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On presenting a young Lady with a locket of his hair interlaced with her own at a time when fate seemed to make it impossible for him to meet her again.
THE love thou gavest with my own is wreathed;
And as these locks though severed from the head
And still shall live e'en when this heart is dead!
The raven tresses of my queen, and sleep
J. C. BENTLEY.
SPECIMENS OF MODERN GERMAN POETS.
TRANSLATED BY MARY HOWITT.
WE sate by the fisher's dwelling,
Forth from the lofty lighthouse
We spoke of storm and shipwreck;
'Twixt joy and fear each day.
We took a world-wide range,
And manners new and strange.
Where giant trees uptower,
Kneel to the lotus flower.
Of Lapland's filthy people,
Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake:
The maidens listened so gravely;
At length no more was said;
And night over all was spread.
BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY.
Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry-so
In Fermanagh or Antrim-or Donegal-which
But I know very well
It's in latitude 54, nearly their pitch:
(At Tappington, now, I could look in the Gazetteer, But I'm out on a visit, and nobody has it here.)
There are some, I'm aware,
Who don't stick to declare
There's no differ' at all 'twixt this here' and 'that there.' That it's all the same place, but the Saint reserves his entry For the separate use of the finest of pisentry,'
And that his is no more
Than a mere private door
From the rez-de-chaussée-as some call the ground-floor,-
But no matter-lay
The locale where you may;
-And where it is no one exactly can say―
There's one thing, at least, which is known very well,
6 Entertainment's' there worse
Both for 'Man and for Horse ;'—
They use Lord Mayor's coals;
Then the sulphur's inferior, and boils up much slower
Than the fine fruity brimstone they give you down lower,
The 'prokers' are not half so hot, or so long,
The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
Than the House,' that's so much better lighted and warmer,
I don't question-down there
Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
To go on with my story,
(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory,)
-Not those of St. Peter
These, of which I now treat, are
A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater-
Now it seems that by these
Not only the Pope, but his clargy,' with ease
Had brought matters about,
If the little old woman would but have spoke out,'
Or passes which clear both the great gates and wickets;
Or short turn on the Mill,
And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Popped out of doors,
And sheered off at once for a happier port,
Like a white-washed Insolvent that's gone through the Court.'
But Basil was one
Who was not to be done
By any one, either in earnest or fun ;
The cunning old beads-telling son of a gun,
In all bargains, unless he'd his quid for his quo,
Would shake his bald pate, and pronounce it' No Go.'
So, unless you're a dunce,
When you come to consider the facts of the case, he,
And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
For what could she do?
If she went to the gates I have mentioned to you,
And his Holiness not only gets the 'cold shoulder,'
Well-what shall she do ?
What's the course to pursue ?—
Try St. Peter ?-the step is a bold one to take ;
For the Saint is, there can't be a doubt," wide awake;"
Heart ne'er won fair Lady," then how win a saint ;—
One can but apply;
If things come to the worst why he can but deny-
's rather high
To be sure-but, now I
That cumbersome carcass of clay have laid by,
I am just in the "order" which some folks-though why I am sure I can't tell you-would call "Apple-pie." Then "never say die!"
It won't do to be shy,
So I'll tuck up my shroud, and-here goes for a fly !—
When she drew so near
The Saint in a moment began to look queer,
He applied his great toe with some force au derrière,
'Alas! poor Ghost!'
It's a doubt which is most
To be pitied-one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,-
all abroad' to be 'stump'd'-not to know where
The affaire was finie,
And the poor wretch rejected by all, as you see!
As not to be placed,'
Or, as Crocky would say to Jem Bland, to be No-where.'-
Working hard with a spade,
That confounded old bandy-legged Tailor by trade.'
Mr. Oliver Goldsmith observes-not the Jew
That the Hare whom the hounds and the huntsmen pursue,'
When there, on the spot where she'd hid her supplies,'-
Fancy the tone
Of the half moan, half groan,
Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone !
Which American Bird,
Or John Fenimore Cooper, would render Tarnation !!'
* "E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires !'-GRAY.
'A position at which Experience revolts, Credulity hesitates, and even Fancy stares -JOHNSON.