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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
Live not the less, so live our loves unbreathed,

And still shall live e'en when this heart is dead!
For 'twas not sought, but fixed in heaven above
That we should meet for everlasting love.
Thrice happy locks! elect of Fate to wed

The raven tresses of my queen, and sleep
Upon her bosom pillowed; see ye steep.
My thoughts in sympathy with hers! "Tis said
Magnetic influence from your mazes flies;
Be grateful then, and see ye earn your prize,
Whispering this breast whate'er she hopes or sighs;—
Ye reap who sowed not while this heart has bled.





WE sate by the fisher's dwelling,
And looked upon the sea;
The evening mists were gathering,
And rising up silently.

Forth from the lofty lighthouse
Streamed softly light by light,
And in the farthest distance
A ship hove into sight.

We spoke of storm and shipwreck;
Of seamen, and how they lay
Unsafe 'twixt heaven and water,

'Twixt joy and fear each day.
We spoke of lands far distant;

We took a world-wide range,
We spoke of wondrous nations,

And manners new and strange.
Of the fragrant, glittering Ganges,

Where giant trees uptower,
And handsome, quiet people,

Kneel to the lotus flower.

Of Lapland's filthy people,

Flat-headed, wide-mouthed, we spake:
How they squat round their fires and jabber,
And shriek o'er the fish they bake.

The maidens listened so gravely;

At length no more was said;
The ship was in sight no longer,

And night over all was spread.



No. III.





Now it seems there's a place they call Purgat'ry-so
I must write it, my verse not admitting the O-
But as for the Venue, I vow I'm perplext
To say if it's in this world, or if in the next-
Or whether in both-for 'tis very well known
That St. Patrick, at least, has got one of his own
In a tight little Island' that stands in a Lake
Called Lough-dearg'-that's 'The Red Lake,' unless I mis-


In Fermanagh or Antrim-or Donegal-which
I declare I can't tell,

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,-
To the one which the Pope had found out just before.

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,
That it acts as a Tap-room to Satan's Hotel.

6 Entertainment's' there worse

Both for 'Man and for Horse ;'—
For broiling the souls

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,
It's by no means so strong-
Mere sloe-leaves to Souchong;

The 'prokers' are not half so hot, or so long,
By an inch or two, either in handle or prong;

The Vipers and Snakes are less sharp in the tooth,
And the Nondescript Monsters not near so uncouth ;-
In short, it's a place the good Pope, its creator,
Made for what's called by Cockneys a' Minor The-atre.'
Better suited, of course, for a 'minor performer,'


Than the House,' that's so much better lighted and warmer,
Below, in that queer place which nobody mentions,-
-You understand where

I don't question-down there


Where, in lieu of wood blocks, and such modern inventions,
The Paving Commissioners use Good Intentions,'
Materials which here would be thought on by few men,
With so many founts of Asphaltic bitumen
At hand, at the same time to pave and illumine.

To go on with my story,
This same Purga-tory,

(There! I've got in the O, to my Muse's great glory,)
Is close locked, and the Pope keeps the keys of it-that I can
Boldly affirm-in his desk in the Vatican;

-Not those of St. Peter

These, of which I now treat, are

A bunch by themselves, and much smaller and neater-
And so cleverly made, Mr. Chubb could not frame a
Key better contrived for its purpose-nor Bramah.

Now it seems that by these
Most miraculous keys


Not only the Pope, but his clargy,' with ease
Can let people in and out just as they please;
And-provided you make it all right about fees,-
There is not a friar, Dr. Wiseman will own, of them,
But can always contrive to obtain a short loan of them;
And Basil, no doubt,

Had brought matters about,

If the little old woman would but have spoke out,'
So far as to get for her one of those tickets,

Or passes which clear both the great gates and wickets;
So that after a grill,

Or short turn on the Mill,

And with no worse a singeing, to purge her iniquity,
Than a Freemason gets in The Lodge of Antiquity,'
She'd have rubbed off old scores,


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,
You'll see clearly at once,

When you come to consider the facts of the case, he,
Of course, never gave her his Vade in pace;

And the consequence was, when the last mortal throe
Released her pale Ghost from these regions of woe,
The little old Woman had nowhere to go!

For what could she do?
She very well knew

If she went to the gates I have mentioned to you,
Without Basil's, or some other passport to show,
The Cheque-takers never would let her go through;
While, as to the other place, e'en had she tried it,
And really had wished it as much as she shied it,
(For no one who knows what it is can abide it,)
Had she knocked at the portal with ne'er so much din,
Though she'd died in what folks at Rome call 'Mortal sin,'
Yet Old Nick, for the life of him, daren't take her in-
As she'd not been turned formally out of the pale,'
So much the bare name of the Pope made him quail
In the times that I speak of, his courage would fail
Of Rome's vassals the lowest and worst to assail,
Or e'en touch with so much as the end of his tail;
Though, now he's grown older,
They say he's much bolder,

And his Holiness not only gets the 'cold shoulder,'
But Nick rumps him completely, and don't seem to care a
Dump-that's the word-for his triple tiara.

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;"
But then there's a quaint
Old Proverb says


Heart ne'er won fair Lady," then how win a saint ;—
I've a great mind to try-

One can but apply;

If things come to the worst why he can but deny-
The sky

'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 !—
-So said and so done-she was off like a shot,
And kept on the whole way at a pretty smart trot.

When she drew so near
That St. Peter could see her,

The Saint in a moment began to look queer,
And scarce would allow her to make her case clear,
Ere he pursed up his mouth 'twixt a sneer and a jeer,
With It's all very well,-but you do not lodge here !'—
Then, calling her everything but 'My dear!'


He applied his great toe with some force au derrière,
And dismissed her at once with a flea in her ear.

'Alas! poor Ghost!'

It's a doubt which is most

To be pitied-one doom'd to fry, broil, boil, and roast,-
Or one banded about thus from pillar to post,-

To be

all abroad' to be 'stump'd'-not to know where
To go-so disgraced

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.'-
However that be,

Working hard with a spade,
All at once she survey'd

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,'
Having no other sort of asylum in view,
'Returns back again to the place whence she flew,'
A fact which experience has proved to be true.—
Mr. Gray, in opinion with whom Johnson clashes,-
Declares that our wonted fires live in our ashes."*
These motives combined, perhaps, brought back the hag,
The first to her mansion, the last to her bag,
When only conceive her dismay and surprise,
As a Ghost how she open'd her cold stony eyes,



When there, on the spot where she'd hid her supplies,'-
In an underground cellar of very small size,

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Fancy the tone

Of the half moan, half groan,

Which burst from the breast of the Ghost of the crone !
As she stood there,-a figure 'twixt moonshine and stone,—
Only fancy the glare in her eyeballs that shone !
Although, as Macbeth says, they'd no speculation,'
While she utter'd that word,

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.

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