SHADOWS OF THE METROPOLIS.

"Rusticus tuus ille Romulus pater fert trechedipnum."

THERE is a city of the waters
Than Venice far more fair,
More lovely are her blooming daughters,
Than those who deck their raven hair
Within the valley of Cashmere,

The fabled home of Lalla Rookh-
Or lave within its fountains clear,
Forms pictured in that glowing book.
The rural stranger with surprise,
Beholds on every side
Those gorgeous monuments arise,
Which mark a city's pride.
Soft rolling coaches richly painted,
With liveried footmen tall-
Make her fair dames acquainted,
Through matinée and ball.
And in the widest of her streets,
A spacious temple's built;
Reclining on whose downy seats
Of velvet, rich with gilt,
The gazer's eyes adore,
Upon an opera night,
"Mater et filia pulchrior,"

Those gems of beauty bright.
As are our spangled banner's stars,
Whilst emblem of the stripes,
Sit better-halves, and rich papas,
Not inappropriate types.
How dearly cost the glittering dresses,
And scarfs of richest lace,

When paid for in caresses,
Of Cræsus' vulgar face.

Whilst he upon whose manly arm
In youth they used to cling,
With whom they felt love's earliest charm,
With whom in opening spring
They sought the wild flowers in the field,
Or near the murmuring brook,
Each to the other had revealed

In many a fond and lingering look,
The love which was to bind for ever
Hearts for each other made,
In ties that naught could sever
Till in the cold grave laid.
Is wandering in some distant clime,
Seeking his daily bread-
Or sunk in trade or legal slime,
Hides his diminished head.

Hard is the task of man to rise
Against depressing fate,

But woman's tact the power supplies
To lift the incumbent weight.

Hence in every land we see

The fairest daughters of creation,
Though born midst want and poverty,
Rise to conspicuous station.
And when that point they do attain,
Receive with charming grace
The glittering pomp and homage vain,
Of circumstance and place.

Ask any one who's chanced to see
The Empress of France,
With brow of regal dignity,

And eye of touching glance,
Pourtrayed with all the painter's art,
Midst six young beauties fair;
If as their sweet looks touch the heart,
He'd for a moment dare

Reproach them with their lineage new, Or think they'd have a nobler mien, Were they possessed of blood as blue As that of Albion's model queen.

Gay is the opera-house to-night,
The fine folks muster thick;
With Jouvin's gloves of spotless white
To hear Sienna's Pic.

See where the lovely Mrs. S.,
Within the foremost row
Displays a purple moire dress,
Costing as much as Joe,

Her girlish love, for months could spend,
For clothes, and fun, and dinner!
So prudently she put an end

To his fond hopes, poor sinner!
Married to one by twenty years,
Some thirty said, her senior;
On pointlace dried two rising tears,
And with a calm demeanor
Walked with the nabob up the aisle-

Knelt to the Lord in prayer;
Whilst gazing with triumphant smile,
Upon a diamond solitaire-
From Paris and the Rue la Paix,
By her new lord brought out,
With its bright looks to charm away
Thoughts of his age and gout.

That vacant seat of rose-buds smelling, Speaks quite another tale,

In fact is eloquently telling,

How hopes of fortune sometimes fail.

And disappointment sends abroad
The fairest of our daughters;
To play off on some foreign lord,
Or count across the waters,
Charming airs and winning graces,
Which here have not availed;
And forget amidst new faces,

The scenes midst which they failed.

Last year Lutetia came out,
And was by all admired;
Had six bouquets at every rout,
And none was so attired-
The aged Pandarus of Troy
For her had laid aside

His habits fixed, dressed like a boy,
And wooed her as his bride.
But they say one night affrighted
By the ghost of her Aunt Dinah,
Whose affections he had slighted,
He slipped away to China-
And that's the last that she would see
Of the nabob of the east,
Whilst in the land of silk and tea,
On capons he will feast;
And at her disappointment grin,
Whilst eating his pillaw,
Or chattering with some mandarin
At the verandah door.

Who are those youths so neatly dressed,
All in an opera box together;
With bordered shirt and crimson vest,
And faultless boots of patent leather?
Foremost, weighed down by layers of fat,
The young Lucullus stands,
And grasps his brain-protecting hat,
Within his flabby hands.

When pendant from the butcher's stall,
Some new-slain swine we see,

The animal is most as tall,
And near as stout as he.
When speculations on the Bourse,
Adversely have turned out,
John Crapaud takes the timely course
Off to the right about.
Leaving for lands across the sea,
That land of penal gallies;
These all frequent his company,
Laugh at his witty sallies.
Never in Paris was he met
At dinner, ball, or soirée;
But often in the Rue Lorette,
And round the Maison D'orée

Here a precarious life to lead,
Within that famous club,
Whose members show a cross in breed
'Twixt gentleman and scrub.
Apish are they of one who is
The Creighton called by right;
To have their clothes cut after his
Is their supreme delight.
And if around his genial board,
Permitted to appear,

To meet some travelling English lord,
They fairly quake with fear.
That one with face like classic Greek,
That man with whiskers pale,
Though very seldom heard to speak,
On one theme ne'er will fail.
In conversation to assist,

And with excitement jump,
Telling of battles lost at whist,
By keeping back the trump.
He toils all night from setting sun,
Till dawns Aurora fair;
And when the other men have done,
Sits down to solitaire.

There's one who never speaks at all,
But like the cockatoo,
Says, in a two hours' call,

"How are you, how d'ye do."
The other two now standing near,
Make up the list of flats;
A flashy man who sells small beer,
A count who vends straw hats!
These, Megalopolis, thy sons,
Will far extend thy fame!!
As will the club where older ones
Do pretty much the same.
Such are the men the ladies snub,
The poor heart-broken swains
Who in the great Emporium Club
Forget love's cruel pains.
At first they sighed at fate so hard,
And grieved to think they could not win her;

But now they only love the card

That brings the morning meal and dinner,

The Verzenay and rich Lafitte,
Billiards, and cards, and rum;
Combine to hire an opera seat,
And here by turns they come.
And when the daily toils are over,
The ledger duly posted up,
Like cattle feeding amidst rich clover,
Or weary cart-horse, freely sup.
Unskilled in books, or modern science,
Their little race they run;
Upon their good looks place reliance,
In ignorance yield to none.

Oppressed by weath beyond desire,
There sits Corinthia's belle,
Pursued by youths whose needs require
A speedy love to tell-
Oh! how she hates the sweet bouquet,
From clerk of life and fire insurance,
When Flora's gems are made to say,
His love is growing past endurance!
That if she will not soon bestow
On him herself and purse,
Wearied of life he'll desperate grow,
And fill the jet black hearse.
Blest with each native charm,
The pride of any sphere:
Arriere, canaille! hope not that she
Will waste her sweetness here.

See him with spectacles on nose,
Sporting a Gibus opera hat;
T'is a few years since he arose,
From ranking with the toilsome Pat,
Who hardest labor here endures,

To earn his dollar and a quarter,
Working on public streets and sewers,
Up to his knees in mud and water.

He, driven to despair by bills
He had no power to meet,
Invented a new kind of pills,
Which set him instant on his feet.
And thus by waiting on you sick,
He keeps himself in health;
Spending on pictures rare, and music,
Part of his boundless wealth.

As gaily soaring to the sky,
The lazy caterpillar,
Becomes a glittering butterfly,
So Jacob's sarsaparilla,
From cheek of maiden richly fed,
Will drive the venous pimple,
Which adds a spot of odious red
To many a lovely dimple.
So that when Sunday, free from work,
Brings the man of her affection,
She greets him with delighted smirk,
And purified complexion.

The oyster from its slimy bed
Raised that man to renown;
And clerks on two-and-sixpence fed,
And men who dined down town.

That jovial one who shouts encore,
And claps his hands with plaudive strokes,

Has reached the summit of the law,
And sways the jury by his jokes.