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!

To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;

But oh! there's a riot internal,

And Famine calls out for the Watch!

Oh! hunger's a terrible trial,

I really must have a relief,—

So here goes the plate of your dial

To fetch me some Williams's beef!

As famish'd as any lost seaman,

I've fasted for many a dawn,

And now must play chess with the Demon,
And give it a check with a pawn.

I've fasted, since dining at Buncle's,
Two days with true Perceval zeal-
And now must make up at my Uncle's,
By getting a duplicate meal.

So long I have wander❜d a starver,

I'm getting as keen as a hawk; Time's long hand must take up a carver, His short hand lay hold of a fork.

Right heavy and sad the event is,
But oh! it is Poverty's crime;
I've been such a Brownrigg's Apprentice,
I thus must be "out of my Time."

Alas! when in Brook Street the Upper,
In comfort I lived between walls,
I've gone to a dance for my supper;
But now I must go to Three Balls!

Folks talk about dressing for dinner,
But I have for dinner undrest;
Since Christmas, as I am a sinner,
I've eaten a suit of my best.

I haven't a rag or a mummock
To fetch me a chop or a steak;
I wish that the coats of my stomach
Were such as my uncle would take !

When dishes were ready with garnish

My watch used to warn with a chimeBut now my repeater must furnish

The dinner in lieu of the time!

My craving will have no denials,
I can't fob it off, if you stay,
So go, and the old Seven Dials
Must tell me the time of the day.

Your chimes I shall never more hear 'em,

To part is a Tic Douloureux!
But Tempus has his edax rerum,
And I have my Feeding-Time too!

Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We're come to my Uncle's old shop-
And Hunger won't be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!

THE LIFE OF ZIMMERMANN.

(BY HIMSELF).

"This, this, is solitude."-LORD BYRON.

have had an apti

I was born, I may almost say, an orphan; my Father died three months before I saw the light, and my Mother three hours after-thus I was left in the whole world alone, and an only child, for I had neither Brothers nor Sisters; much of my after passion for solitude might be ascribed to this cause, for I believe our tendencies date themselves from a much earlier age, or rather, youth, than is generally imagined. It was remarked that I could go alone at nine months, and I tude to going alone all the rest of my life. The first words I learnt to say, were "I by myself, I"-or thou-or he or she -or it—but I was a long time before I could pronounce any personals in the plural; my little games and habits were equally singular. I was fond of playing at Solitary or at Patience, or another game of cards of my own invention, namely, whist, with three dummies. Of books, my favourite was Robinson Crusoe, especially the first part, for I was not fond