For my heart long hath left me, and chosen its

nest

Next your own gentle heart, in your own snowy breast.

THE KING'S PORTER.

A couple of subalterns on half-pay, passing lutely through Pall-Mall, were much edified with the comely appearance of his Majesty's porter, and the following dialogue ensued:

Quoth Brown to Smith, "I'm monstrous thin,
Oh, for yon porter's place!

No more half-pay, I'd soon begin

To sport as plump a face!"

Quoth Smith-"That you might Porter be,

I own there's little doubt;

Yet still I fear, my poor H. P.

You'd ne'er become Brown stout !'

ON TIME.

Intended for a Watch.

Time by moments, steals away,
First the hour, and then the day,
Small the daily loss appears,
Yet it soon amounts to years.

ON DREAMS.

Dreams are but interludes which fancy makes;
When monarch Reason sleeps, this mimic wakes,
Compounds a medley of disjointed things,-
A court of coblers and a mob of kings.

Light fumes are merry, grosser fumes are sad,
Both make the reasonable soul run mad;
And many monstrous forms in sleep we see,
That neither were, nor are, nor e'er can be.

Sometimes forgotten things long cast behind,
Rush forward in the brain and come to mind.
The Muse's legends are for truths receiv'd,
And the man dreams but what the boy believ'd.

Sometimes we but rehearse a former play,
The night restores our actions done by day;
As hounds in sleep will open for their prey:
In short, the farce of Dreams is of a piece,
Chimeras all, and more absurd or less.

TO HEALTH.

What are the miser's splendid hoards of wealth
To thee, thou greatest, best of blessings-health?
Not all his riches give the wretch the power
To buy thy presence for one single hour :
Tho' when on sick bed laid and rack'd with pain,
He'd freely give them all to woo thee back again.
And yet how truly has the poet said,

"Thy value ne'er is known till thou art fled,
But when once lost we then too keenly know

The virtue, which, when our's, possession could not show."

ON THE MARRIAGE OF MR. MAN,

A pair of lovers (tho' I'm sure

You'll say 'tis paradox)

Once made each other fast, secure
With Hymen's patent locks.

At

par each other did embrace,
With mutual love and riches ;
But this I'll say (without disgrace)*
She ought to wear the breeches.
She metamorphos'd is I'll show,
Deny it if you can :

Whether with breeches on or no,
She is a married Man!

This paradox which now you see
Explain to me I pray ?

How she maid, wife, and Man could be,
And all within one day.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

On her having opened a Gute.

Just such a form, with wings of gold,
And wreaths of roses, I shall see,
Wait my last moments, and unfold
The gate of Paradise to me!

Heaven speaks in signs: the wat'ry bow,
To banish fear from earth was giv'n,

And thou, Maria, to foreshow

The beauty that inhabits heaven!

TOM LONGFELLOW'S INN..

The following lines are written on a pane of glass at an inn in South Wales. The proprietor's name is Longfellow:

Tom Longfellow's name is most justly his due, Long his neck, long his bill, which is very long

too;

Long the time 'ere your horse to the stable is led, Long before he's rubb'd down, and much longer till fed;

Long, indeed, may you sit in a comfortless room, 'Till from kitchin long dirty, your dinner shall

come :

Long the often-told-tale that your host will relate,

Long his face whilst complaining, how long people eat;

Long may Longfellow long ere he see me again, Long 'twill be ere I long for Tom Longfellow's inn.

A COMB-MAKER'S PLEA FOR NOT SERVING IN

THE MILITIA.

A comb-maker was for the militia drawn,
Which put him in a rage;

A red coat he look'd at with scorn,
His plea was-I'm not of age.

Magistrate.

You're not of age?-we'll make you swear,
If true, I'll soon fine those who brought ye;
I should have thought though, I declare,
That you at least was forty.

Comb-maker.

Sir, I can swear, with conscience free,

By the Protestant belief,

Altho' my age is forty-three,

I've not cut all my teeth.

Ꮮ

ON A COMPANY OF BAD DANCERS TO GOOD MUSIC.

How ill the motion with the music suits!
So Orpheus fiddled, and so danced the brutes.

THE WOULD-BE POET.

One of Martial's epigrams, wherein he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and published them as his own, has been thus translated into English:

Paul so fond of the name of a poet is grown,
With gold he buys verses, and calls them his own.
Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world says;
They are surely his own for which a man pays.

A CRITIC, CRITICISED.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure Mr. Prior, the poet very wittily lashed his impertinence as follows.

While faster than his costive brain indites,
Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes,
His case appears to me like honest Teague's
When he was run away with by his legs.
Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command;
Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand:
Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink;
So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

THE LOOKING GLASS.

In a false glass, Joe loves himself to spy,
If 'twere a true one, he the glass would fly.