"Why, you know, Sir, our natures partake of the dove, And in fact, Sir,-in short, Sir,-we've fallen in love."

"In love! and with what, pray? With Rhodope's shoes? Or with Rhodope's self?" cried the god at this news. * "I have heard of shoes' doated on,' during a fashion, But never of any returning the passion."

"We beg, Sir," said they," that you wouldn't chagrin us:
Who, or what could it be, but the feet of your Venus?
To see them, to touch them, and yet be heart-whole,
How could we, yet have understanding and soul?
When we heard, t'other day, that dog Momus object,
For want of a fault in 'em, that her shoes creak'd,
We could fairly have jump'd at the rascal, and kick'd:
And so, Sir, we have to request, that whenever
We're not upon duty, you'll do us the favour
Of letting us wait on those charmers so little,
To which Thetis's silver are surely queen's-metal.
The soft-going sandals of Rhetoric's god

Will make her move always as loveliness should;
Will put a perfection, Sir, into her shoe-tye,
And give the last lift to her exquisite beauty."

* Rhodope, or Rhodopis (Rosy-face) the most romantic of the courtezans of antiquity. She began with falling in love with her fellow-servant Æsop; and ended with consecrating a number of costly spits in the temple of Apollo at Delphos, some say with erecting one of the pyramids of Egypt. She inspired a violent passion in Charaxes, the brother of Sappho, who takes upon herself, in Ovid, to complain of it. There is a pretty legend of her, in which those who are fond of tracing every thing to the ancient world, may find the origin of the Little Glass Slipper. Elian says, that as she was bathing, an eagle carried away one of her sandals, and flying with it over Memphis, where Psammetichus, king of Egypt, was sitting in judgment, dropped it in the monarch's lap. Struck with its extraordinary beauty, he had the owner found out, and married her.

"Be it so," replied Hermes; "but take care, you rogues; Don't you keep her from me, or I'll turn you to clogs."

"We cannot, we cannot," cried they, " dearest master;
And to prove it at once, she shall come to you faster."

So saying, they rose, and skimm'd out of the door,
Like a pair of white doves, when beginning to soar:
They met her half-way, and they flew to her feet,
Which they clasp'd in a flutter, the touch was so sweet;
And they bore her in silence, and kiss'd all the while
The feet of the queen of the beautiful smile;
And lo! in an instant, redoubled in charms,
The soft coming creature was pitch'd in his arms.

RHYMES TO THE EYE,

BY A DEAF GENTLEMAN.

I LONG'D for Dublin, thinking there to laugh
With jolly tipplers o'er their usquebaugh;
For I've a merry heart, and love that juice,
Which London hath not good at any price.
Thither I went; but once ('twas at the Plough)
Some time uncounted after I'd enough,
I sallied forth, and in the street, alas!

I plunged into a horrible fracas,—
So horrible, that all my bones did ach,
And I was forced to ride home in a couch,
Entreating Dora to achieve a pot

Of salve from the Chirurgical Depot.*

I am aware this rhyme may be carped at. However, Pope rhymed "way" and" away" together, and that is good authority. For my part, I think "pot" and "pot" rhyme very well together.-Note by the Deaf Gentleman.

Truly I cannot boast of such eclat

As could my friend, whose sword, this way and that,
Brandish'd through Islington and Highgate thorps,-
For he belongs unto the Light Horse Corps!
Next morn I had a great mind to indict
The bludgeoneers, but could not well convict;
And fain was I to take their promises
Of good behaviour touching many bruises.
But if again they catch me in that region,
(Well-named Ire-land) since I am not a lion,
The world may call me fool, and I'll say-" yes,"
For I don't like bones batter'd and black eyes.
No! rather would I to Constantinople,
Although the Turk's-men are a strange people,
And I've no predilection for the plague,
Than drink in a continued fearful ague.

LINES TO A CRITIC.*

HONEY from silkworms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow bee?

The grass may grow in winter weather,

As soon as hate in me.

*We have given the stupid malignity of the Investigator a better answer than it is worth already. The writers must lay it to the account of our infirmity, and to a lurking something of orthodoxy in us. But in these "Lines to a Critic," the Reverend Calumniator, or Calumniators, will see what sort of an answer Mr. Shelley would have given them; for the beautiful effusion is his. Let the reader, when he has finished them, say which is the better Christian,—the "religious" reviver of bitter and repeated calumnies upon one who differs with him in opinion, or the "profane" philanthropist who can answer in such a spirit?

188

Hate men who cant, and men who pray,
And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay,

They are not coy like me.

Or seek some slave of power and gold,
To be thy dear heart's-mate,
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
Sooner than me, thy hate.

A passion like the one I prove
Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love,
How should I then hate thee?

THE MONARCHS,

AN ODE FOR CONGRESS.

WHEN Congress (heav'nly maid!) was young,

While scarcely yet Rossini sung,

The Monarchs oft, to flesh the sword,
Throng'd around the festive board;
Exulting, carving, hobbing, nobbing,
Possess'd of what they'd all been robbing.
By turns they felt each other's crown,
Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, pull'd down ;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were maudlin,
Fill'd with Rhenish, flouncing, twaddling,
From the supporting statesmen round
They snatch'd the first pens that they found,
And as they once had learnt apart
Sweet lessons of the pot-hook art,

Each (for madness rul'd the hour)
Would prove his own didactic power.

First Fred. his hand, it's skill to try,
Upon the foolscap wilder'd laid,
And back recoil'd, he knew not why,
At the remarks himself had made,

Next Alec. rush'd; his eyes, on fire,
In wanderings own'd their secret stings;
In one plain word, he play'd the liar,
And wrote the hurried hand of kings.

With woeful scrawl came poor old Frank;
Low stupid things his grief beguil'd;
A solemn, strange, and mingled crank;
'Twas sad in Ps, in Qs 'twas wild.

But thou, old boy, with pies so rare,
What was thy delight, Des-Huîtres!

Still it whisper'd-" Spain-they'll beat her!"

And bade the bully boys at distance hail:

.

Still would his munch the fish prolong,

And still from creams, and cakes, and ale,

He cull'd a finish still, although 'twas wrong:

And where his tiddest bit he chose,

Soft Montmorency's voice came blessing through the nose, And old Des-Huîtres smil'd, and waiv'd the chaplain's prayer.

And longer had he din'd; but with a groan

The Duke came saying "Oh!"

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in wonder down,

And with a withering look,

i

The war-denouncing trumpet took,