Does thy virtue, valour, worth,
Call the panegyric forth?

Alas! no hero less can claim

Such honour at the hands of fame.
A tricking, shuffling, thieving knave,
A mere coat-brushing, lacqueying slave ;
An agent to a swindling pack,
An understrapper to a quack.
A pander on occasion meet,—
Always a coward most complete ;
Who left the girl his soul adored
Sooner than face a bravo's sword;
And lastly-can we deeper go-
A footman, lowest of the low.
Yet, spite of these defects, who can
Dislike the youth of Santillane.
Genius! such a power is thine,

Such thy triumphs all divine!

From materials vile and dark,

From poisonous spume, and sooty chark,

From lack-lustre lead, we're told,

The alchemist produces gold.

Even if the tale were true,

A harder task 'twas thine to do:

Of the subject of thy scene,

In thought, rank, action, habits, mean,
To make by matchless powers of wit,
A universal favourite;

Forcing the fair, the brave, the wise,
To love the fellow they despise.

Candid Gil Blas! who never tried
To screen what others haste to hide ;
He feared not to be counted dull
If he avowed himself a gull:

By his lip the tale is told,

How female heart his youth cajoled.

Why should he fear it? Well he knew
Of every man the tale is true.
Who has not yielded in his life
To wit of widow, maid or wife?

What is our wisdom or our wile,

To their dear tongue, eyes, tears, or smile? Here there's a pleasure just as great

In being cheated as to cheat.'

Gil Blas was sure we all could trace
Our own adventures in his case.

Lo! Raphael's laughing visage cast
Through the door he just has passed ;—
The practised swindler sees with joy
His thousandth victim in the boy.
With flowing cloak and cap aside,
He laughs in art's all-conscious pride,
And marks him with a steady aim,
As the keen sportsman marks his game;
He notes our hero's silly stare;
What love and folly blent are there !

The open mouth, the lengthened cheek,

A fitting instrument bespeak,

That very useful sort of tool

Which knaves do work with, called a fool.'

Yet stupid as you see him sit,

That idiot was a piercing wit:
But useless here the witty tongue-
Fair woman smiled, and he was young.
Kind reader, in those happy hours,
When youth, elastic youth, was your's,
Did no Camilla's glozing art
Win thee to play as poor a part?
If 'No,' sincere be thy reply,

Thou hast been luckier far than I !

H. S.

STANZAS

Written among the Ruins of Tynemouth Priory.

BY T. DOUBLEDAY, ESQ.

I.

THE vagrant winds that wander 'mid the dark,
Are quiet in their caves. The moon is high.
Across yon tall pile's shadow you may mark
The flitting bat; while the sea's heavy sigh
Comes o'er the ear in long, low melody.
Behold the living flood beneath the ray
Unclouded like the chased silver lie,

And, in the radiance, countless wavelets play, Sparkling, like crowding stars, that pave some milky-way.

II.

Far, on each hand, the savage coast extends,
Binding the bright sea with a rugged chain.
Lo! there Northumbria's frowning bulwark bends,
Marsden's vast rock, yonder, o'ertowers the main.