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THE KALEIDOSCOPE.
“turn me out!” But a few unguarded expressions against the Fox, and all its inmates, decided the wavering attendants, and the lady was actually bundled out with the utmost expedition. She vented the rest of her fury in the middle of the street, to the no small amusement of the bystanders; and she finally betook herself to the habitation of a well-known pettifogging attorney.
The Collegian inquired into the particulars of what had happened during the night; and when he understood that a gentleman had actually been wronged by him, he repaired immediately to his apartment, to ask his pardon, and to offer every reparation in his power. This done, he perceived to his utmost consteration that it was already eleven o’clock, whilst he had an invitation to the Mount, for nine: he was happy to hear that he could get a horse in the house, and ordered it to be saddled forthwith.
(To be continued.)
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Poetry.
ENNUI.
Talkest thou of weariness? has life no charm
The Letheian fiend of Ennui to disarm.
And still, as slowly creeps the lingering day,
Still dost thou chide its tedious delay,
And sick of dull monotony profound,
Sigh o’er the lake, the Stygian lake to bound?
Ope nature’s book, and, on its page sublime,
Go, trace the change of ever-varying time:
Behold the seasons in their circling course,
And with Omnipotence hold high discourse!
See, bursting, as from confines of the tomb,
Fair Spring arrayed in garb of softest bloom;
Hark to the choristers of hill and grove,
The vales are vocal with their songs of love.
In azure robe, with fruits and flow’rets drest,
Greet Summer, fairest of the fair confest;
With her, where rippling waters softly stray,
Go sweetly while the sultry hours away,
Bright garlands weave beneath o’erhanging trees,
And drink the spicy fragrance of the breeze.
Or seek the woods when Autumn, sombre maid,
Tints with her golden hues each hill and glade;
Or watch the dashing of the waterfall,
Or list the echoes of the blackbird’s call;
In scenes like these, heart-wearying thought compose,
And seek to win sad memory to repose!
When Winter comes, in snowy vestment hoar,
And loud is heard the angry billow’s roar,
Then image halcyon scenes in worlds to come,
Dispel the storm, and dissipate the gloom.
Still art thou weary? ope the page endeared,
Inspired of God, by saint and sage revered;
On holy themes with pious fervour dwell,
(Not more absorbed the hermit in his cell)
To God, in prayer, be all thy sorrows given,
Nor doubt of rest, eternal rest, in heaven!
The Letheian fiend of Ennui to disarm.
And still, as slowly creeps the lingering day,
Still dost thou chide its tedious delay,
And sick of dull monotony profound,
Sigh o’er the lake, the Stygian lake to bound?
Ope nature’s book, and, on its page sublime,
Go, trace the change of ever-varying time:
Behold the seasons in their circling course,
And with Omnipotence hold high discourse!
See, bursting, as from confines of the tomb,
Fair Spring arrayed in garb of softest bloom;
Hark to the choristers of hill and grove,
The vales are vocal with their songs of love.
In azure robe, with fruits and flow’rets drest,
Greet Summer, fairest of the fair confest;
With her, where rippling waters softly stray,
Go sweetly while the sultry hours away,
Bright garlands weave beneath o’erhanging trees,
And drink the spicy fragrance of the breeze.
Or seek the woods when Autumn, sombre maid,
Tints with her golden hues each hill and glade;
Or watch the dashing of the waterfall,
Or list the echoes of the blackbird’s call;
In scenes like these, heart-wearying thought compose,
And seek to win sad memory to repose!
When Winter comes, in snowy vestment hoar,
And loud is heard the angry billow’s roar,
Then image halcyon scenes in worlds to come,
Dispel the storm, and dissipate the gloom.
Still art thou weary? ope the page endeared,
Inspired of God, by saint and sage revered;
On holy themes with pious fervour dwell,
(Not more absorbed the hermit in his cell)
To God, in prayer, be all thy sorrows given,
Nor doubt of rest, eternal rest, in heaven!
Canst thou be weary, nor in glittering theme,
With wrapt enthusiast, or the poet, dream?
With mighty Shakspeare viewless realms explore,
With Young contemplate, or with Milman soar?
Nay, then, ’gainst inspiration thou art proof;
Thy heart is seared, or formed of leaden stuff,
Where never spark that fires the generous mind
May entrance gain, or habitation find!
One trial yet reinains: go, seek the room
Where want and sickness form a living tomb;
Where, withering beneath affliction’s rod,
Pale misery sits within her chill abode!
Go, list the famished orphan’s piercing cry,
The widow’s wailings, and the captive’s sigh;
Go, seek the fatherless, deserted, lone,
Hark to expiring nature’s lengthened groan!
Then talk of Ennui—of nought to do
And ’plain of fancied ills for lack of true,
And still, of hapless victims fortune-crost,
Thyself believe the most abandoned, lost!—
“Where is thy blush, O Shame!” throw books aside,
The vallies leave, the hills, and ocean wide;
No more on vapid follies idly brood,
But learn “the luxury of doing good!”
Visit the wretched in their haunts of woe,
The pitying tear, the alms of love bestow;
And this will balsam yield whose sweets shall heal
Life’s darkest ills, and brighter things reveal
Than ever yet were given to mortal view,
Dazzling and fair, yet not more fair than true;
The splendid fabric of that high abode,
Where angels worship, and whose Lord is God!
With wrapt enthusiast, or the poet, dream?
With mighty Shakspeare viewless realms explore,
With Young contemplate, or with Milman soar?
Nay, then, ’gainst inspiration thou art proof;
Thy heart is seared, or formed of leaden stuff,
Where never spark that fires the generous mind
May entrance gain, or habitation find!
One trial yet reinains: go, seek the room
Where want and sickness form a living tomb;
Where, withering beneath affliction’s rod,
Pale misery sits within her chill abode!
Go, list the famished orphan’s piercing cry,
The widow’s wailings, and the captive’s sigh;
Go, seek the fatherless, deserted, lone,
Hark to expiring nature’s lengthened groan!
Then talk of Ennui—of nought to do
And ’plain of fancied ills for lack of true,
And still, of hapless victims fortune-crost,
Thyself believe the most abandoned, lost!—
“Where is thy blush, O Shame!” throw books aside,
The vallies leave, the hills, and ocean wide;
No more on vapid follies idly brood,
But learn “the luxury of doing good!”
Visit the wretched in their haunts of woe,
The pitying tear, the alms of love bestow;
And this will balsam yield whose sweets shall heal
Life’s darkest ills, and brighter things reveal
Than ever yet were given to mortal view,
Dazzling and fair, yet not more fair than true;
The splendid fabric of that high abode,
Where angels worship, and whose Lord is God!
Liverpool. G.
POOR ROBIN’S PROPHECY.
(From the New Monthly Magazine, for March.)
BY ONE OF THE AUTHORS OF THE REJECTED ADDRESSES.
When girls prefer old lovers,
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell’s skull discovers,
What pass’d in Thurtell’s brain!
When farms contain no growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When merchants scoff at gain,
When Thurtell’s skull discovers,
What pass’d in Thurtell’s brain!
When farms contain no growlers,
No pig-tail Wapping-wall,
Then spread your lark-nets, fowlers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When Boston men love banter,
When loan-contractors sleep,
When Chancery-pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep;
When topers swear that claret’s
The vilest drink of all;
Then, housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.
When loan-contractors sleep,
When Chancery-pleadings canter,
And common-law ones creep;
When topers swear that claret’s
The vilest drink of all;
Then, housemaids, quit your garrets,
For sure the sky will fall.
When Southey leagues with Wooler,
When dandies show no shape,
When fiddlers’ heads are fuller
Than that whereon they scrape;
When doers turn to talkers,
And Quakers love a ball;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When dandies show no shape,
When fiddlers’ heads are fuller
Than that whereon they scrape;
When doers turn to talkers,
And Quakers love a ball;
Then hurry home, street-walkers,
For sure the sky will fall.
When worth dreads no detractor,
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,
And manager, and actor
Lie down like kid and lamb;
When bard with bard embraces,
And critics cease to maul,
Then, travellers, mend your paces,
For sure the sky will fall.
Wit thrives at Amsterdam,
And manager, and actor
Lie down like kid and lamb;
When bard with bard embraces,
And critics cease to maul,
Then, travellers, mend your paces,
For sure the sky will fall.
When men, who leave off business
With butter-cups to play,
Find in their heads no dizziness,
Nor long for “melting day;”
When cits their pert Mount-pleasants
Deprive of poplars tall;
Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants,
For sure the sky will fall.
With butter-cups to play,
Find in their heads no dizziness,
Nor long for “melting day;”
When cits their pert Mount-pleasants
Deprive of poplars tall;
Then, poachers, prowl for pheasants,
For sure the sky will fall.
SONNET TO MISS A. B.
You truly are the loveliest girl I ever
Have had the fortune in this world to find;
And well I know, that I again shall never
Meet one so charming both in form and mind;
And though austere Adversity would bind
Me to such scenes as I in thought would spurn;
Yet shall young Fancy, fleeter than the wind,
To you in absence evermore return.
Think you, the soul untreasured leaves behind
The charm it gathered in your converse sweet?
No! still shall faithful Memory from her urn
Such treasures bring—that tho’ Time’s wing be fleet
In happy hours alone—those bours will be
More fleetly passed, when spent in thought on thee.
Have had the fortune in this world to find;
And well I know, that I again shall never
Meet one so charming both in form and mind;
And though austere Adversity would bind
Me to such scenes as I in thought would spurn;
Yet shall young Fancy, fleeter than the wind,
To you in absence evermore return.
Think you, the soul untreasured leaves behind
The charm it gathered in your converse sweet?
No! still shall faithful Memory from her urn
Such treasures bring—that tho’ Time’s wing be fleet
In happy hours alone—those bours will be
More fleetly passed, when spent in thought on thee.
Sept. 1. D. H.
TO THE EDITOR.
Sir,—As Goldsmith’s Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog may amuse some of your readers, at this particular time, I send you a copy for insertion, Yours, &c.
LOVE ME LOVE MY DOG.
Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond’rous short,
It cannot hold you long.
Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wond’rous short,
It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene’er he went to pray.
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
Whene’er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes:
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
To comfort friends and foes:
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.
This dog and man, at first, were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad and bit the man.
Around, from all the neighb’ring streets,
The wondring neighbours ran;
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wondring neighbours ran;
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem’d both sore and sad,
To every Christian eye;
And, while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
To every Christian eye;
And, while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,
That show’d the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
That show’d the rogues they lied;
The man recovered of the bite,
The dog it was that died.
GERMAN EPIGRAMS.
[TRANSLATED BY MR. BOWRING, IN THE LAST LONDON MAGAZINE.]
Who noble is may hold in scorn,
The man who is but noble born.—Zeiler.
The man who is but noble born.—Zeiler.
A MOTHER’S LOVE.
E’er yet her child has drawn its earliest breath,
A mother’s love begins: it glows till death,
Lives before life, with death not dies, but seems
The very substance of immortal dreams.—Wernieke.
A mother’s love begins: it glows till death,
Lives before life, with death not dies, but seems
The very substance of immortal dreams.—Wernieke.
Bliss is like woman: both alike we see,
Immutable in immutability.—Wernicke.
Immutable in immutability.—Wernicke.
EPITAPH.
Here lies, thank God, a woman who
Quarrell’d and storm’d her whole life through;
Tread gently o’er her mouldering form,
Or else you’ll rouse another storm.—Weckherlin.
Quarrell’d and storm’d her whole life through;
Tread gently o’er her mouldering form,
Or else you’ll rouse another storm.—Weckherlin.
HONORABLE SERVICE.
If one have served thee, tell the deed to many;
Hast thou served many, tell it not to any.—Optiz.
Hast thou served many, tell it not to any.—Optiz.
EPITAPH ON A MISER.
Here lies old father Gripe, who never cried ‘Jam satis,’
’Twould wake him did he know you read his tombstone
gratis.—Opitz.
’Twould wake him did he know you read his tombstone
gratis.—Opitz.
TO AN OLD COQUETTE.
’Tis not thy years that frighten me away,
But that thy youngest brother’s hair is gray.—Gryphius.
But that thy youngest brother’s hair is gray.—Gryphius.
ADAM’S SLEEP.
He laid him down and slept—and from his side
A woman in her magic beauty rose,
Dazzled and charm’d he called that woman “bride,”
And his first sleep became his last repose.—Besser.
A woman in her magic beauty rose,
Dazzled and charm’d he called that woman “bride,”
And his first sleep became his last repose.—Besser.
COUNSEL.
Friend! do not crouch to those above,
Friend! do not tread on those below:
Love those—they’re worthy of thy love,
Love these, and thou wilt make them so.—Wernicke.
Friend! do not tread on those below:
Love those—they’re worthy of thy love,
Love these, and thou wilt make them so.—Wernicke.
I never dine at home, said Harry Skinner;
True! when you dine not out, you get no dinner.—Opitz.
True! when you dine not out, you get no dinner.—Opitz.
The world is but an opera show,
We come, look round, and then we go.—Gryphius.
We come, look round, and then we go.—Gryphius.
