The sprites of lovers; and it boded true,
For I am half a sprite-a ghost elect;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu,

With my last pen-before that I effect
My exit from the stage; just stopp'd before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door.

III.

Full soon those living eyes, now liquid bright, Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save They shed a dreary and inhuman light,

Illum'd within by glow-worms of the grave; These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have, Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh, Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh!

IV.

Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee,
As broken victuals to the worms will go;
And all the world will dine again but me-

For I shall have no stomach;-and I know,
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be

As now thou art: but will not tears of woe Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct, When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?

V.

And when thy soul is buried in a sleep,
In midnight solitude, and little dreaming
Of such a spectre—what, if I should creep
Within thy presence in such dismal seeming?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep,
And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming,
And pray with mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive-or not so dead,

VI.

Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove
This wilful homicide which thou hast done :
And the sad epitaph of so much love

Will eat into my heart, as if in stone:
And all the lovers that around thee move,

Will read my fate, and tremble for their own; And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, 66 Man, born of woman, must of woman die !"

VII.

Mine eyes grow dropsical-I can no more—
And what is written thou may'st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes.-'Tis done-'tis o'er-
My hand is destin'd for another deed.

But one last word wrung from its aching core,

And my lone heart in silentness will bleed; Alas! it ought to take a life to tell

That one last word—that fare-fare-fare thee well.

"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE."

I.

I'LL tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore:-
Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's door:
So he call'd upon Lucy-'twas just ten o'clock—
Like a spruce single man, with a smart double knock,

II.

Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at,
Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tat:
So Lucy ran up-and in two seconds more

Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door.

III.

The meeting was bliss; but the parting was woe;
For the moment will come when such comers must go:
So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd-poor innocent thing-
"The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."

LOVE.

O LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits; A player, masquerading many parts

In life's cdd carnival ;-a boy that shoots, From lalies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion-partly false-part realA marriageable maiden's "beau ideal."

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?

Grave ripe-fac'd wisdom made an April fool?
A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad
With palpitations of the heart-like mine-
A poor bewilder'd maid, making so sad

A necklace of her garters-fell design!
A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?
O Love!--but whither, now? forgive me, pray;
I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.

A RECIPE-FOR CIVILIZATION.

THE following Poem-is from the pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER ! -the most heterogeneous of authors, but at the same time-in the Sporting Latin of Mr. Egan,-a real Homo-genius or a Genius of a Man! In the Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual-boils over! and makes it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle)—with the Spit in one hand!—and the Frying Pan in the other,—while in the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic,as if in the ingredients of Versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER !

As a Head Cook, Optician-Physician, Music Master-Domestic Economist and Death-bed Attorney!-I have celebrated The Author elsewhere with approbation ;—and cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet, -without still being his LAUDER, a phrase which those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on the Immortal Bard of Eden!----will find easy to understand.

SURELY, those sages err who teach

That man is known from brutes by speech,
Which hardly severs man from woman,
But not th' inhuman from the human,-
Or else might parrots claim affinity,
And dogs be doctors by latinity,—
Not t'insist, (as might be shown)
That beasts have gibberish of their own,
Which once was no dead tongue, tho' we
Since Esop's days have lost the key;
Nor yet to hint dumb men,—and, still, not
Beasts that could gossip though they will not,
But play at dummy like the monkeys,
For fear mankind should make them flunkies.
Neither can man be known by feature
Or form, because so like a creature,
That some grave men could never shape
Which is the aped and which the ape,
Nor by his gait, nor by his height,
Nor yet because he's black or white,

But rational,- for so we call
The only COOKING ANIMAL!
The only one who brings his bit
Of dinner to the pot or spit,

For where's the lion e'er was hasty,
To put his ven'son in a pasty?
Ergo, by logic, we repute,

That he who cooks is not a brute,-
But Equus brutum est, which means,
If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans,
Nay, no one but a horse would forage
On naked oats instead of porridge,

Which proves, if brutes and Scotchmen vary,
The difference is culinary.

Further, as man is known by feeding

From brutes,-so men from men, in breeding,
Are still distinguished as they eat,

And raw in manners, raw in meat,—
Look at the polish'd nations hight,
The civilized-the most polite

Is that which bears the praise of nations
For dressing eggs two hundred fashions,
Whereas, at savage feeders look,—
The less refined the less they cook;
From Tartar grooms that merely straddle
Across a steak and warm their saddle,
Down to the Abyssinian squaw,

That bolts her chops and collops raw,
And, like a wild beast, cares as little

To dress her person as her victual, —

For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets, Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets,

And not by shamble bodies put on,

But those who roast and boil their mutton;

So Eve and Adam wore no dresses
Because they lived on water-cresses,
And till they learn'd to cook their crudities,
Went blind as beetles to their nudities.
For niceness comes from th' inner side
(As an ox is drest before his hide),
And when the entrail loathes vulgarity