Insect lover of the sun,

Joy of thy dominion!

Sailor of the atmosphere;

Swimmer through the waves of air;
Voyager of light and noon;
Epicurean of June;

Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,
With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall,

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a colour of romance,

And, infusing subtle heats,

Turns the sod to violets,

Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,

Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,
Maple-sap, and daffodels,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,

Succory to match the sky,

Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet,

Thou dost mock at fate and care,

Leave the chaff, and take the wheat.
When the fierce north-western blast
Cools sea and land so far and fast,
Thou already slumberest deep;
Woe and want thou canst outsleep;
Want and woe which torture us,
Thy sleep makes ridiculous.

THE EXECUTION.

A SPORTING ANECDOTE.

BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY (nom de plume of R. HARRIS BARHAM).

APY Lord Tomnoddy got up one day;
It was half after two,

He had nothing to do,

So his Lordship rang for his cabriolet.
Tiger Tim

Was clean of limb,

His boots were polish'd, his jacket was trim;
With a very smart tie in his smart cravat,
And a smart cockade on the top of his hat;
Tallest of boys, or shortest of men,

He stood in his stockings just four foot ten;
And he ask'd, as he held the door on the swing,
"Pray, did your Lordship please to ring?"

My Lord Tomnoddy he raised his head,
And thus to Tiger Tim he said,

"Malibran's dead,

Duvernay's fled,

Taglioni has not yet arrived in her stead;

Tiger Tim, come tell me true,

What may a Nobleman find to do?"

Tim look'd up, and Tim look'd down,

He paused, and he put on a thoughtful frown,
And he held up his hat, and he peep'd in the crown;
He bit his lip, and he scratch'd his head,
He let go the handle, and thus he said,

As the door, released, behind him bang'd:

"An't please you, my Lord, there's a man to be hang'd."

My Lord Tomnoddy jump'd up at the news, "Run to M'Fuze,

And Lieutenant Tregooze,

And run to Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues.
Rope-dancers a score

I've seen before

Madame Sacchi, Antonio, and Master Black-more; But to see a man swing

At the end of a string,

With his neck in a noose, will be quite a new thing!"

My Lord Tomnoddy stept into his cab-
Dark rifle green, with a lining of drab;
Through street and through square,

His high-trotting mare,

Like one of Ducrow's, goes pawing the air.

Adown Piccadilly and Waterloo Place

Went the high-trotting mare at a very quick pace;

She produced some alarm,

But did. no great harm,

Save frightening a nurse with a child on her arm, Spattering with clay

Two urchins at play,

Knocking down-very much to the sweeper's dismayAn old woman who wouldn't get out of the way, And upsetting a stall

Near Exeter Hall,

Which made all the pious Church-Mission folks squall. But eastward afar,

Through Temple Bar,

My Lord Tomnoddy directs his car;
Never heeding their squalls,

Or their calls, or their bawls,

He passes by Waithman's Emporium for shawls,
And, merely just catching a glimpse of St. Paul's,
Turns down the Old Bailey,

Where in front of the gaol, he

Pulls up at the door of the gin-shop, and gaily
Cries, "What must I fork out to-night, my trump,
For the whole first-floor of the Magpie and Stump ?"

The clock strikes Twelve-it is dark midnight—
Yet the Magpie and Stump is one blaze of light.

The parties are met;

The tables are set;

There is "punch," "cold without," "hot with," "heavy

wet,"