Midst shapeless mockeries of Greece and Rome,
In tawdry pomp-my lady is at home.

While these gay scenes her restless thoughts employ,
She scarcely feels a transient gleam of joy ;
With vacant eye reviews the splendid dome,
And sighs that-Happiness is not at home.

Not such their HOME whom Love has taught to know From that blest source what real transports flow. HOME! 'tis the name of all that sweetens life;

It speaks the warm affection of a wife,

The lisping babe that prattles on the knee
In all the playful grace of infancy,

The spot where fond parental love may trace
The growing virtues of a blooming race:
Oh! 'tis a word of more than magic spell,
Whose sacred power the wanderer best can tell;
He who, long distant from his native land,
Feels at her name his eager soul expand:
Whether as Patriot, Husband, Father, Friend,
To that dear point his thoughts, his wishes bend;
And still he owns, where'er his footsteps roam,
Life's choicest blessings center all-at home.

FROM MARTIAL.

EPIGRAM 78. B. VIII.

"THE simple truth I wish to hear,
Nothing so grateful to my ear!"
This, when your speeches you rehearse
Or long essays in prose and verse,
Is still to me your constant cry,
And 'twere unfriendly to deny.
Come then-But simple truth, I fear,
Will not be grateful to your ear,

EVENING,

THE
HE deep'ning shades o'erspread the golden west,
The mottled clouds sweep on before the breeze,
Rude Labour leaves his weary sons to rest,
And sea-like murmurs sound among the trees.
The muffled owl sails by on silent wing,
The downy moth pursues his dusky way,
Light-crested gnats their busy carols sing,
And closing flow'rets mourn departing day.

Soft dews descending bathe the thirsty ground,
A mingled fragrance cheers the pensive night,
Dim rising vapours slowly roll around,

And wand'ring glow-worms shed their emerald light.

Now breathe the high romantic love-lorn tale,
And mix ideal scenes of fairy bliss;

Let airy harps from every passing gale

Steal heav'nly notes with soft enchanting kiss.

The mingled charm shall cheat my ardent soul;
And, gleaming through the dim fantastic light,
Bright shadowy forms around my head shall roll,
And golden visions bless my ravish'd sight.

L. A.

THE BARBER.

PARODY UPON GRAY'S CELEBRATED ODE

OF "THE BARD *,"

BY THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE.

A Fragment of a Pindaric Ode, from an old Manuscript in the Museum, which Mr. GRAY certainly had in his Eye when he wrote his " BARD."

I.

RUIN seize thee, scoundrel Coe!
• Confusion on thy frizzing wait;
Hadst thou the only comb below,
Thou never more shouldst touch my pate,
Club nor queue, nor twisted tail,

Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail
To save thy horse-whipp'd back from daily fears;
From Cantab's curse, from Cantab's tears!'
Such were the sounds that o'er the powder'd pride
Of Coe the Barber scatter'd wild dismay,

As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane

He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy, way.

*This Parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, near two and forty years ago; and arose from the circumstance of the Author's Barber coming too late to dress him at his lodgings, at the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College, by which he lost his dinner in the Hall: when, in imitation of the despairing Bard, who prophecied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of Barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation,

11.

In a room, where Cambridge town
Frowns o'er the kennels' stinking flood,
Rob'd in a flannel powd'ring gown,
With haggard eyes poor Erskine stood;
(Long his beard, and blouzy hair,

Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air ;)
And with clung guts, and face than razor thinner,
Swore the loud sorrows of his dinner.

Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell,
With awful sounds, the hour of eating tell!
O'er thee, oh Coe! their dreaded notes they wave,
Soon shall such sounds proclaim thy yawning grave;
Vocal in vain, through all this ling'ring day,
The grace already said, the plates all swept away.
III.

Cold is Beau ** tongue,

'That sooth'd each virgin's pain;

Bright perfumed M** has cropp'd his head:
Almacks! you moan in vain!

Each youth whose high toupee

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capt head,
In humble Tyburn-top we see,

Esplash'd with dirt and sun-burnt face;
Far on before the ladies mend their pace,
The Macaroni sneers, and will not see.
Dear lost companions of the coxcomb's art,
Dear as a turkey to these famish'd eyes,
Dear as the ruddy port which warms my heart,
Ye sunk amidst the fainting Misses' cries-
No more I weep-They do not sleep:
At yonder ball, a slovenly band,

I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of fair Nature's hand;

With me in dreadful resolution join,

⚫ TO CROP with one accord, and starve their cursed line.

IV.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
"The winding-sheet of barbers' race;
"Give ample room and verge enough

"Their lengthen'd lanthorn jaws to trace.

"Mark the year, and mark the night,

"When all their shops shall echo with affright,

"Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets ring, "To see, like Eton boy, the King!

"Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws

"That scrape the foretops of our aching heads;

"No longer England owns your fribblish laws, "No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds.

"They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, "Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff, roast-beef behind.

V.

"Mighty barbers, mighty lords,
"Low on a greasy bench they lie!
"No pitying heart, or purse, affords
"A sixpence for a mutton-pye!

"Is the mealy 'prentice fled?

"Poor Coe is gone, all supperless to bed.

"The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat,

"Comb their lank hair on forehead flat:

"Fair laughs the moru, when all the world are beaux, "While vainly strutting through a silly land, "In foppish train the puppy barber goes, "Lace on his shirt, and money at command, "Regardless of the skulking bailiff's sway,

"That hid in some dark court expects his ev'ning prey.