Still as they forward pulled the boat along,
They ever and anon the bottle pulled;
Whilst one more sentimental sung a song,
And others, acts of ministry annulled.

Still onward danced the bark trimmed out so gay,
Which bore these cockney heroes on their way
In search of pleasure,-not the picturesque-
(Such to the painter's eyes) to them grotesque.
They now at Putney pass the wood-piled bridge,
On either side an ivied church, and ridge
Of gently rising hills, bedecked with green,
And groves apparent made for beauty's queen:
Here Nature's lavished all her stores so kind,
To please the fancy or to charm the mind.

Now social conversation 'gan to roll

Among my heroes, puns and wit went round; They seemed quite happy-"'twas the flow of soul And feast of reason' 'gan now to abound.

Says one, "My vig! I vish a rope vas tied
From that 'are church, to that on t'other side;
How I should like to see Mad. Saqui run
From one side to the t'other, oh, vat fun!"
And then another he remarks with glee,
"Vat I vould give now, only just to see
The great fat alderman of our ward roll down,
From that 'are hill which is but lately mown!"

And thus the charms of nature they pass by,
And catch at trifles as they sail along,
Just as the trout assails the gilded fly,

Nor heeds the hook that's fastened to the thong.

For hark! a voice comes thundering from the bows,
"Vat are you arter there, you at the stern,
If you don't turn the rudder, then I knows
As how ve all shall go vere ve can't learn

"To row a bit, the steam boat is a-head,
And if ve don't keep clear I'll tell you vat,
Ve'el be"-upset he would have said,

But cruel Fate anticipated that.

For, ere the unlucky steersman turned the helm,
Quick as a star shoot came the boat of flames,
And in a moment did their bark overwhelm,

Which sent them to the bottom of the Thames,
How transient are the pleasures of this world,
I saw these cocknies full of mirth and glee;
Again I saw them in the water hurled,

Oh! "seeing what I've seen and what I see!"
Now horror and confusion hold their sway

On board the dire machine which caused this rout; Some run and call, and some they faint away, Whilst others help to pull the cocknies out. Their cause humane at length they do achieve, And nearly drowning pull the cocknies out; But that they're dead the most of them believe, 'Till some one kindly pulls them by the snout. They now with shame and indignation burn, And curse each other for the unlucky blow, Which prematurely causes their return,

In such a dripping state, to Mary Bow.

"And ah!" says one, "if it hadn't been for you,
Ve shouldn't now have been so pleasureless."
"And you," says t'other, "you this day shall rue,
Fort's all thro' you ve be in such a mess."

At length the unlucky steam boat reached Queenhithe,
And up Bow Lane they homeward bend their way;
Arrived, they tell their master with a sigh

The sad adventure of their joyless day. Paul Street, Bath,

Aug. 16, 1818.

W. F. B

GH.

A LOVER'S HEART.

A LOVER'S heart hangs on a sigh,
Or on the light of woman's eye:
A smile preserves it! but a frown
At once can sink the trembler down.

PROSPERO,

THE WOODMAN TO THE ROBIN REDBREAST.
IN NOVEMBER.

O COME, thou sweetest warbler here!
And share my scanty meal:
Approach my door, devoid of fear,
No danger shalt thou feel.

Though poor and humble is my fare,
Contentment smiles around:

Here, far from worldly strife and care,
True happiness is found.

Why still look round with eye so keen?
My threshold boldly tread-
No green-eyed traitor here is seen,
So, calmly pick my bread.

O fly from yonder drifting snow,
From keen November's blast;
To thee 'twill prove a cruel foe-
Thou soon wilt breathe thy last!
Then, gentle warbler, with me stay,
Shun not my straw-roofed cot;
Though summer hours are past away,
Here peace shall be thy lot.
And while I list thy carol sweet,
That charms the dreary hours,
I'll think not of the driving sleet,
Nor loss of blooming flowers.

When spring once more adorns the land,
Thine absence I'll forgive;

Then, with thy rosy-bosomed band,

In joyous freedom live.

Then build again thy mossy nest
In yonder shady lane,

Where safe thy chirping brood may rest,
Concealed from wind and rain.

But when thou seest thy toiling friend,
The woodman Hal, draw near,
To him the same kind welcome lend,
That Robin meets with here.

SARAH MARIA H.

J. Arliss, Printer, London.

FOR THE POCKET MAGAZINE.

ROSALBA, A SICILIAN TALE.

From the French of Chev. de Florian.

SINCE that it has become the custom in our France to philosophise, and for every one to meddle with reasoning, and to disbelieve all that cannot be proved to be true, magic and many other things have fallen greatly in estimation. Charms, philtres, and enchantments, so celebrated of old, and so dreaded by our ancestors, have nearly lost all their credit. The gipsies who tell fortunes, and the dealers in spells, are ridiculed; no one visits now the old women who predict from the cards; and even those more skilful practitioners, who read the future in the white of an egg or the grounds of coffee, are contemptuously laughed at.Others may laugh; for my part I do not. Without bringing forward here a crowd of histories, which are attested by a thousand witnesses, I every day see events happen which prove to me the truth of magic. For example, when two lovers, whom absence, persecution, and obstacles of all kinds, have served but to render more dear to each other, have at length, by their continued constancy, succeeded in tying the hymeneal knot, and then, all at once, mutually disgusted, they become unfaithful at the very moment when fidelity is a duty, will any one say that there is nothing of magic in the case? When a broken-hearted widow, ready to VOL. II. No. V.

Y

die of grief on the tomb of her husband, and who makes her friends fear that her despair will at last wholly deprive her of her senses, is in a moment restored to reason by the sight of a handsome young man, and that, drying up the tears in which she was drowned, she puts into the hands of her consoler, her fortune, of which he takes good care, and her happiness, about which he cares nothing, is it not evident that this must be the effect of some magical potion? There can be no doubt of it; and a hundred similar instances may be cited in support of my assertion. Besides, Spain, Italy, and Sicily, still have a tribunal whose business it is severely to punish magicians; an additional proof that their art is not so chimerical as some would induce us to believe. A judgment, too, may be formed upon this head, from the following very true anecdote, which I had from those who were eye witnesses of the fact.

Rosalba was born at Palermo, of an illustrious and powerful family. Fortune did much for her; nature did still more. From her infancy, her growing beauty, her grace, her sweetness, her sense, made her the idol of a father, of whom she was the only child. The most careful education, the most able masters, unfolded the talents which heaven had bestowed upon Rosalba. At the age of fourteen she already eclipsed all the Sicilian beauties; she understood and spoke the language of Racine, that of Pope, that of Cervantes, and even somewhat of that of Gessner; she made verses which she showed only to her father, but which would have delighted others than her father; she sung the airs of Leo, with a voice more affecting than that of the famous Faustina; and when she accompanied herself on the harp, the cardinals and prelates who had the best taste in music unanimously agreed that Rosalba could not be surpassed by the angels of heaven.

To so many charms, and so many accomplishments, Rosalba joined a fortune of a hundred thousand ducats a year. It may easily be believed that she was sought after by the first nobles of Sicily. The old Count de Scanzano, her father, wise enough to know that a splendid marriage is not always a happy one, took especial care not to look merely to the titles and riches of those who aspired to the hand of his daughter. He