Curious it was to see this mass

Of lost and torn-up reputations;Some of them female wares, alas,

Mislaid at innocent assignations; Some, that had sigh'd their last amen

From the canting lips of saints that would be; And some once own'd by "the best of men," Who had prov'd-no better than they should be. "Mong others, a poet's fame I spied,

Once shining fair, now soak'd and black"No wonder " (an imp at my elbow cried), "For I pick'd it out of a butt of sack!"

"There's room for that and his gains together'Cramming, and cramming, and cramming away, "Till-out slips character some fine day!

books.

Poor devils were found to do this for their betters;-
And one day, a Bishop, addressing a Blue,
Said, "Ma'am, have you read my new Pastoral
Letters?"

To which the Blue answer'd-"No, Bishop, have you?"

The same is now done by our privileg'd class; And, to show you how simple the process it needs, If a great Major-General' wishes to pass

For an author of History, thus he proceeds:

First, scribbling his own stock of notions as well As he can, with a goose-quill that claims him as kin,

He settles his neckcloth-takes snuff-rings the

bell,

And yawningly orders a Subaltern in.

2 H-k-n.

3 Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.

At last-even this is achieved by his aid; Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and - the story;

Drums beat-the new Grand March of Intellect's

play'd.

Pensive I turn'd to weep, when he, who stood Foremost of all that flatulential brood, Singling a she-ghost from the party, said, "Allow me to present Miss X. Y. Z.,1 "One of our letter'd nymphs - excuse the pun "Who gained a name on earth by-having none; "And whose initials would immortal be, "Had she but learn'd those plain ones, A. B. C. "Yon smirking ghost, like mummy dry and neat, 'Wrapp'd in his own dead rhymes-fit windingsheet

I TURN'D my steps, and lo, a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering tow'rds me- blown
along,

Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that through their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puff'd as-though they'd never puff enough.
"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquir'd
Of these poor ghosts, who, tatter'd, tost, and tir'd
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
We once were authors"-thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said -

1 The classical term for money.

2 The reader may fill up this gap with any one of the dissyllabic publishers of London that occurs to him.

3 Rosa Matilda, who was for many years the writer of the

As though his ribs were an Eolian lyre For the old Row's soft trade-winds to inspire.) "This modest genius breath'd one wish alone, "To have his volume read, himself unknown; "But different far the course his glory took, "All knew the author, and-none read the book.

"Behold, in yonder ancient figure of fun, "Who rides the blast, Sir J-n-h B-rr-t—¤;— "In tricks to raise the wind his life was spent, "And now the wind returns the compliment. "This lady here, the Earl of -'s sister, "Is a dead novelist; and this is Mister"Beg pardon-Honourable Mister L-st-r. "A gentleman who, some weeks since, came over "In a smart puff (wind S. S. E.) to Dover. "Yonder behind us limps young Vivian Grey, "Whose life, poor youth, was long since blown away,

"Like a torn paper-kite, on which the wind No further purchase for a puff can find."

political articles in the journal alluded to, and whose spirit s seems to preside-"regnat Rosa"- over its pages.

4 Not the charming L. E. L., and still less, Mrs. F. H., whose poetry is among the most beautiful of the present day.

Why -as if one was not enough

Thy pig-tie with thy place resign, And thus, at once, both cut and run? Alas, my Lord, 'twas not well done, "Twas not, indeed-though sad at heart, From office and its sweets to part,

Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguil'd our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine,
Through long, long years our rallying sign-
As if the State and all its powers
By tenancy in tail were ours-
To see it thus by scissors fall,

This was "the' unkindest cut of all!"
It seem'd as though the' ascendant day
Of Toryism had pass'd away,
And, proving Samson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her queue.

Parties are much like fish, 'tis said.
The tail directs them, not the head;
Then, how could any party fail,
That steer'd its course by B-th-st's tail?
Not Murat's plume, through Wagram's fight,
E'er shed such guiding glories from it,
As erst, in all true Tories' sight,

Blaz'd from our old Colonial comet!
If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,

(As W-11-gt-n will be anon) Thou might'st have had a tail to spare; But no, alas, thou hadst but one, And that-like Troy, or Babylon, A tale of other times-is gone! Yet-weep ye not, ye Tories trueFate has not yet of all bereft us; Though thus depriv'd of B-th-st's queue, We've E-b-h's curls still left us;Sweet curls, from which young Love, so vicious, His shots, as from nine pounders, issues; Grand, glorious curls, which, in debate, Surcharg'd with all a nation's fate, His Lordship shakes, as Homer's God did,

And oft in thundering talk comes near him;Except that, there, the speaker nodded, And, here, 'tis only those who hear him. Long, long, ye ringlets, on the soil

Of that fat cranium may ye flourish,

With plenty of Macassar oil,

Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath

His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
Still dear to Tories, even in death,
Their last, lov'd relics we'll bequeath,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.

3 The noble Lord, it is well known, cut off this much-respected appendage, on his retirement from office some months since.

4 "Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod."

POPE'S Homer.