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But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching,
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching;
And the only new lore my experience traces,

Is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces.

How weary is wisdom, how weary!

When one sits by a smiling young dearie!

And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her,

I will turn and retort on my lovely aceuser;

Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted?
It is you, the enchantress - not I, the enchanted.
Would you have me behave more discreetly,
Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WHO ASKED ME TO WRITE SOMETHING ORIGINAL FOR HER ALBUM.

AN original something, fair maid, you would win me

To write

but how shall I begin?

For I fear I have nothing original in me

Excepting Original Sin!

GEORGE CANNING.

THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN. | This faded form! this pallid hue!

WHENE'ER with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Sweet kerchief, checked with heaven-
blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in

Alas, Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,

Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languished at the University of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

This blood my veins is clotting

in!

My years are many- they were few
When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion

grew,

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tutor, law professor at the U

niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

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WILL CARLETON.

THE NEW-YEAR'S BABY.

"Th'art welcome, litle bonnie bird,

But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did.
Teimes are bad.” — Old English Ballad.

HOOT, ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way

Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, and seven,

An' tryin' to make yerself out a New-Year's present o' heaven!

Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse,

An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat; and Nellie she have no shoes;
And Sammie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame);
And the one that was just before you we a'n't had time to name.
An' all the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folks fall;
An' boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight;
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night.
An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somew'at to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor, dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a' seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start.

An' now ye have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound;
With your mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready to be filled.

No, no, don't cry, my baby; hush up, my pretty one.
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, my boy; I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'ous folks;
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes.

Why, boy! did ye take me in earnest ? Come, sit upon my knee.
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster; I'll name ye after me;

Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play;

An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day.

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,

But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;

An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's yer brothers there,

An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair.

Say, when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear,

Did ye see, mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here? That was yer little sister; she died a year ago.

An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow.

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew

Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd,

Before I'd sell to another my New-Year's gift from God.

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"Ah!" replied my gentle fair, "Beloved, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suitsthe line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris. Call me Lalage or Doris,

Only, only call me Thine."

LINES TO A COMIC AUTHOR ON AN ABUsive revIEW.

WHAT though the chilly widemouthed quacking chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak;

So was it, neighbor, in the times be

fore us, When Momus, throwing on his attic cloak,

Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse

(That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine,

Was married to at least, he kept — all nine)

Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to

excuse,

They had allured the audacious Greek to use,

Swore they mistook him for their own good man.

This Momus - Aristophanes on earth Men called him— maugre all his wit

and worth

Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you,

Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?

No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,

"I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!'

FROM "AN ODE TO THE RAIN." Composed before daylight, on the morning appointed for the departure of a very worthy, but not very pleasant visitor, whom it was feared the rain might detain.

THOUGH you should come again tomorrow,

And bring with you both pain and

sorrow;

Though stomach should sicken and
knees should swell-
I'll nothing speak of you but well.
But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way; Nay, I would write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing how very good you are. What then? sometimes it must be fair!

And if sometimes, why not to-day? Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and We have so much to talk about,

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