VI.

BY R. M.

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

VII.

Allegory-A moral vehicle.-DICTIONARY.

I HAD a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt,
He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure;
Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant.
I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red,
cause 'twas only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led.
had a wife, her nickname was Delight;
A son called Frolic, who was never still:
as! how often dark succeeds to bright!
Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,
Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite,

And Pleasure fell a splitter on Paine's Hill!

VIII.

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,
And 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.

IX.

WRITTEN IN A WORKHOUSE.

Он, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask :
The overseer is gone-that vandal elf-
And hemp, unpicked, may go and hang itself,
While I, untasked, 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, unlettered 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.

X.

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 seemed 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 Brix-

ton Mill!

XI.

TO VAUXHALL.

"The English Garden."-MASON.

THE cold transparent ham is on my forkIt hardly rains-and hark the bell!-dingdingle

Away! Three thousand feet at gravel work, Mocking a Vauxhall shower!. Married and Single

Crush-rush ;-Soaked Silks with wet white Satin mingle.

Hengler! Madame ! round whom all bright sparks lurk,

Calls audibly on Mr. and Mrs. Pringle

To study the Sublime, &c.-(vide Burke) All Noses are upturned !—Whish-ish !——On high The rocket rushes-trails-just steals in sightThen droops and melts in bubbles of blue light— And Darkness reigns-Then balls flare up

die

and

Wheels whiz-smack crackers-serpents twistand then

Back to the cold transparent ham again !

XII.

THE sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet ;-
A cry of fire! resounds from door to door;
And westward still the thronging people pour;--
The turncock hastens to F. P. 6 feet,

And quick unlocks the fountains of the street;
While rumbling engines, with increasing roar,
Thunder along to luckless Number Four,
Where Mr. Dough makes bread for folks to eat.
And now through blazing frames, and fiery beams,
The Globe, the Sun, the Phoenix, and what not,
With gushing pipes throw up abundant streams,
On burning bricks, and twists, on rolls-too hot-
And scorching loaves,- -as if there were no shorter
And cheaper way of making toast-and-water!

NOTES

TO THE ODES AND ADDRESSES.

ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE.

Mr. Martin was originally a gentleman of fortune, and was elected to represent the County of Galway in the first Parliament after the union of Great Britain and Ireland. He distinguished himself by his exertions for the passage of a bill to prevent cruelty to animals, and finally obtained an act of Parliament, which is known by his name. Whilst he continued in London, he was indefatigable in bringing before the magistrates cases in which it might be put into execution. He represented Galway in six Parliaments, but lost his election in 1826. He died at Boulogne, in France, in 1834, at the age of eighty years.

ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE, THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.

In the London Magazine for August, 1821, there is an account of the Coronation of George IV., in a "Letter from a Gentleman in Town to a Lady in the Country,” of hich the following is an extract.

· At the end of this course the gates of the Hall were sin thrown open, and a noble flourish of trumpets ananced to all eager hearts that the CHAMPION was about enter. He advanced under the gateway, on a fine pieEd charger, (an ill colour,) and clad in complete steel. e plumes on his head were tri-coloured, and extremely gnificent; and he bore in his hand the loose steel intlet, ready for challenge. The Duke of Wellington s on his right hand, the Marquis of Anglesea on his 7. When he had come within the limits of the Hall, he

about to throw down his glove at once, so eager was for the fray, but the Herald distinctly said, Wait till ave read the challenge,' and read it accordingly, the mpion husbanding his valour for a few minutes: