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THE PRINTERS' CAULDRON.

Scene—A dark Room: in the Middle a great Cauldron

burning
Thunder---enter three Printer's Devils.

FIRST DEVIL.
THRICE the watchman gave his knock,

SECOND DEVIL.
Twice-and once has crow'd the cock:

THIRD DEVIL.
Our master cries, ' 'Tis five o'clock.'

ALL.

Now your several schemes display.
To make the paper of the day:

SECOND DEVIL.
Spy that standing on cold stone,
Names and titles one by one,
Catchest at the doors of fashion,
Haste to bring your motley trash in;
Packwood's puffs, and state of weather,
Hints of who and whojs together,
(Paid to contradict to-morrow
Mistake-inserted to our sorrow)
Fluttering follies light as vapour,
Rise you to the top o'th' paper.

ALL,
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash-the nation bubble.

FIRST DEVIL.
Braham-Soldier tir'd-Mad Bess
Case of singular distress,
Speech of egotistic pleader,
String of Coaches made by Leader,
Fashionable invalids,
Morning dresses, widows' weeds,
Lobby quarrels, satisfaction,
Rout in May-fair, crim. con. action,
Patent soles that never faulter,
Doctors Brodum and Sir Walter,
Pun and vive la bagatelle
Schemes to make our paper sell.

ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash-the nation bubble..

THIRD DEVIL.

Bonaparte, Paris fashions,
Chapels, Cyprian assignations :
Captain Sash, the sea-side shark-
Slander's arrow shot i'th' dark.
Villa of Roehampton Jew,
Horrid murder done at Kew;
Queries, critical corrections,
Galvinistic resurrections.
Treatise on the Moon's eclipse,
Paint for cheeks, and salve for lips.
Stupid pun, birth-strangled jest
Portsmouth letter-wind north-West.
And thus our merit stands confess'd!

}

ALL.
Double, double, toil and trouble,
Touch the cash-the nation bubble.

SECOND DEVIL. Cool it with an empty boast, That “

every day we sell the most," 'Tis done-behold the The Morning Post!

SONG.

BY MICHA ÉL WODHULL, ESQ. What still does fair Lucy's disdain Occasion this festering smart; Cannot time give relief to your pain, And heal the slight wound in your heart? The arrows of Cupid, I know, At first are all pointed with steel: But how frail is the strength of his bow! How fleeting the pangs which we feel ! His wings they are shatter'd by Time, His quiver is soil'd in the dust, Such, such, is Life's flowery prime, And Beauty's most insolent trust. Taste the joys a new passion can give, With the nymph that's complying and kind; Or, learning more sagely to live, Be blest, and give Love to the wind.

THE BEECH TREE.

AN ALLEGORICAL ODE.

BY THE LATE REV, T. COLE, LL. B.

SERENE and calm, the morning ray
Had pour'd a cheerful gleam of day

Through Philo's inmost grove,
When Damon there, in private, sought
With some kind muse to shun each thought

Of inauspicious love.
But nature's walks in vain he views,
In vain art's winding paths pursues,

Though worthy both of song;
For here the am'rous boughs embrace,
And all the charms he there can trace

To love alone belong.
The lofty vista's ample bent,
The rising prospect's vast extent,

Aspiring thoughts suggest;
And though the streams and zephyrs meet
To cool the arbour's close retreat,

It but inflames his breast!
At length, beneath a Beech's shade,
Each sightlier object to evade,

In pensive mood he came;
But there, alas ! some kindred swain
Had on the bark inscrib'd his pain

With lovely Celia's name!

Cupid at this, who all the while
Had watch'd his steps with secret guile,

Presents himself to sight;
And thinking now his conquest won,
The indignant tyrant thus begun

With insolent delight.
Attempt no more, thou rebel Slave,
A weak and tender heart to save

From mine and Celia's sway ;
For whilst to me that charming maid
Consents to lend her pow'rful aid,

Thou shalt my will obey.
Cease then thy contest, and agree
To pay due homage still to me

At beauty's sacred shrine;
Nor ever from this time presume
Thy wonted commerce to resume
With
any

of the NINE. Half yielding up dear Freedom's cause To this usurper's rigid laws,

He hesitates assent; And caught with Hope's delusive prize, Was half inclin'd to sacrifice

Th' enjoyment of content. When, hark! a soft harmonious sound, Through all the grove diffus'd around,

With wond'ring joy he hears : And, lo! URANIA, quick as thought, In a rich garb, by Iris wrought,

Before him now appears.

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