TO SELINA.

I.

I'VE worshipp'd woman-saints, forgive my folly!-
In every colour, and in every clime;
The Spanish dame, all love and melancholy;

La Portuguesa, not quite so sublime,

But every atom passion, Cupid's wholly,

The Columbine of Love's long pantomime:

As well he knows who makes her bone of his bone;
As well you'll know in your first week at Lisbon.

II.

What made the fuss, that banish'd the Hussars

From Hounslow and the Horse Guards, in the season When London routs were sparkling thick as stars, To broil in Lisbon barracks? The true reason Was, the sweet prisoners within convent bars Pined for their old Peninsular liaisons; The blues were quite essential to the yellows. In short, they long'd to see our handsome fellows.

III.

Yet that same Lisbon-give the devil his due

Is pleasant in its way. Its summer nights
Are thick with sighs, that shoot you through and through,
And glances keener than mosquito bites.

The river's sheeted silver, sky stone-blue;
The moon a chandelier of pearly lights;

You take a barge, guitar, your white-wine negus,
And sip, and sing, and sleep along the Tagus.

IV.

And I have knelt to black Parisian eyes,
Orbs in whose liquid lustre Cupid dips
His cureless arrows; and have sigh'd the sighs
That tender travellers pay to Grecian lips:
Nay, ev'n where Love has more than tender ties,
Bowstrings, and so forth, I have made some trips;
Laugh'd at, O Istamboul! thy beards and sabres;
And found the She Turks-very like their neighbours.
V.

But, after all, as I'm no epicure,

I love the loveliest women much the best. The hazel eye, love's most resistless lure; The bosom, stately as a wild swan's crest; The sunny smile, the skin as ivory pure;

The step that scarcely seems on earth to rest. So, sweet SELINA! at thy feet I fall,

And own thy women, Britain, queens of all !

FROM THE SPANISH.

TURN thine eyes, O King Rodrigo !
Gaze upon thy ruin'd Spain !
See how, through thy love for Cava,
All its hopes are slain!

See how all thy people brave

Let loose their blood upon the plain,

Thou scourger of the innocent!

Alas, alas, for Spain !

All-(alas the bitter cost!)
All for Cava's kisses lost.

PLACE DES ROSES,

OR, THE LADY'S DREAM.

While my lady sleepeth,

The dark-blue heaven is bright;

Soft the moonbeam creepeth

Round her bower all night.

Thou gentle, gentle breeze,

While my lady slumbers,
Waft lightly through the trees,

Echoes of my numbers,
The dreaming ear to please.

Spanish Serenade.

"VENUS and Minerva, both visible at once! this is an extraordinary pleasure," said Lord William Fitzwater, smiling as he spoke, partly in admiration of his wit, partly of his teeth; and he bowed, and passed on.

"What an insufferable coxcomb!" said Lady Matilda Vaux to her confabulaire, Miss Mont Clair. "What can have brought him to Place des Roses ?"

"Mamma's invitation, of course. You know he is related to the Gillardins, her great friends. Besides, he is quite the fashion, and mixes in the very best society."

"An excellent recommendation of solitude. But who is here? Mercy on me! is there no escape-no possibility of flight? Quick, my dear Julia, run.”

"No, no," replied Julia, laughing," she has caught my eye."

Published by THurst, & C. SPaul's Churchyard, & R. Jennings, 2. Poultry.