THE DREAM OF THE TWO SISTERS.

FROM DANTE.

Nell ora, credo, che dell' oriente

Prima raggiò nel monte Citerea,

Che di fuoco d' amor par sempre ardente, Giovane e bella in eogno mi parea Donna vedere andar per una landa Cogliendo fiori; e cantando dicen:Sappia qualunque 'l mio nome dimanda, Ch' io mi son Lia, e vo movendo 'ntorno Le belle mani a farmi una ghirlandaPer piacermi allo specchio qui m'adorno; Ma mia suora Rachel mai non si smaga Dal suo ammiraglio, e siede tutto il giorno. Ell'è de' suoi begli occhi veder vaga, Com' io dell' adornarmi con le mani; Lei lo vedere e me l'ovrare appaga.

DANTE, Purg. canto xxvi.

ANNE BOLEYN.

TRANSLATION FROM THE METRICAL

D'ANNE BOLEYN."

S'elle estoit belle et de taille élégante, Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante, Lesquelz sçavoit bien conduyre à propos En les tenant quelquefoys en repos; Aucunefoys envoyant en message Porter de cueur le secret tesmoignage.

MUCH as her form seduc'd the sight,

Her eyes could even more surely woo; And when and how to shoot their light

Into men's hearts full well she knew. For sometimes, in repose, she hid Their rays beneath a downcast lid; And then again, with wakening air,

Would send their sunny glances out, Like heralds of delight, to bear

Her heart's sweet messages about.

Oft, in the very arms of Love,

A chill came o'er her heart - a fear That Death might, even yet, remove Her spirit from that happy sphere. "Those sunny ringlets," she exclaim'd, Twining them round her snowy fingers; "That forehead, where a light, unnam'd, "Unknown on earth, for ever lingers; "Those lips, through which I feel the breath "Of Heaven itself, whene'er they sever"Say, are they mine, beyond all death,

'My own, hereafter, and for ever?

"Smile not- I know that starry brow,
These ringlets, and bright lips of thine,
"Will always shine, as they do now -
"But shall I live to see them shine?"
"Turn thine eyes

In vain did Love say,
"On all that sparkles round thee here -
"Thou'rt now in heaven, where nothing dies,
"And in these arms-what canst thou fear?"
In vain the fatal drop, that stole

Into that cup's immortal treasure,
Had lodg'd its bitter near her soul,
And gave a tinge to every pleasure.

And, though there ne'er was transport given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy,
Hers is the only face in heaven,
That wears a cloud amid its joy.

TO JAMES CORRY, ESQ.

ON HIS MAKING ME A PRESENT OF A WINE STRAINER.

Brighton, June, 1825.

THIS life, dear Corry, who can doubt?
Resembles much friend Ewart's' wine;
When first the rosy drops come out,

How beautiful, how clear they shine!
And thus awhile they keep their tint,

So free from even a shade with some,
That they would smile, did you but hint,
That darker drops would ever come.

But soon the ruby tide runs short,
Each minute makes the sad truth plainer,
Till life, like old and crusty port,
When near its close, requires a strainer.
This friendship can alone confer,
Alone can teach the drops to pass,
If not as bright as once they were,
At least unclouded, through the glass.
Nor, Corry, could a boon be mine,

Of which this heart were fonder, vainer,
Than thus, if life grow like old wine,
To have thy friendship for its strainer.

A JOKE VERSIFIED.

"COME, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life,

"There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake

"It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife ""Why, so it is, father-whose wife shall I take?"

ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

PURE as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood
By JORDAN'S stream, descended from the sky,
Is that remembrance, which the wise and good
Leave in the hearts that love them, when they
die.

So pure, so precious shall the memory be,
Bequeath'd, in dying, to our souls by thee
So shall the love we bore thee, cherish'd warm
Within our souls through grief, and pain, and
strife,

Be, like ELISHA's cruse, a holy charm,
Wherewith to "heal the waters" of this life!

Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names, one's ear to buzz in!
From Russia, chefs and ofs in lots,

From Poland, owskis by the dozen.
When George, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry,
And men ask'd

- who advis'd the deed? Ned modestly confess'd 'twas he.

For though, by some unlucky miss,

He had not downright seen the King, He sent such hints through Viscount This, To Marquis That, as clench'd the thing. The same it was in science, arts,

The Drama, Books, MS. and printed — Kean learn'd from Ned his cleverest parts,

And Scott's last work by him was hinted. Childe Harold in the proofs he read,

-

And, here and there, infus'd some soul in'tNay, Davy's Lamp, till seen by Ned, Had-odd enough - an awkward hole in't. "Twas thus, all-doing and all-knowing, Wit, statesman, boxer, chymist, singer, Whatever was the best pie going,

In that Ned-trust him- had his finger.

'Twas thus she said, as 'mid the din

Of footmen, and the town sedan,
She lighted at the King's Head Inn,
And up the stairs triumphant ran.

The Squires and their Squiresses all,
With young Squirinas, just come out,
And my Lord's daughters from the Hall,
(Quadrillers, in their hearts, no doubt,)—
All these, as light she tripp'd up stairs,
Were in the cloak-room seen assembling-
When, hark! some new, outlandish airs,
From the First Fiddle, set her trembling.
She stops
she listens - can it be?
Alas, in vain her ears would 'scape it—
It is "Di tanti palpiti"

As plain as English bow can scrape it.

"Courage!" however in she goes,

With her best, sweeping country grace; When, ah too true, her worst of foes, QUADRILLE, there meets her, face to face. Oh for the lyre, or violin,

Or kit of that gay Muse, Terpsichore,
To sing the rage these nymphs were in,
Their looks and language, airs and trickery.
There stood QUADRILLE, with cat-like face
(The beau-ideal of French beauty),
A band-box thing, all art and lace
Down from her nose-tip to her shoe-tye.

Her flounces, fresh from Victorine-
From Hippolyte, her rouge and hair—
Her poetry, from Lamartine-

Her morals, from-the Lord knows where.
And, when she danc'd-so slidingly,
So near the ground she plied her art,
You'd swear her mother-earth and she
Had made a compact ne'er to part.
Her face too, all the while, sedate,

No signs of life or motion showing,
Like a bright pendule's dial-plate-

So still, you'd hardly think 'twas going. Full fronting her stood Country DanceA fresh, frank nymph, whom you would know For English, at a single glance

English all o'er, from top to toe.

A little gauche, 'tis fair to own,

And rather given to skips and bounces; Endangering thereby many a gown,

And playing, oft, the devil with flounces.

Unlike Mamselle-who would prefer

(As morally a lesser ill)

A thousand flaws of character,
To one vile rumple of a frill.

No rouge did she of Albion wear;
Let her but run that two-heat race
She calls a Set, not Dian e'er

Came rosier from the woodland chase.

Such was the nymph, whose soul had in't
Such anger now-whose eyes of blue
(Eyes of that bright, victorious tint,

Which English maids call " Waterloo") —
Like summer lightnings, in the dusk
Of a warm evening, flashing broke,
While to the tune of "Money Musk,"1
Which struck up now- she proudly spoke:-

66

"And, yet unfleec'd by funding blockheads, Happy John Bull not only had,

“But danc'd to, ‘Money in both pockets.'

"Alas, the change !-Oh, L-d—y,

"Where is the land could 'scape disasters, "With such a Foreign Secretary,

"Aided by Foreign Dancing Masters? "Woe to ye, men of ships and shops! "Rulers of day-books and of waves! "Quadrill'd, on one-side, into fops, "And drill'd, on t'other, into slaves!

"Ye, too, ye lovely victims, seen,

Like pigeons, truss'd for exhibition, "With elbows, à la crapaudine,

"And feet in God knows what position;

"Hemm'd in by watchful chaperons,

"Inspectors of your airs and graces, "Who intercept all whisper'd tones, "And read your telegraphic faces; "Unable with the youth ador'd,

"In that grim cordon of Mammas, "To interchange one tender word, "Though whisper'd but in queue de chats. "Ah did you know how blest we rang'd, "Ere vile Quadrille usurp'd the fiddle"What looks in setting were exchang'd,

What tender words in down the middle; "How many a couple, like the wind, "Which nothing in its course controls, "Left time and chaperons far behind, "And gave a loose to legs and souls;

An old English Country Dance.

"How matrimony throve-ere stopp'd "By this cold, silent, foot-coquetting "How charmingly one's partner popp'd "The' important question in poussetting. "While now, alas-no sly advances

"No marriage hints-all goes on badly""Twixt Parson Malthus and French Dances, "We, girls, are at a discount sadly. "Sir William Scott (now Baron Stowell) "Declares not half so much is made "By Licences- -and he must know well"Since vile Quadrilling spoil'd the trade." She ceas'd-tears fell from every MissShe now had touch'd the true pathetic: One such authentic fact as this

Is worth whole volumes theoretic.

Instant the cry was " Country dance!"
And the maid saw, with brightening face,
The Steward of the night advance,

And lead her to her birthright place.
The fiddles, which awhile had ceas'd,
Now tun'd again their summons sweet,
And, for one happy night, at least,
Old England's triumph was complete.

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF

JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ., OF DUBLIN.

IF ever life was prosperously cast,

If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last, "Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below. The sunny temper, bright where all is strife,

The simple heart above all worldly wiles; Light wit that plays along the calm of life,

And stirs its languid surface into smiles; Pure charity, that comes not in a shower,

Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, But, like the dew, with gradual silent power, Felt in the bloom it leaves along the meads; The happy grateful spirit, that improves

And brightens every gift by fortune given; That, wander where it will with those it loves, Makes every place a home, and home a heaven. All these were his.-Oh, thou who read'st this stone,

When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone,

That ye like him may live, like him may die!

At length, their last and worst to do,
They round him plac'd a guard of watchmen,
Reviewers, knaves, in brown, or blue

Turn'd up with yellow,-chiefly Scotchmen; To dog his footsteps all about,

Like those in Longwood's prison grounds, Who at Napoleon's heels rode out,

For fear the Conqueror should break bounds. Oh for some Champion of his power, Some Ultra spirit, to set free, As erst in Shakspeare's sovereign hour, The thunders of his Royalty!

To vindicate his ancient line,

The first, the true, the only one,
Of Right eternal and divine,
That rules beneath the blessed sun.

TO LADY J*R**Y,

ON BEING ASKED TO WRITE SOMETHING IN HER ALBUM.

Written at Middleton.

Оn albums, albums, how I dread,
Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!
How often wish that from the dead,
Old Omar would pop forth his head,
And make a bonfire of you all!

So might I 'scape the spinster band,

The blushless blues, who, day and night, Like duns in doorways, take their stand, To waylay bards, with book in hand,

Crying for ever, “Write, sir, write!” So might I shun the shame and pain,

That o'er me at this instant come, When Beauty, seeking Wit in vain, Knocks at the portal of my brain, And gets, for answer, Not at home!"

November, 1828.

66

TO THE SAME.

ON LOOKING THROUGH HER ALBUM.

No wonder bards, both high and low,
From Byron down to
and me,
Should seek the fame, which all bestow
On him whose task is praising thee.
Let but the theme be J *r** y's eyes,
At once all errors are forgiven;
As ev'n old Sternhold still we prize,
Because, though dull, he sings of heaven.