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A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,-
Say, can you blame?-No! none that saw and heard
Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd;
A muse beholding in each fervent trait,
Took Mary — for Polly Hymnia !
Or haply as there stood beside the maid
One loftier forin in sable stole array'd,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee

his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene! But most of you, soft warblings, I complain ! 'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout, And witch'd the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

Thus all conspir’d_each power of eye and ear,
And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year,
To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot!)
And —'s self accomplice in the plot.
Can you then wonder if I went astray ?
Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ;-
All nature day-dreams in the month of May.
And if I pluck'd each flower that sweetest blows,-
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose.
Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-fork'd hill,
To pluck both flower and floweret at my will;
The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread,
Nor common law, nor statute in my head ;
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
With autocratic hand at once repealing
Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing!

But yet from who despairs of grace ?
There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face!
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue,
That look as if they had little else to do:
For speaks, “ Poor youth! he's but a waif!
The spoons all right? the hen and chickens safe?
Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards—
The eighth commandment was not made for bards !"

CHOLERA CURED BEFORE HAND.

Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the

Useful Classes, specially those resident in St. Giles's, Saffron Hill, Bethnal Green, &c.; and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful even to the beasts, for the benefit of the Bulls and Bears of the Stock Exchange.

Pains ventral, subventral,
In stomach or entrail,
Think no longer mere prefaces

For grins, groans, and wry faces;
But off to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl! -
Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all.

· Now to 'scape inward aches,
Eat no plums nor plum-cakes;
Cry avaunt! new potatoe-
And don't drink, like old Cato.
Ah! beware of Dispipsy,
And don't ye get tipsy!

For tho' gin and whiskey
May make you feel frisky,
They're but crimps to Dispipsy ;
And nose to tail, with this gipsy
Comes, black as a porpus,
The diabolus ipse,

Call'd Cholery Morpus; [to feed him, Who with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion Tho’ being a devil, no one never has seed'him!

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Ah! then my dear honies,
There's no cure for you
For loves nor for monies :-
You'll find it too true.
Och! the hallabaloo !
Och! och! how you'll wail,
When the offal-fed vagrant
Shall turn you as blue

As the gas-light unfragrant,
That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail ;-

'Till swift as the mail,
He at last brings the cramps on,
That will twist you like Samson.

So without further blethring,
Dear mudlarks ! my brethren!
Of all scents and degrees,
(Yourselves and your shes)
Forswear all cabal, lads,
Wakes, unions, and rows,
Hot dreams, and cold salads

And don't pig in sties that would suffocate sows! Quit Cobbett's, O'Connel's, and Beelzebub's banners, And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and

manners!

COLOGNE.

In Köhln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang’d with murderous stones,
And rags, and hags, and bideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!
Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,
Doth wash your city of Cologne;
But tell me, nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM

THE SAME CITY.

As I am rhymer,
And now at least a merry one,

Mr. Muin's Rudesheimer
And the church of St. Geryon
Are the two things alone

That deserve to be known
In the body and soul-stinking town of Cologne.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

PARRY seeks the polar ridge ;
Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,
Author of works, whereof-tho' not in Dutch-
The public little knows-the publisher too much.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ANCIENT

MARINER.

Your poem must eternal be,

Dear sir! it cannot fail !
For 'tis incomprehensible,

And without head or tail.

METRICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY.

Trochée trips from long tỏ short;
From long to long in solemn sort
Slow Spondée stälks; strong foot! yet ill able
Ēvěr to come up with Dáctýl trīsõ llăblě.
lãmics march from shört tỏ lòng;–
With ă leap ănd ă bound thě swift Anăpæsts throng ;
One syllable long, with one short at each side,
Amphibrăchỹs hastes with ă stătely stride ;-
First ånd läst being long, middlě short, Amphimăcer

[rácer. Strikes his thundering hoofs like ă prond high-brěd

10

VOL. II.

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