The rose from its stem thou hast wantonly torn-
Its leaves are of zephyrs the sport,

And to punish thy frolics, which long I have borne,
Thou banished shalt be, from our court!"

But the smile chased the frown, as he made this reply,
"Dear mother, if banished from you,

With the rose, the first cause of my crime, let me sigh,
And mingle my tears with its dew.”

"Tell me where tis conceal'd? since thy guilt is confest,
Say, where do its beauties now fade?"
"Transplanted, the rose blooms on Emily's breast,
And the dew to her lip, I convey'd !"

P. G.

A NEW WESTMINSTER QUIBBLE.

THE COUP DE SOLEIL.

A son it appears

Once box'd his father's ears,

Which was not behaving well

Now you've been, says the lad,

To Jamaica old Dad,

For you've got a coup de soleil.

J.

EPIGRAM.

Says Numps to his offspring, "I earnestly beg son,

You'd keep from this battle of Gully and Gregson."

Nay father," says Dick, "I shall then be a fool,

A battle to me is a charming coup de œil."

"You are right,” replies Numps: "If you mix with that fry, You'll find that coup d'œil means—a lick o' the eye."

J.

MICHAEL WIGGINS IN DEBT.

DEBT's like a mouse-trap :—when you once begin,
You'll find it no great matter to get in,
But rather puzzling to get out again :
This fact one Michael Wiggins found so true,
That he determined to keep out of view,
So took snug lodgings in a secret lane.

Here, at his window plac'd, the cunning dog,
Hugging himself on being thus incog,

Reflected on the horrors of the Fleet.

True," he exclaim'd, "these lodgings are but mean, "And in the day I cannot well be seen, "Still liberty, dear liberty, is ever sweet!"

But quickly broken were his reveries,
For lo! athwart the dusky street he sees
A wretched, sinful, and despairing elf,
Fast'ning a rope the iron lamp post round,
Mounting the steps, and with a fatal bound,

Just going to take a swing, and hang himself.

Up Michael starts-compassion lends him wings,
Rushes down stairs-the door wide open flings,
And with his cries the neighbourhood alarms;
Arriving just in time the rope to grasp,
Untie the death dispensing noose, and clasp
The sinking victim in his open arms.

"Ah," cries the prostrate wretch, in deep distress, "How can I e'er my gratitude express,

Sav'd to myself, my children, and my wife.
Oh! that myself, my wife, and children seven,
May daily pour your name in pray'rs to heaven;
Tell me, oh tell, to whom I owe my life!"

Says Michael with a blush of modest sense,
"I'm but the instrument of Providence,

Which mighty ends by humble means procures." To heaven alone your gratitude should tend, In me, however, view your future friend,

My name is Michael Wiggins.-What is yours?"

Quick starting up, and seizing Michael fast,

"So!" cries the man," I've found you, then, at last," There's no mistake-I've nabb'd you now, by G—! Sly as you are, at length you're fairly bit,

I am a BAILIFF-this here is a writ,

So, Master Wiggey, come along to quod."

H.

THE INUTILITY OF BEAUTY.

ROSA TO

*

You write of Beauty's witching power,
Yet tell me 'tis a fleeting flower *;
Then what avails a blooming cheek,
Or eyes that Love's soft language speak?
Why should I twist, with dextrous care,
The ringlets of my auburn hair?
"Twere just as wise to think the rain,
At my command would fall again;
Or bid the passing moments stay,
To catch the sun-beams dancing ray.
How, then, can sense like thine delight
In such a fragile gleam of light+?
Are there no charms but those of form,
The Poet's ready wit to warm?
When Beauty's wreath shall fade away,
Are there no mental gifts will stay?
The thorn, of which you threat'ning speak,
When I return, to me is Greek.

Ere thorns like these my bosoni tear,

Love's early bud‡ must Rosa wear.

When you that magic flow'ret give,

Then will I prove I'd have thee live!

* See Number XVIII. p. 453.

Then how can wisdom e'er confide

In beauty's momentary pride.

See Gaudentio di Lucca.

H-VOL. III.*

Elphinstone.

4

SPAIN.

WRAPT at the scene, methinks on fiery wings,
I roam ungovern'd thro' the midnight air,
Swift tow'ring to the moon, who softly flings
Her pallid beamings on the mountains bare:
Now have I pass'd her, and extend my flight,
Thro' realms of peace, where rolling planets stray,
Where fast before my animated sight,

The comet whirls its melancholy way!

Hark! the din thunders thro' the welkin roar !
-Pale lightnings flash upon my ravish'd eyes,—
The war-fiend rushes thro' yon sea of gore,

And Gallic eagles penetrate the skies !—

But lo! Iberia's sons in bands advance,

To wrest their freedom from the slaves of France!

July, 1808.

EPIGRAM

CHARLES HOWELLES,

WRITTEN ON MR. KEMBLE'S DOUBLE WINDOW IN RUSSELL-STREET.

ON A BAD AUTHOR WHO TURNED BOOKSELLER.

TURN'D Book-seller?-'twas wisely done,
Before I'm sure he ne'er sold one.

J.

ANOTHER.

A Book-seller! art mad? or bound by spell?
Why that's the only thing thou can'st not sell!

MEMORANDA DRAMATICA.

1808.

THEATRE ROYAL COVENT-GARDEN.

June 21. Laugh when you can.—'

.-The Portrait of Cervantes, or the Plotting Lovers (first time)-Turnpike Gate.-(Mr. Manden's Benefit.)

22. Douglas.-Rival Soldiers.-Mother Goose.-(Benefit of Messrs. Chapman, Field, and Ware.)

23. Suspicious Husband.-Poor Soldier.

24. School of Reform.-Highland Laddie.-Fortune's Frolic. 25. Road to Ruin.-Child of Nature.

27. Macbeth. The Portrait of Cervantes, or the Plotting Lovers *.

* The season at this house closed with the above performances. After playing Macbeth in a style of unrivalled excellence, notwithstanding a distressing lameness in his right knee, Mr. Kemble came forward and addressed the audience to this effect:-Ladies and gentlemen, before the curtain drops on the entertainments of this evening, the proprietors and performers beg leave to return their sincere thanks for the patronage, with which you have distinguished their exertions, and to assure you that they will continue their endeavours to merit your approbation, which is their best reward, and the greatest honour they can aspire to. Till next September, ladies and gentlemen, we most respectfully take our leave,

Macbeth, not almost, like Othello, but quite " damned in a fair wife," was well supported by his Lady. Mrs. Siddons entirely out-plays Mr. Kemble, and makes his genius appear like all artificial lights at the rising of the great luminary of Nature. The same disproportion is far from obtaining between Miss Smith and Mr. Kemble in these parts, and his performance probably received an additional lustre from the circumstance. Inferior as Miss Smith's Lady Macbeth must be allowed, (but who shall hope to reach the perfection of Siddons?) there is still in her acting such an abundance of present excellence and future promise (so to be cherished with the prospect before us) that we could not see her on this night about to leave us for two years, without infinite regret. As she is evidently destined to lead in tragedy, and of course in Shakspeare, we recommend, in kindness, a closer study of the text of our immortal bard.