Though it seems, when we know what the orator's trade is,

A project for 'boring the ears' of the ladies.

I ask but for this in no tone disaffected,
That Catholic females be never rejected.

Dear women of Erin-oh! much to be pitied

Are they who can't hear me—they must be admitted.
Oh! their smiles!—and their eyes, that out-glitter the

gem

And their hearts that throb wildly as mine does for them. Concede but this point and I give with devotion,

The powers of my poor feeble mind to the motion.

SIR RT I———s1
1

He could not concede; and he thought the Dissenter,
Though pious, should not be permitted to enter.
The ladies once in, they might creep on too far,
Were the portals of Parliament once left ajar;
Whole hosts of white hands in a month or two after
Might knock at the two Universities—(Laughter).

Not one single member had cause for dissent ;
The married ones might—yet he could not relent.
'I am off to the House; I must be at my post,'
Was the green-room or club lounger's evening boast;
But when his wife, now as meek as a mouse,
Should steal down—(Alarm on all sides of the House).
1 Sir Robert Inglis.
2 Mr. T. Duncombe.

Sir, with joy I concede all the motion can ask!
If solemn our functions, if trying our task;
Still woman-ward more should our sympathies flow;
And learn how to feel-which will teach us to know.
The greenest oak-wreath that Philosophy weaves
Were dreary without a few flowers in its leaves.
We paint Fame as woman; what exquisite tone
Could tell of great triumph, sweet truth, but her own!
Receive then the ladies, those haters of wrong,
Whose lips make our language but laughter and song ;
Those soothers of trouble and quellers of strife,
Mortality's May-queens, the lustres of life;
Who flirt with a grief as they would with a fan,
And smile away all the vain vapours of man;
Whose fondness, or favour, to sages delectable,
Makes the mere exquisite' almost respectable;
Who, in our sickness are abler than Halford,
In counsel more earnest and subtle than Talfourd ;
Whose faces make home so bewitching-who pout
More bewitchingly still when we rise to go out;
Who will, until three in the morning, sit up for us;
Tea ready-made-when they pour out a cup for us;
Angels, who only dwell here among things
Such as mortals, by virtue of not having wings!
This motion is merely a movement of love
To open the door of the ark—to the dove;
Its patience shall calm us, its faithfulness guide,
Its meekness read lessons to rancour and pride;
1 Edward Lytton Bulwer.

6

Its beauty shall light the dark orbs of the blind,
The tame shall be kindled, the vulgar refined.
(Divide, and great cheering;-the plan on division
Adopted, 'midst mingled delight and derision.)

1836.

ON MACLISE'S PORTRAIT OF MACREADY IN MACBETH.

1836.

MACLISE'S 'Macready's Macbeth
As a picture defies all attacks;
Yet, uniting these three in a breath,
It is only a view of Al-macks.

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF SIR JOHN SOANE'S PORTRAIT BELONGING TO THE LITERARY FUND SOCIETY.

'DEAR Friend,' says Mr. J————, with truth's own grace, 'Your knight I've slaughtered with my penknife's

lance;

But then, if I had not destroyed his face,

You would have surely lost his countenance.'

A logical defence! Let none deride,

Or doubt that this each graver charge rebuts ;
Our friend may boast he has not multiplied
A single picture into several cuts!

But is the face destroyed? Is hope, then, vain?
No! Cæsar stabbed by Brutus doubtless ceases,
But what was Soane may yet be sewn again—
Although to give us peace, 'tis cut in pieces!