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III. THE POET RELATES HOW HE STOLE A LOCK OF DELIA'S HAIR, AND

HER ANGER.

Oh! be the day accurst that gave me birth!

Ye Seas ! to swallow me, in kindness rise!
Fall on me, mountains, and thou merciful earth,

Open, and hide me from my Delia's eyes.
Let universal Chaos now return,

Now let the central fires their prison burst,
And Earth, and HEAVEN, and Air, and OCEAN burn,

For Delia frowns. Sue Frowns, and I am curst.

Oh! I could dare the fury of the fight,

Where hostile MILLIONS sought my single life;
Would storin VOLCANOES, BATTERIES, with delight,

And grapple with Grim Death in glorious strise.

Oh! I could brave the bolts of angry JOVE,

When ceaseless lightnings fire the midnight skies;
What is his wrath to that of HER I love?

What is his LIGHTNING to my Delia's eyes?

Go, fatal lock! I cast thee to the wind;

Ye serpent curls, ye poison tendrils, go!
Would I could tear thy memory

from

my mind, ACCURSED LOCK; thou cause of all my woe!

Seize the crest OCRLS, ye Furies, as they fly!

Demons of darkness, guard the infernal roll,
That thence your cruel vengeance, when I die,

May knit the KNOTS OF TORTURE for my SOUL.

Last night-Oh hear me, heaven, and grant my prayer !

The BOOK OF FATE before thy suppliant lay,
And let me from its ample records tear

Only the single PAGE OF YESTERDAY!

Or let me meet old Time upon his flight,

And I will sTOP HIM on his restless way;
Omnipotent in love's resistless might,

I'U force him back the ROAD OF YESTERDAY.

Last night, as o'er the page of love's despair,

My Delia bent deliciously to grieve,
I stood a treacherous loiterer by her chair,

And drew the FATAL SCISSORS from my sleeve:

And would at that instant o'er my thread

The SHEARS OF ATROPOs had opened then;
And when I reft the lock from Delia's head,

Had cut me sudden from the sons of men!

She heard the scissors that fair lock divide,

And while my heart with transport parted big,
She cast a fury frown on me, and cried,

“You stupid puppy-you have spoiled my wig !"

THE BABY'S DEBUT. *

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF WORDSWORTH.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.]

JAMES SMITH.

[Spoken in the character of Nancy Lake, a girl eight years of age, who is drawn

upon the stage in a child's chaise by Samuel Hughes, her uncle's porter.)

My brother Jack was nine in May,
And I was eight on New-year's-day;

So in Kate Wilson's shop
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's)
Bought me, last week, a doll of wax,

And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is—
He thinks mine came to more than his;

So to my drawer he goes,
Takes out the doll, and, 0, my stars !
He pokes her head between the bars,

And melts off half her nose!

* " The author does not, in this instance, attempt to copy any of the higher attributes of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry; but has succeeded perfectly in the imi. tation of his mawkish affectations of childish simplicity and nursery stammering. We hope it will make him ashamed of his Alice Fell, and the greater part of his last volume of which it is by no means a parody, but a very fair, and indeed we think a flattering, imitation."-Edinburg Revier.

Quite cross, a bit of string I beg,
And tie it to his peg-top's peg,

And bang, with might and main,
Its head against the parlor-door:
Off flies the head, and hits the floor,

And breaks a window-pane.

This made him cry with rage and spite:
Well, let him cry, it serves him right.

A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot,
Half my doll's nose, and I am not

To draw his peg-top's tooth!

Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake,

Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day !" And while papa said, “Pooh, she may?"

Mamma said, “No, she sha’n't!"

Well, after many a sad reproach,
They got into a hackney-coach,

And trotted down the street.
I saw them go: one horse was blind,
The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

The chaise in which poor brother Bill
Used to be drawn to Pentonville,

Stood in the lumber-room:
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a rop,

And brushed it with a broom.

My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,

(I always talk to Sam :)
So what does he, but takes, and drags
Me in the chaise along the flags,

And leaves me where I am.

My father's walls are made of brick,
But not so tall and not so thick

As these; and, goodness me!
My father's beams are made of wood,
But never, never half so good

As those that now I see.

a

What a large floor! 'tis like a town!
The carpet, when they lay it down,

Won't hide it, I'll be bound;
And there's a row of lamps !-my eye!
How they do blaze! I wonder why

They keep them on the ground.

At first I caught hold of the wing,
And kept away; but Mr. Thing-

umbob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
Antl said, “Go on, my pretty love;

Speak to 'em little Nan.

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"You've only got to curtsy, whisp-
er,
hold

your chin up, laugh and lisp,
And then you 're sure to take:
I've known the day when brats, not quite
Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night;

Then why not Nancy Lake ?

But while I'm speaking, where 's papa ?
And where's my aunt? and where 's mamma?

Where's Jack? O there they sit !
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways,
And order round poor Billy's chaise,

To join them in the pit.

And now, good gentlefolks, I go
To join mamma, and see the show;

So, bidding you adieu,
I curtsy like a pretty miss,
And if you 'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.

(Blows a kink, and exit. 1

PLAY-HOUSE MUSINGS.

[A BURLESQUE IMITATION OF COLERIDGE.—REJECTED ADDRESSES.)

JAMES SMITH My pensive Public, wherefore look you

sad ?
I had a grandmother, she kept a donkey
To carry to the mart her crockery-ware,
And when that donkey looked me in the face,
His face was sad ! and you are sad, my Public.

Joy should be yours: this tenth day of October
Again assembles us in Drury Lane.
Long wept my eye to see the timber planks
That hid our ruins; many a day I cried,
Ah me! I fear they never will rebuild it!
Till on one eve, one joyful Monday eve,
As along Charles-street I prepared to walk,
Just at the corner, by the pastrycook's,
I heard a trowel tick against a brick.
I looked me up, and straight a parapet
Uprose at least seven inches o'er the planks.
Joy to thee, Drury! to myself I said:
He of the Blackfriars' Road, who hymned thy downfall
In loud Hosannahs, and who prophesied
That flames, like those from prostrate Solyma,
Would scorch the hand that ventured to rebuild thee,
Has proved a lying prophet. From that hour,
As leisure offered, close to Mr. Spring's
Box-office door, I've stood and eyed the builders.
They had a plan to render less their labors;
Workmen in olden times would mount a ladder
With hodded heals, but these stretched forth a pole
From the wall's pinnacle, they placed a pulley
Athwart the pole, a rope athwart the pulley;
To this a basket dangled; mortar and bricks
Thus freighted, swung securely to the top,
And in the empty basket workmen twain
Precipitate, unhurt, accosted earth.

Oh! 't was a goodly sound, to hear the people Who watched the work, express their various thoughts!

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