customed in all ages to unfold their passion, unheeded and unobserved by every eye but that of the sparrow that chirrups on the branches of the spreading oak, or the snow-white swan who glides majestic upon the bosom of the river.

That it has been long the seat where wounded honour has sought reparation, exhibiting deeds of courage worthy of the greatest heroes.

That the betrayed damsel, the dishonoured husband, the broken merchant, and the despairing lover, have been accustomed to seek in Hyde Park a quietus for all their cares, by suspension from a tree, or a plunge in the Serpentine.

That the belles and beaux of the metropolis here mix in sweet confusion; the city fair, catching the airs of the west end of the town; while consumption, care, and loss of appetite, vanish before the breezes that play without restraint or limit over its verdant surface.

Your suppliant further showeth, that a rumour prevails of an intention to erect a line of large houses round the said park, by means whereof it will become a mere inclosure, differing only in extent from Leicester Fields or Golden Square; and that the benefits and advantages above stated, with many others, will thus cease and determine.

That a lady or gentleman can, in such event, no longer make love in Hyde Park, without being exposed to the malice of the old maids in the row.

That the desperate and unfortunate cannot drown themselves but in sight of the public.

That the man of honour cannot be shot, or shoot his antagonist, in private; and Chalk Farm must possess a monopoly of duellists.

That the air, now fresh as the breeze from the mountain, must lose its purity, and become mixed with the steam from the luxurious kitchens and fetid offices of the surrounding edifices.

That

That Hyde Park, long a scene of health and recreation, will thus lose all its attractions, and with its attractions all its visitors and admirers.

Your suppliant, therefore, humbly hopes, that said plan of brick and mortar may not be adopted;

BEH

And your suppliant will ever pray.

EPIGRAM

ON A LATE BATTLE.

[From the same, July 8.]

EHOLD, great King! at Fate's command,
(Thus sang the leader of the bard,)
Where sleeps poor old Darius!

On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
Without a friend to close his eyes

When dead, none e'er come nigh us.

Poor Pagans, ignorant and rude!
Thank Heaven, such base ingratitude
Our Christian age can't suliy
Gregson, to thee kind fate supplies
A pious friend to close thy eyes;
And that dear friend is-GULLEY.

PUGILISM.

[From the Morning Chronicle.]

Hic, membris et mole valens; sed tarda trementi
Genua labant, vastos quatit æger anhelitus artus,
Multa viri nequicquam inter se vulnera jactant,
Multa cavo lateri ingeminant, et pectore vastos
Dant sonitus.

OH!

VIRG.

H! for a muse, to whom the Nine must yield,
To sing the glories of the Sebright * field,

Where Gregson like a huge volcano stood,

And pour'd eruptions fierce of boiling blood;

The battle was fought in a field belonging to Sir John Sebright.

M' 4

His

His less'ning eyes a mourning hue disclose,
While crimson torrents issue from his nose;
Now gapes his face in many a gory ridge,
And now his nose has lost her stately bridge;
Loud, and yet louder, rings the pond'rous pound,
While savage shouts re-echo to the sound;
And now the batter'd wretch essays to trace
The ragged remnants of his mangled face,
Less horrid only than Grimaldi's smile,
When the baboon attempts some humorous wile;
Or, like the visage grim, that frowns before
The knocker huge, of Newgate's massy door;
Or, as the softness of an Irish bog

Reveals the countless nails in Paddy's brogue
So, Gregson, did thy varied face declare
How often Guliey's fist was planted there.

PART OF THE FINALE IN THE TRAGI-COMIC FARCE LATELY ACTED AT BAYONNE.

Boney. WHY, zounds! brother Joe! don't you know
That Spain is your own?

Why then, my dear Joe, don't you go,
Seize the crown, and sit down

On your throne?

Brother Joe. Alas, brother Nap! this Spain is a trap
The devil has laid for our ruin;
So, Boney, beware of this damuable snare,
Remember the story of Bruin.

You 're building a castle in air-
For no matter who'll win a claim to the skin,
If nobody kills the bear.

THE CHOICE.

Utrum accipe horum mavis.

HIGH, from his Imperial throne,

Done at Bayonne,

The wonder-working Nappy,

Anxious, forsooth, to make his Spaniards happy,

* The name of the shoe worn by the Irish 'sant,

E'en

}

E'en as his slaves at home, and just as free,
Let loose a king-demolishing decree.
"Spaniards! 't is rul'd by me and fate,
That I alone can save your state;
Charles and your Monarch late,
Confess sincerely, without feigning,
They 've ta'en a great dislike to reigning.
Then let one united voice

Now proclaim the nation's choice;
Then make your choice-the terms we give
Hear, my beloved, hear-

These fetters on your hands receive,
Or-in your hearts the spear."

"Is then the contest o'er," they cried,

And lie we at

your

feet;

And dare you vauntingly decide

The fortunes such a cause shall meet?

Can we forget our old renown,
The good old times of victory,
And yield an independent crown,
Our ancient laws and liberty?
Shall thus thy fell destroying hand
Pass unresisted o'er our native land,

High-blooded Spain and all her thrones, thy preys
Fall prostrate, and adore thy mushroom sway?
No! we'll revive our old renown,
The good old times of victory,
Preserve an independent crown,
Our ancient laws and liberty.
And when thy slaves of France
On freedom's fiery sons advance,
Then will we show

This vapouring foe,

That in the cause of Spain

Spaniards are more than men ;

Nerves of steel and souls of flame,

A

Burning to vindicate her ancient fame,
Or sleep in honourable graves,

And leave her sons the riches of a name
Dearer than all her Indies boast;
More glorious than a countless host

Of titled tyrants and of ribbon'd slaves.

Then, Despot! hear our nation's voice,
And let high-blooded Spain rejoice-
Her sous will make a SPANIARD'S CHOICE,
Live free or perish gloriously.

And when, proud day for Spain, that day
Shall come, when through thy proud array
Our swords shall mow a freeman's way,
Vanquishing victoriously;

Then, as they lie in death's cold grasp,
We'll cry OUR CHOICE IS MADE!'
Our hands the sabre's hilt shall clasp-
Their hearts shall feel the blade."

THE D-L'S REMONSTRANCE WITH BONEY.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING POST.

SIR,

IT

T is said that Talleyrand is upon bad terms with his Master if so, the following remonstrance cannot be much out of place :

When to Napoleon Hell's tremendous Power
Paid his last visit at the midnight hour,

"Thou fool," he cried, "to whom I did assign.

My club-foot Minister, and made him thine,-
Is it not Talleyrand, to whom I show

All that a demon is allow'd to know?

Hath he not told thee o'er and o'er again,
Crush coward kingdoms, but beware of Spain?
For know, if Britain fan the kindling spark,
You'll find that luminous which late was dark:
Degenerate vassals will obey thy nod,

But heav'n-born patriots are the care of God.
This he has said, (for this I bade him say,)
While you, dull dotard, spurn'd the truth away;
Therefore proceed: you rush upon your doom,
Your reign is past, your ruin is to come:
Wretch, I renounce you! The whole world shall see,
You only conquer'd when in league with me!"

R. C.

ON