Or in cold sheets thy sprite perchance is flying The world about Dying-and yet, not like the Devil dying- Before sweet sleep drew down The blinds upon thy Day & Martin eyes, And then, outworn with demoning o'er town, Best of compositors! thou didst compose To sound the dead! Heaven forgive me! I Have wicked schemes about thee, wicked one; And in my scheming, sigh And stagger under a gigantic thought; "What if I run my pen into thine eye, And put thee out? Killing the Devil will be a noble deed, A deed to snatch perdition from mankind— To root out terror from the Brewer's mind— "To murder thee " 66 Methinks will never harm my precious head— For what can chance me, when the Devil is dead?" But when I look on thy serene repose, Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose, My thoughts become less dangerous and more deep; I can but wish thee everlasting sleep! Sleep free from dreams Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ball- That would make shadowy, devilish slumber darker, Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker! Oh! fare thee well! Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell, A small, poor type of wickedness set up! cup Of misery in the waking world! So dreaming ANACREONTIC, FOR THE NEW YEAR. COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass Having finished the months, like the flasks at a feast, Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen! Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom The past Year has been pleasant and sunny; Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honeyDays ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears, Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin— Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen! Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury— Still, fill to the future! and join in our chime, Hip! Hip! and Hurrah! EPIGRAM. ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY. THEY may talk of the plugging and sweating Of its shortness of weight to be told: As to lightness can never be wrong, But must surely be some of them heavy For I never can carry them long. TO C. DICKENS, ESQ., ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR AMERICA. PSHAW! away with leaf and berry, Here's success to all his antics, And his passage be as clever As the best among his works. NOVEMBER. No sun-no moon ! No morn-no noon No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day— No sky-no earthly view No distance looking blue No road-no street-no" t'other side the way”– No indications where the Crescents go- No recognitions of familiar people No Courtesies for showing 'em— -no locomotion, No travelling at all— No inkling of the way-no notion- No news from any foreign coast No park-no ring—no afternoon gentility— No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, LOVE AND LUNACY. THE Moon-who does not love the silver moon, But, oh! how tender, beautiful, and sweet, When in her silent round, serene, and clear, By assignation loving fancies meet, To recompense the pangs of absence drear! |