To lose five per cent. in these times of distress,
They would be indeed most unwilling :

And their patients, they hope, will the Guinea redress,

And stick to the Note with a Shilling.

ON A PUBLICAN.

Would honest Tom G― get rid of a scold,
The torture, the plague of his life?
Pray tell him to take down his lion of gold,
And hang up his brazen-faced wife.

TONSON AND DRYDEN.

Jacob Tonson, the most eminent of his profession as a publisher, having refused to advance Dryden a sum of money for a work in which he was engaged, the enraged Bard sent a message to him and the following lines, adding, "tell the dog that he who wrote these can write

more.'

With leering looks, bull-faced, and freckled face,
With two left legs, and Judas colour'd hair,
And frowsy pores, that taint the ambient air.

The bookseller felt the force of the description, and to avoid a tion of the portrait, immediately sent the money.

comple

DECAYED TEETH.

While her cheeks youth's glow display,
'Tis strange Maria's teeth decay!
Some say, and truly say, no doubt,

Her ceaseless tongue 'tis wears them out.

Faces painted deepest brown,
Waistcoats strip'd and gaudy;

Sleeves, thrice doubled, thick with down,
And stays, to brace the body;

Short great coats that reach the knees,
Boots like French postillion;
Meant the lofty race to please,

But laughed at by the million.

High-heeled shoes, with silken strings,
Pantaloons, loose fitting :
Fingers, deck'd with golden rings,
And small-cloaths, made of knitting.

Bludgeons, like a pilgrim's staff,
Or canes, as slight as osiers:
Doubled hose, to shew the calf,
And swell the bills of hosiers !

Curricles, so low that they
Along the earth are dragging;
Hacks, that weary all the day,
In Rotten-row are fagging!

Bull-dogs fierce, and boxers bold,
In their train attending;
Beauty, which is bought with gold,
And flatt'rers, vice commending!

Married women, who have seen
The fiat of the Commons:
Tradesmen, with terrific mien,
And bailiffs, with a summons !

U

Tailors, with their bills unpaid :
Parasites, high-feeding;
Letters, from a chamber-maid,
And billets, not worth reading!

Perfumes-wedding rings to shew,
Many a lady's favour,-
Bought by ev'ry vaunting beau,
With mischievous endeavour!

Such is giddy Fashion's son,
Such a modern lover!

Oh! would their reign had ne'er begun,
And may it soon be over!

THE SKY LARK.

on twinkling wings,

The sky-lark soars amid the dawn,
Yet, while in paradise he sings,
Looks down upon the quiet lawn,
Where flutters in his little nest
More love than music e'er expressed!
Then, though the nightingale may thrill
The soul with keener ecstasy,
The merry bird of morn can fill
All nature's bosom with his glee.

ON LIBERTY.

By Lord Byron.

What from this barren being do we reap?
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail,

Life short, and Truth a gem which loves the deep,
And all things weighed in custom's falsest scale ;

Opinion an omnipotence,-whose veil Mantles the earth with darkness, until right And wrong are accidents, and men grow pale Lest their own judgments should become too bright, And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth have too much light.

And thus they plod in sluggish misery,
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age,
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die,
Bequeathing their hereditary rage

To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage
War for their chains, and, rather than be free,
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage
Within the same arena, where they see
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the same tree.

I speak not of men's creeds,-they rest between
Man and his Maker,—but of things allow'd,
Averr'd, and known, and daily, hourly seen;
The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd,
And the intent of tyranny avow'd;

The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown

The apes of him who humbled once the proud, And shook them from their slumbers on the throne; Too glorious, were this all his mighty arm had done.

Can tyrants but by tyrants conquer'd be ?

And Freedom find no champion, and no child,Such as Columbia saw arise, when she

Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undefil'd? Or must such minds be nourish'd in the wild, Deep in the unprun'd forest, midst the roar Of cataracts,-where musing Nature smil'd

On infant Washington? Has Earth no more Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no such shore ?

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;
Thy trumpet voice, tho' broken now and dying,
The loudest still, the tempest leaves behind;
The tree has lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough, and little worth;
But the sap lasts,—and still the seed we find!
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring
forth.

NAPOLEON'S SOLILOQUY,

On arriving at the Island of St. Helena.

Life is a dream! and is it come to this?
Is this the dismal end of all my greatness;
To be chain'd down, like felon, to this rock,
This naked rock, wash'd by the eternal sea;
Myself the sport of all my enemies?

Where are my crowns, my sceptres, and my robes,
My golden palaces, and men of state?
Where are those shouts of glorious victory,
Which burst upon my ear like thunder-claps,
And shock the air up to the welkin's face?
How many dauntless spirits, braving death,
Burning for plumes of glory, have I led

Up to the thundering cannon's dreadful mouth!
How oft has smiling Fortune crown'd my head,
And lov'd me as her own-her darling son !
I have seen kings and emperors at my feet,