deserted walls were covered with the paintings; when the place of those slightly fashioned tables that stand between the lofty windows were occupied by slabs of beautifully veined marble, supported by satyrs' thighs, finely wrought in bronze or gilded brass; when the chimney glass was surrounded by a frame of tortoiseshell, beautifully inlaid with mother-o'pearl, and cut glass lustres glittered from gilded scenes, reflecting in the mirrors the fair forms of ladies, rustling in silks and satins, sipping their coffee in antique porcelain, and waited on by an ebony-faced juvenile from Africa, whose sable hue threw an air of romantic enchantment round the circle, as it contrasted with the lovely faces that smiled and prattled as they quaffed the refreshing beverage. Ye lovers of good taste! revive the fashions of our forefathers, or pull down the memorials of their enjoyments,—their habitations.

THE CHELSEA PENSIONER'S SONG.

I've heard a complaint, when we've bled in the wars,
That the world always frowns on our fate;
That neglect is the meed of our honoured scars,
And indifference stands at each gate.

It is true that I something of this kind have seen,
Towards my brethren return'd from the wars;
And I set me to think what such conduct could mean,
Why they slighted such honoured scars.

It is not the scar nor the soldier that's scorn'd,
For I many have seen most rever'd ;
But he who should be by fair virtue adorn'd,
For his vices, too often, is feared.

If in innocence bred, from his parish he hies,
And for virtue the army's no school;

He learns there to drink, to blaspheme, and tell lies,
And returns but to kick at all rule.

Instead of protecting the fearful and good,

By the good, he alas! is but feared;
And mischief has oft to his neighbours accru'd,
When, by virtue, he'd been most endear'd.

It was my happy lot in a village to dwell,
Where true goodness was ever esteem'd ;
I was taught in my youth to discern good from ill,
And my soul my most precious part deem'd.
At the call of my king, I repair'd to the wars,
To chastise the presumptuous foe;

And with victory crown'd, but all cover'd with scars,
Pleas'd I bore them my friends for to shew.

Now to Chelsea retired, and respected by all,

In peace wears the eve of my days;

And I trust that when Providence hence me shall call,
To breathe out the last in his praise.

J. PLUMTREE.

THE TIGRIDIA PAVONICA;

OR, MEXICAN TIGER FLOWER

Is a beautiful flower, composed of three outer leaves of the most brilliant crimson color, with three other smaller leaves of crimson and yellow, which, with the centre of the flower, are spotted in the richest manner; it blossoms in the morning, and fades at night. It much resembles in flower, root, and leaf, the Spanish Iris, but very much surpasses that elegant flower. Let Beauty's daughters, whilst their favors choose The gems of Flora's wreath, smile at the art That she display'd in lab'ring to impart, To Mexico's bright flower, the brightest hues Of beauty's grace: how tastefully she laid Her tints upon its leaves with every lively shade, But like the fam'd Ephemeron that springs From sedgy brink to hail the rising sun, Yet, e'er half his daily race is run, It droops; death clips its beauteous wings.— So hails the tiger-flow'r the orient morn: So droops, e'er western rays illume the lawn. Ye fair let virtue in the bosom bloom, For that will shine when beauty's in the tomb.

ROBINS AND SONS, PRINTERS, SOUTHWARK,

J.S.