THE PICTURE OF A FOP.

HOW much at home was Charles in all
The talk aforesaid-nicknamed small!
Seldom embarrassed, never slow,
His maxim always" touch and go;"
From grave to gay he ran with ease,
Secure alike in both to please.
Chanced he to falter? A grimace
Was ready in the proper place ;

Or a chased snuff-box, with its gems
And gold, to mask his ha's and hems,
Was offered round, and duly rapped,
Till a fresh topic could be tapped.
What if his envious rivals swore
'Twas jargon all, and he a bore?
The surly sentence was outvoted,
His jokes retailed, his jargon quoted;

And while he sneered or quizzed or flirted,
The world, half angry, was diverted.

Charles was a master, a professor
Of this great art-a first-rate dresser.
Oft have I traced him through the town,
Mowing whole ranks of beauty down,
Armed at all points, from head to foot,
From rim of hat to tip of boot,
Above so loose, below so braced,
In chest exuberant, and in waist
Just like an hour-glass, or a wasp,
So tightened, he could scarcely gasp.
Cold was the nymph who did not dote
Upon him, in his new-built coat;
Whose heart could parry the attacks
Of his voluminous Cossacks-
Trowsers so called from those barbarians
Nursed in the Steppes-The Crim Tartarians,
Who, when they scour a country, under
Those ample folds conceal their plunder.
How strange their destiny has been !
Promoted, since the year fifteen,
In honour of these fierce allies,
To grace our British legs and thighs.
Fashion's a tide which nothing stems;
So the Don mingles with the Thames.
No more his well-brushed hair is sleek
With eau de miel, or huile antique.
The golden key no more unlocks,
By Brahmah's aid, his rose-wood box;
And with the treasures there displayed,
Dazzles the wondering chambermaid ;
As, on her broom reclined, she pauses,
Ogling the silver cups and vases,
Whence steams a mingled soft perfume,
New to her nostrils, through the room.

No more with buckram or with wool
His overloaded bosom's full;

One glance from you is quite enough
To" cleanse it of that perilous stuff,”
Loosed by the spell of your endearments,
His tortured ribs have burst their cearments,
And, like delinquents freed from jail,
His waist is fairly out on bail.
Julia. you've moved its habeus corpus;
But when the man is grown a porpus,
Long, long before the season's ended,
You'll wish it had still been suspended.

A THEME FOR A POET.*

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

• What shall I do to be forever known?

THE arrow that shall lay me low,
Was shot from Fate's unerring bow,
The hour I first drew breath;
And every footstep I proceed,
It tracks me with increasing speed;

I turn, it meets me; Death

Has given such impulse to that dart,

It points forever at my heart,

And soon of me it must be said,
That I have lived—that I am dead!
Of all I leave behind

A few may weep a little while,
Then bless my memory with a smile:
What monument of mind

Can I bequeath to deathless fame,
That after-times may love my name?

Let Southey sing of war's alarms,
The pride of battle, din of arms,

The glory and the guilt

Of nations treacherously enslaved,
As realms by patriot martyrs saved:
Of blood insanely spilt,
And millions sacrificed to fate,
To make one little mortal great.

Let Scott in wilder strains, delight
To chant the lady and the knight,

The tournament, the chase,
The wizard's deeds without a name,
Perils by ambush, flood, and flame,

Or picturesquely trace

The hills that form a world so high,
The lake that seems a downward sky.

Let Wordsworth weave in mystic rhyme,
Feelings ineffably sublime;

And sympathies unknown;
Yet so our yielding breasts enthrall,
His soul shall transmigrate through all,
His thoughts become our own;
And strangely pleased, we smile to find,
Such hidden treasures in our mind.

Let Campbell's sweeter numbers flow
Through every change of joy or wo,

Hope's dreaming dreams display
The Pennyslvanian cottage wild;
The frenzy of O'Connor's child,

Or Linden's dreadful day;
And still in each new theme appear,
To every Muse and Grace more dear.

Let Byron with untrembling hand,
Impetuous foot, and fiery brand,

Lit at the flames of heil,

Go down, and search te human heart, 'Till fiends from every corner start,

Their crimes and plagues to tell; Then let him fling his torch away, And sun his soul in heaven's pure day.

COWLEY.

• Written in the year 1814, in contemplation of a Poem which has never been published.

Transcendant Masters of the Lyre! Not to your honours I aspire,

Humbler, yet higher views Have touch'd my spirit into flame; The pomp of Faction I disclaim;

Fair Truth! be thou my Muse; Reveal in splendour deeds obscure; Above the proud, exalt the poor.

I sing the men who left their home,
Amidst barbarian elans to roam;
Who land and ocean crossed,
Led by a star, discerned on high
By Faith's unseen, all seeing eye;
To seek and save the lost;
Where'er the curse on Adam spread,
To call his children from the dead.

Strong is the great Redeemer's name,
They bore the cross, despised the shame;
And, like their master here,
Wrestled with danger, pain, distress,
Hunger, and cold, and nakedness,
And every form of fear;
To taste his love their only joy,
To tell that love their best employ.

O thou of old in Bethlehem born,
A Man of sorrows and of scorn,
Jesus! the Sinner's Friend!
Oh Thou, enthron'd, in filial right,
Above all creature power and height;

Whose kingdom shall extend,

'Till earth like heaven, thy name shall fill, And men, like angels, do thy will:

Thou, whom I love, but cannot see;
My Lord! my God! look down on me,
My low affections raise?
Thy spirit of life and light impart,
Enlarge, inspire, inflame my heart;
And while I spread thy praise,
Shine on my path, in mercy shine,
Prosper my work, and make it thine.

ST. VALENTINE'S EVE, OR THE FIRE-SIDE FAIRIES.

[By the Author of Legends of Lampidosa, Annals of Public Justice, &c.]

"I DRINK the dew from the cup of the flow'r,
I sport in the sunbeam that follows the show'r ;
My soft couch is purple with violets spread,
A harebell the canopy over my head.
When sweet-breathing zephyr awakens our spring,
I ride over garlands and fields on his wing:
At noon, ere the tulip or sunflower blows,
My shelter I seek in the breast of the rose.

This eve when curfew-bells have rung,
And sober shadows round are flung,
While the humming-beetle flies,
And its wing the owlet tries,
Hush!-I haunt the whisp'ring grove,
Hearing tales of mortal love.
There I find the crafty youth
(Well we know with how much truth!)

Telling Dorcas how her eyes
Vies with stars of summer skies,
That she's fair as yonder moon,

That she breathes like flowers in June-
O what pity men deceive !—

O how mortal maids believe !"

So sang the best of Fairy race,
Then on a Moth's back took her place,
That all in down and gold array'd
About the table-taper play'd.

But in the chimney's highest nook,
Hid in the cobweb of a book,
The Fire-side Fairy sat and smil'd
To see the frolic moth beguil'd;
Then blithely answer'd-" Every year
On this sweet eve I frolick'd here,
Bringing a gift; but not like thine,
Full of strange vows and wit malign.
For I with ancient couples rest,

That years have join'd and still are blest.

I have no sport in lovers' freaks,
For such a merry goblin secks;
But I had found a sweet re-side,
Jocund and warm,' where I might hide
My head among green tufts, and hear
Tales that might fairy revels cheer;
And rhymes of mariners, and spells
Of witches wild and Christobelles.
And there was one that in sweet mirth
Was call'd Titania-None on earth
So well could act our queen, for she
Had charter of kind sovereignty.
And lov'd our wiles and jests and sports
And revels in our grass-green courts
And antic holidays, and all

We fairies love in bower or hall.
Then she had sisters three, that bore
Names such as fairies had of yore:

I laugh'd to hear them, and in spring, Whene'er those sisters walk'd, my wing Wafted the blossom'd pea's sweet breathings, And swept the cobweb from its wreathings: But chiefly on this eve I came

To watch their hearth or candle's flame

In likeness of a moth, while he

Who ruled their home, with gamesome glee
Lit up the rich hour's revelry;
While giant Science stooped to strew
Light flowers and gems; as Phidias threw,
While on the form of Jove he toil'd,
His shreds of gold around, and smil'd.
To-night I come-the day is done!
Yet we will love it still, and ever
(When all the lovers' bonds shall sever
Tied on this day) we yet will greet,
Holy and fresh, the Fireside seat,
And deck the hearth, till they who sigh
For one they lov'd, shall wonder why

So soon a grief becomes a joy;

A sweet and tender joy, that stays

Mix'd with the dearest dreams of other days."

HAVING given the reader a summary of particulars collected from the jovial company of domestics, we shall follow Dulsibella to her bower. Alice soon left her to watch the motions of the assemblage in the servants' ball, and she fell into melancholy thoughts of her own situation. A heretic in the eyes of her father and his household, yet convinced she should die to maintain the doctrines they would condemn. During the life of her grandmother, they had not ventured to question ber. There seemed to be a tacit compact never to agitate inquiries that must end in discord; but the object of restraint was no more. The Dowager had, indeed, assured her, she had taken effectual measurers to secure for her all the privileges of her religion, but was then too feeble to make explanations. Dulsibella brushed away her tears, as a hasty step roused her from her reverie.

My lady, my dear lady," said Alice, "I have just met the brandy messenger on the stairs, going away. He has made the old folks drunk. I crept into the servants' hall, got the key of the wicket on the table, and locked the hall door, on the outside, hard and fast. If you, my lady, would condescend to disguise yourself like such as I, we could go to the Abbot of Unreason, and have our fortunes read, before the drunken old fools awake."

"Poor souls!" said Dulsibella, "want of employment, or amusement, has insensibly led them to kill time over their cups. Surely living in the world has at least this one advantage-that people need not betake themselves to oblivion of their rational faculties on account of a deficiency in means to exercise them."

"But my dear lady, shall we not be going; one of your long lawn morning dresses, and your own beautiful ring

Dulsibella smiled languidly; but assuming a graver aspect, replied, "I will gratify you, Alice, so far as to admit the fortune-tellers by the wicket. I will metamorphose myself into a simple country maid-more simple than you, Alice, that was bred at Edinburgh-but I will not go out of the castle."

66

Then, my lady, I will run and overtake the messenger, and bid him send those seers."

Alice ran, though she well knew the messenger, an old acquaintance, waited her instructions. We must abridge our story by omitting the predictions made to the damsels that gathered round the spaewives, warlocks, and interpreters of dreams. They were led by a stately figure in a long black velvet mantle, embroidered with gold. He professed himself the true and lineal descendant of the sage of Ercildown, and must converse with the lady of the castlethe lady Dulsibella. He laid hold of her arm, drawing her apart from her damsels. Dulsibella gently, yet steadily, resented.

"Come with me," said he, " to yonder remote end of the hall. May not these silvered hairs, this grizzled beard, flowing even to my girdle, claim some confidence ?"

Dulsibella permitted herself to be led where the communications of the sage could not be overheard.