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“ Talk of Olympic Games ! They're not worth

mention ;
The real prize for wrestling is when Jack,

In Providence or Ascension,
Can throw a lively turtle on its back!”

“ Aye !” cried Sir John, and with a score of

nods, Thoughtful of classical symposium,

“ There's food for Gods ! There's nectar! there's ambrosium ! There's food for Roman Emperors to eat

Oh, there had been a treat (Those ancient names will sometimes hobble us)

For Helio-gobble-us!”

“ There were a feast for Alexander's Feast !
The real sort-none of your mock or spurious !”
And then he mention'd Aldermen deceased,

And “ Epicurius,”
And how Tertullian had enjoy'd such foison ;
And speculated on that verdigrease

That isn't poison.

“ Talk of your Spring, and verdure, and all that!

Give me green fat!
As for your Poets with their groves of myrtles

And billing turtles,
Give me, for poetry, them Turtles there,

A-billing in a bill of fare !

“Of all the things I ever swallow--
Good, well-dress'd turtle beats them hollow-

It almost makes me wish, I vow,

To have two stomachs, like a cow !” And lo! as with the cud, an inward thrill Upheaved his waistcoat and disturb’d his frill, His mouth was oozing and he work’d his jaw“ I almost think that I could eat one raw !”

And thus, as “inward love breeds outward

talk,"
The portly pair continued to discourse ;
And then—as Gray describes of life's divorce,–
With “longing lingering look” prepared to .

walk,-
Having thro' one delighted sense, at least,
Enjoy’d a sort of Barmecidal feast,
And with prophetic gestures, strange to see,
Forestall’d the civic Banquet yet to be,

Its callipash and callipee!

A pleasant prospect—but alack !
Scarcely each Alderman had turn’d his back,
When seizing on the moment so propitious,
And having learn'd that they were so delicious

To bite and sup,
From praises so high flown and injudicious,—

And nothing could be more pernicious ! The turtles fell to work, and ate each other up! Moral. Never, from folly or urbanity, Praise people thus profusely to their faces, Till quite in love with their own graces,

They're eaten up by vanity !

THE DESERT-BORN.

“ Fly to the desert, fly with me.”—LADY HESTER STANHOPE.

'Twas in the wilds of Lebanon, amongst its bar

ren hills, To think upon it, even now, my very blood it

chills ! My sketch-book spread before me, and my pencil

in my hand, I gazed upon the mountain range, the red tumult

uous sand, The plumy palms, the sombre firs, the cedars

tall and proud, When lo! a shadow pass'd across the paper like

a cloud, And looking up I saw a form, apt figure for the

scene, Methought I stood in presence of some oriental

queen!

The turban on her head was white as any driven

snow; A purple bandalette past o'er the lofty brow

below,

And thence upon her shoulders fell, by either

jewell'd ear; In yellow folds voluminous she wore her long

cachemere ; Whilst underneath, with ample sleeves, a Turkish

robe of silk Envelop'd her in drapery the colour of new milk; Yet oft it floated wide in front, disclosing under

neath A gorgeous Persian tunic, rich with many a

broider'd wreath, Compelld by clasps of costly pearl around her • neek to meetAnd yellow as the amber were the buskins on

her feet!

Of course I bow'd my lowest bow-of all the

things on earth, The reverence due to loveliness, to rank, or an

cient birth, To pow'r, to wealth, to genius, or to any thing

uncommon, A man should bend the lowest in a Desert to a

Woman! Yet some strange influence stronger still, though

vague and undefined, Compellid me, and with magic might subdued my

soul and mind; There was a something in her air that drew the

spirit nigh,

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