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Her lips were of vermilion hue;
Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,

Set all my heart in flame!
A young Pygmalion, I adored
The maids I made but time was stored

With evil—and it came !

Perspective dawn'd—and soon I saw
My houses stand against its law;

And “keeping” all unkept !
My beauties were no longer things
For love and fond imaginings ;

But horrors to be wept!

Ah! why did knowledge ope my eyes?
Why did I get more artist-wise ?

It only serves to hint,
What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I'm no Hilton in design-

In nature no Dewint!

Thrice happy time!-Art's early days!
When o’er each deed with sweet self-praise,

Narcissus-like I hung!
When great Rembrandt but little seem’d,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd

As nothing to the young !

A FAIRY TALE.

On Hounslow heath—and close beside the road,

As western travellers may oft have seen, A little house some years ago there stood,

A minikin abode; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood; The walls of white, the window-shutters green ;Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and (Tho' now at rest)

[West,
On which it used to wander to and fro,
Because its master ne'er maintain’d a rider,
Like those who trade in Paternoster Row;
But made his business travel for itself,

Till he had made his pelf,
And then retired—if one may call it so,

Of a roadsider.

Perchance, the very race and constant riot
Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran,
Made him more relish the repose and quiet

Of his now sedentary caravan ; Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas

common,
And so he might impale a strip of soil,

That furnish’d, by his toil,

Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman ;-
And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower.
Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil
His peace,—unless, in some unlucky hour,
A stray horse came and gobbled up his bow'r !

But, tired of always looking at the coaches,
The same to come,—when they had seer them

one day!
And, used to brisker life, both man and wife
Began to suffer N U E's approaches,
And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,—
So, having had some quarters of school-breeding
They turn’d themselves, like other folks, to

reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripen’d in the seventh stage,

The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,

Or Bard of Hope,
Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,-
But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John,
And then relax'd themselves with Whittington,

Or Valentine and Orson-
But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con,
And being easily melted, in their dotage,

Slobber’d,—and kept

Reading,—and wept
Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage.

And beint fairy ta

Thus reading on—the longer
They read, of course, their childish faith grew

stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants

grim,-. If talking Trees and Birds reveal’d to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons,

And magic-fishes swim. In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragonsBoth were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons ; When, as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding

On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and-parlour door,

A hideous roar Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the

way.

Long-horn'd, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels,

Or Durham feed, With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils

From nether side of Tweed,

Or Firth of Forth;
Looking half wild with joy to leave the North,-
With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, —
When,—whether from a fly's malicious comment
Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank ;

Or whether
Only in some enthusiastic moment,

However, one brown monster, in a frisk,
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,
Kick'd out a passage thi'' the beastly rabble; .
And after a pas seul,—or, if you will, a
Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa,

Leapt o'er the tiny pale,-
Back'd his beef-steaks against the wooden gable,
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail

Right o'er the page,

Wherein the sage
Just then was spelling some romantic fable.

The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,
Could not peruse,—who could ?—two tales at

once;

And being huff’d
At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft,

Bang’d-to the door,
But most unluckily enclosed a morsel
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel :-

The monster gave a roar,
And bolting off with speed, increased by pain,
The little house became a coach once more,
And, like Macheath, “took to the road ” again!

Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree,
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home

should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper: '

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