IN MEDIÆVOS.

F you love to wear

An unlimited extent of hair

Push'd frantically back behind a pair

Of ears, that all asinine comparison defy

And peripatate by star light

To gaze upon some far light

Till youv'e caught an aggravated catarrh right

In the pupil of your frenzy rolling eye,—

Or if you're given to the style

Of that mad fellow Tom Carlyle,

And fancy all the while, you're taking "an earnest view" of things;

Making Rousseau a hero,

Mahomet any better than Nero,

And Cromwell an angel in ev'rything except the wings.

Or if you weep sonnets,

Over TIME, and on its

Everlasting works of "art" and "genius" cobweb wreath'd!) And fly off into rapture

At some villanous old picture

Not an atom like nature

Nor any human creature, that ever breath'd,

Some Amazonian Vixen

Of indescribable complexion

And hideous all conception to surpass ;

And actually prefer this abhorrence

To a lovely portrait by Sir Thomas Lawrence Why then, I think that you must be an Ass!

The Well of Truth.

TWAS sunset-(much ill-usèd hour,
Which diff'ring Poets tell you

Is ev'ry shade from green to red,

And Southey swears it's yellow)

And watch'd a spider nobbling flies

In an artistic manner.

And mused in speculative vein

On England, and her story;

Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig,
And Derby was a Tory;—

Why Manchester detested war,
And cottons took delight in ;
Why Cobden's voice was all for peace,
And Horsman's all for fighting;-

Why England sent our Bibles' store,
To teach our pig-tail'd brother;
And gave him Gospel with one hand,
And Opium with the other;—

And why the Church was always poor,
And Lawyers lived in clover,

And why my tailor made me pay

His last.. account. twice.

...

over.