at half-past twelve-showing how some go home, and some to the station-house, with an account of their waking next morning; and I might conclude with a philosophical inquiry into their reflections when they did wake. 'Pon my honour, I think it will do! Well, I'll think of it."

Mr. Slickey was as good as his word, and he did think of it; but whether Mr. Slickey did'nt think clearly, or whether it did'nt look so well on the second thought as on the first, we do not know; certain, however, it is, that by the time Mr. Slickey got home he had firmly and irrevocably decided that it would not do. So he scraped his shoes in despair, and was just on the point of knocking at the door, when he somehow chanced to think of a young lady of whom he entertained certain pleasing impressions, and whose name was Miss Juliana Smith. He paused, therefore, with the knocker in his hand, for a minute or two, and at length said, "Now I've got it—it shall be an Ode on Juliana's Nose."

He rushed in doors-got pen, ink, and paper-ran up to his room -locked himself in-neglected the call to breakfast, and wrote the following piece of what he called, and what it is fashionable for other people to call-poetry :

ODE TO JULIANA'S NOSE.

While others sing more lofty themes,
Than suit my unfledg'd wing,
Of wisdom's wit, or fancy's dream,
I touch another string.

The strains of glory stir the pens

Of writers-verse and prose;

But mine's more sweet than other men's,
'Tis Juliana's nose.

First, O inspiring Muse! to thee

I wish one word to say;

Shed thy divinest ray on me,

And make me sweetly gay.

Reveal with tones of scorching fire
All necessary things;

And make the music of my lyre
As soft as Zephyrs' wings!
Raise me above those vulgar folks,
Who, when they court the muse,
Write only horrid puns and jokes,
Our patience to abuse.

This moment in my hand I hold
A glass of sherry wine;

The bees' wings look like molten gold,

And bright as blazes shine!

Before I drain it to the dregs,

Reveal thy inspiration;

Reveal it in my head and legs;
So shall I keep my station :

Reveal it to my head, and so

I'll mount above this ball;
Reveal it in my legs below,
And then I shall not fall.

I've drunk the wine; ah! now I feel
Much more than I can utter;
And accents to my senses steal,
As soft as oil or butter.

O! maiden ever bright and fair,
Sweet Juliana Smith!

What mortal beauty can compare
Thy startling glories with ?

May sun and moon descend, and bring
Their odours unto thee;

May planets, stars, and comets sing
The sweetest harmony!

May cherubs fan thee with their wings,
And tears forsake thine eye;

May angels twang their noblest strings, To sing thy lullaby!

Ah! now unto my mental eye,

More fragrant than a rose, There riseth up a form on high'Tis Juliana's Nose!

It is not thin-it is not fat,

It is not short, nor long ;
It is not round-it is not flat,
Nor looks it very strong.

High on her mild angelic cheek,
It sits aloft and shines;

It looks as modest and as meek
As a lover when he pines.

At top it is not very wide,
But broader at the base ;
Like Majesty in all its pride,
It glitters in her face.

The very sight thereof does bring
Deep pain into my mind;
For though its excellence I sing—
I would she were more kind!

When I contemplate all the charms
That deck her person o'er,
I long to clasp her in my arms
Till time shall be no more.

Yes! Love has very busy been
About my heart and brains,
And, though I used to be serene,
I now feel burning pains.

I cannot eat my daily food,
My puddings and my pies;
And tears gush out in many a flood
From out my rainy eyes.

Withdraw thy arrow! God of love!
And shoot her in the heart;
That my devotion she may prove,
Till death shall us two part.
And now my sacred task is o'er,
And tears bedew my eye;
My gentle pen, I can no more,

I lay thee down and sigh!

All day long Mr. Slickey was hard at work at this ode, and he finished it about half-past twelve the same night. "There goes my first throw for immortality," said he, when he had completed it. "Now how, when, and where, shall I publish it? What do you say to the morning papers? Certainly not; too low. Penny Mag.? Chambers's Journal? anything of that sort? No! these things are only read by poor people, and they could not find out the force or meaning of my lines. I'll tell you what-I'll send it to the New Monthly, that's the plan; what a stir it will make! I shall sign it V. with a dash after it. And there'll be everybody saying, Who is he? Who is V. ?' And then the Reviews will criticise it; the Quarterly and the Edinburgh, and all them. Gracious! what fun! Perhaps the Edinburgh will attack it, as it did Byron's 'Hours of Idleness.' 'Pon my life they'd better not; if they do, I'll bet you any money that I'll sting 'em. I'll write English Bards and Scotch Reviewers the Second, and if I don't make 'em ashamed of themselves I shall be mistaken, that's all." And that being "all," Mr. Slickey went to bed.

66

Next morning the ode was copied and sent to the New Monthly. Mr. S. waited with intense anxiety, but with strong, with irrepressible, hope. The publishing day came. There he was-up at six-off to the bookseller's in Leadenhall-street. Not up! Hang him!" Thumped at the door-down comes bookseller. "New Monthly, my man!" "Won't be in till the afternoon, Sir!" Off to Jones's, Cheapside. "I want a New Monthly." "Very sorry-all sold.”

Off to the "Row."

"New Monthly in yet?" "Expect a fresh supply every moment,

Sir.'

Waited an hour and a-half-none came. Off to publishers, New Burlington-street (cab four-and-sixpence); got a copy at last. "How much?"`" Half-a-crown;" money paid; 66 thank you, Sir !" Mr. Vincent Slickey's heart beat violently; he tore open the book, and looked through the list of" Contents."

"Hallo! what's this! Not here, I'm bless'd if it is. Oh! it must have been left out of the index, you know."

Out came his penknife; he stopped under the Burlington Arcade to cut the leaves open :

"Not there, by Jove! Hadn't room perhaps! Let's look in the "Notices to Correspondents.""

A.B. Article accepted, many thanks.

SNOOKS will find his paper at the Publishers.

W.R.S.Y., next month.

O.P.Q.-R.—and X.Y.Z., not admissible.

V's Ode to Juliana's Nose. ("Here you are said Vincent,

and pat, pat, pat, went his heart) is contemptible trash, fit only for the flames. V- 19 may have his "Ode" on application at the office. We would advise " V." to cut the company of the Muse, for she is evidently making fun of him."

To describe how Mr. Slickey was astonished, horrified, petrified, and how he nearly fainted away with vexation and disappointment when he read this, is impossible; so in mercy we draw the veil over his sufferings. He sneaked home like a husband who has been out all night, burned the Magazine, went to bed, had a fever which kept him there for three weeks-and then recovered.

“Well,” said he, as he left his bed for the first time after his illness, "I'm not convinced yet that I ai'nt a poet; but I'll try another line-I'll try the stage, and if I don't succeed there, I shall be surprised, that's all."

Mr. Slickey did try the stage. But we will talk about that next month.

STEPHEN SLOGGS.

THE SEA LIBERTY'S EMBLEM.

O storm-voiced child of Chaos! mighty Sea!
The universe's wonder and its pride!
Thou awful image of eternity,-

Whilst here I gaze upon thy waters wide
I do adore thee: Why? Because thou'rt free,
Because thou'rt chainless. All I see beside
Is bound in fetters, is subdued, bowed down,
Bent low before despotic Error's frown.

Once Liberty was sovereign o'er the earth

Where dwells she now? Alas! the world she swayed,
Slighted her counsels, set at nought her worth,
Disdained her gentle rule, her proffered aid,

And from her empire drove her rudely forth.

"I leave the ungrateful earth," the goddess said, "For mine own heaven; but O, thou curbless sea, "I leave my symbol to mankind in thee."

There man began to forge himself that chain

Which now he wears, and which he yet must wear,

In self-reproach, in sorrow, and in pain,

For years-for ages-till his soul shall dare

To' assume its strength. Long must he strive in vain
'Gainst ignorance and might-'gainst grief and care-

- Before that glorious victory shall be won

Before that cankering chain shall be undone.

What are its links? Reply, ye groans and cries,

Ye shrieks and sorrows that the world has known;

Reply, ye dreadful fears, ye secret sighs,

Ye sickened hopes, ye tears of mourners lone;
Martyrs reply! War's hosts of slain, arise

And answer from your tombs! Rise, every son
Of hideous Slavery! Swell the crowd; say, all,
What are the links that thus the world enthral ?
VOL. I.

D

Hark! there swells up the suffering world's reply-
A vast and awful sound, loud as the roar
Of many a hundred cataract. Up on high,

Fast towards the Eternal's throne, and stretching o'er
The listening earth, it rises. Mark its cry,

As its dread echo peals from shore to shore!

""Tis Ignorance and Bigotry, combined
"With Superstition, that enslave the mind."

These Three have linked man's chain; these Three have wove

The bond of guilt and woe that keeps him pale;

Yes! Ignorance successfully hath strove

'Gainst all his strength, and caused his hopes to fail;

Yes! Bigotry hath quenched the light of love

That once his bosom held, and, like the veil That Darkness spreads upon the earth at night, Doth Superstition reign o'er truth and right.

Religion-the religion of the heart

The real religion which protects the oppress'd, Binds up the soul that's struck with Sorrow's dart, Feeds the poor hungry, gives the weary rest, And to the mourner solace doth impart,

Which 'tends the sick, the sorrowing, the distress'dReligion-this religion-Oh! 'tis o'er,

And in its place there is a name--no more.

But the great Triple Throne of Crime is shaking,
Down to its deep foundations-the great chain
Which hath so long held man in awe, is breaking,
And the great fiat's hurled at Error's reign.
Man from his trance of ages is awaking;

And, though the festering bond doth still remain
To clog and cramp him; yet he scorns its strength,
Aye, and will tear it from his limbs at length.

Thou art his prompter, Ocean! he doth see

The sign of strength-of strength he had of yore—
The symbol of his liberty, in thee;

Each lashing wave thou hurlest on the shore
Shouts to his mind in thunder-tones, "Be free!
And free he will be: He hath heard thy roar,
And in the peal the world sends up on high
For "Liberty "-thou hearest his reply.

Thou art the image of the Immortal Mind,

Thou never sleeping-never subject—main !

No space can limit thee-no strength can bind

Thou laugh'st to scorn, like it, each tyrant's chain;
Thy waves and the soul's thoughts roam, like the wind,
O'er the whole world-wild steeds without a rein-
And as thy billows to the sky are driven,
So doth the soul rise upwards to its heaven.

Thrones totter, fall, and are forgot by Fame;
Kings, heroes, statesmen, flourish, fall, and die;
But thou art ever, through all time, the same;
A represented Immortality;