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When spoonys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery,

To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry;

GHOST.

Let Gertrude sup the poison'd cup-no more I'll be an actor in

Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

MACHEATH.

I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy 0;

But as for tunes, I have but one, and that is Drops of Brandy 0.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holy. day,

Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza !

JULIET.

I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of helle

bore

A hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.

.FRIAR.

With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could And I am the friar, who so corpulent a belly

tell the use of her, Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

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bore.

APOTHECARY.

And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.

ROMEO.

I'm the resurrection-man, of buried bodies am

orous.

FALSTAFF.

I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous;

For though my paunch is round and stanch, I ne'er begin to feel it ere I

Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

OMNES.

Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holyday,

Glory to Tomfoolery, huzza! huzza!

[Exeunt dancing.

[POEMS BY HORACE SMITH.]

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD.

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE.

I SAW him last on this terrace proud,
Walking in health and gladness,
Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green-
Blithely the birds were singing;
The cymbals replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken-

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ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY AT BELZONI'S EXHIBITION.

AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)

In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory,

And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Thou hast a tongue-come, let us hear its tune; Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, mummy!

Revisiting the glimpses of the moonNot like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade-
Then say what secret melody was hidden

In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Perhaps thou wert a priest-if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat;

Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled;
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed,
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun
Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop-if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have

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The Roman empire has begun and ended-New worlds have risen-we have lost old nations;

And countless kings have into dust been humbled,

While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled.

Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head, When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread

O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis; And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder?

If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed,
The nature of thy private life unfold:

A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast,

And tears adown that dusty cheek have rolled; Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face?

What was thy name and station, age and race?

Statue of flesh-immortal of the dead!

Imperishable type of evanescence! Posthumous man-who quit'st thy narrow bed,

And standest undecayed within our presence! Thou wilt hear nothing till the judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning.

Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost forever?
O, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue-that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom!

SONG TO FANNY.

NATURE, thy fair and smiling face

Has now a double power to bless ; For 't is the glass in which I trace My absent Fanny's loveliness.

Her heavenly eyes above me shine,
The rose reflects her modest blush,
She breathes in every eglantine,
She sings in every warbling thrusb.

That her dear form alone I see,

Need not excite surprise in any; For Fanny's all the world to me, And all the world to me is Fanny.

[POEMS BY JAMES SMITH.]

TIME AND LOVE.

AN artist painted Time and Love-
Time with two pinions spread above,
And Love without a feather.
Sir Harry patronized the plan,
And soon Sir Hal and Lady Ann
In wedlock came together.

Copies of each the dame bespoke.
The artist, ere he drew a stroke,
Reversed his old opinions,

And straightway to the fair one brings
Time in his turn devoid of wings,
And Cupid with two pinions.

"What blunder 's this?" the lady cries. "No blunder, Madam," he replies,

"I hope I'm not so stupid. Each has his pinions in his day: Time before marriage flies away, And after marriage Cupid."

Thus out of every adage hit,
And finding that ancestral wit

As changeful as the clime is, From proverbs turning on my heel, I now cull wisdom from my seal, Whose motto's Ne quid nimis.

MATRIMONIAL DUET.

PROVERBS.

My good Aunt Bridget, spite of age,
Versed in valerian, dock, and sage,

Well knew the virtues of herbs;
But proverbs gained her chief applause,
"Child," she exclaimed, "respect old saws,
And pin your faith on proverbs."

Thus taught, I dubbed my lot secure,
And, playing long-rope, "slow and sure,"
Conceived my movement clever,
When lo! an urchin by my side
Pushed me head foremost in, and cried
"Keep moving,"
""Now or never."

At Melton next I joined the hunt,
Of bogs and bushes bore the brunt,
Nor once my courser held in ;
But when I saw a yawning steep,
I thought of "Look before you leap,"
And curbed my eager gelding.

While doubtful thus I reined my roan,
Willing to save a fractured bone,

Yet fearful of exposure,
A sportsman thus my spirit stirred:
"Delays are dangerous," I spurred
My steed, and leaped the enclosure.

I ogled Jane, who heard me say
That "Rome was not built in a day,"
When lo! Sir Fleet O'Grady
Put this my saw to sea again,
And proved, by running off with Jane,
"Faint heart ne'er won fair lady."

Aware "New brooms sweep clean," I took
An untaught Tyro for a cook

(The tale I tell a fact is): She spoiled my soup, but when I chid, She thus once more my work undid, "Perfection comes from practice."

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THOMAS CAMPBELL.

Hohenlinden, which his unique poem has made famous.

In March, 1802, he arrived in London, whither he had gone mainly for the purpose of issuing a quarto edition of his poems. There he was en

THOMAS CAMPBELL was born in Glasgow, July 27, 1777, being the youngest of ten children. His father was a merchant. Thomas attended the High School in his native town, and in his thirteenth year carried off two prizes, one for a translation of "The Clouds" of Aristoph-gaged on the "Morning Chronicle," but it very anes. About that time he is known to have written two other poems, "The Dirge of Wallace" and "The Choice of Paris." The former, which still survives, would not have done him discredit if written in maturer years. His first publication, according to a record made by himself, was "an Ossianic poem, which was published by his school fellows when he was only thirteen." The same record says: "At fifteen he wrote a poem on the Queen of France, which was published in the Glasgow Courier.' At eighteen he printed his elegy called Love and Madness.'"

Campbell graduated at the University of Glasgow, where he was especially distinguished for his proficiency in Greek, and then went to reside for a year in the island of Mull, as a tutor. His poetry bears numerous traces of the effect produced upon him by the scenery of the western Highlands.

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On giving up his tutorship, he went to Edinburgh, with a vague purpose of studying law. But he carried in his pocket the first rough draft of the "Pleasures of Hope," and nothing but a literary career was really in his thoughts. The poem was shown to Dugald Stewart and Dr. Robert Anderson, who praised it warmly and urged its completion. At the suggestion of Anderson that the poem ought to begin with a fine picture complete in itself, Campbell wrote (last of all) the first fourteen lines of the poem as it now stands. "The Pleasures of Hope' was published in 1799, and four editions were disposed of in a year. The publisher had bought the copyright for twenty guineas, but it is said that he gave the author fifty pounds for every subsequent edition. Campbell became famous at once; and so constantly was the poem associated with every mention of his name, that at length he became thoroughly sick of it and thought some of his other poems superior to it, as indeed for mature readers some of them are-though his preferences would not in all cases be ours.

He visited the Continent in 1800, for the special purpose of seeing the German universities and studying German literature. At Hamburg he met some Irish exiles, which suggested his "Exile of Erin." On December 3d, from the walls of a convent, he witnessed the battle of

soon became evident that he had little capacity for editorship, and finally it was arranged that he should simply contribute a poem occasionally and receive a salary of two guineas a week. It is said that many of these poems were so poor that the editors quietly threw them into the waste-basket, and the story is not improbable.

In October, 1803, Campbell married Miss Matilda Sinclair. Three years later a pension of £184 was granted him, which he enjoyed to the end of his life. He fixed his residence at Sydenham, and settled down to regular literary work. Here he wrote "Gertrude of Wyoming," his longest poem, founded on the bloody story of Cherry Valley; and here also he compiled his "Specimens of the British Poets," which is still a sort of standard work, though it was full of errors. In 1820 he became editor of the "New Monthly Magazine;" but whether he really contributed any thing to its most valuable features is a question in dispute.

In 1824 he published "Theodric," which is utterly unworthy of him, and which even his warmest friends could not commend. In 1827 he was made Lord Rector of Glasgow Univer sity. In 1828 his wife died. In 1830 he quar relled with the publisher of the "New Monthly," and gave up the editorship. He compiled various books, and published a few more poems, none of which are worthy of preservation. He became intensely interested in Poland, travelled in Algiers, and rode various little hobbies in his latter years. A fine edition of his poems, illus trated by Turner, was issued in 1837. He died at Boulogne, in France, June 15, 1844, and on the 3d of July was buried in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey. He left one son, who was a hopeless imbecile.

Campbell was of slight frame, with an almost girlish face. He was exceedingly nervous, oversensitive to criticism, and apt to get into a towering rage at petty annoyances. That he wrote so little poetry is probably due less to indolence than to the fact that he was continually haunted by the shadow of his early reputation. He was the last, and in some respects the best, of the school of Pope; yet his finest poems-"Lo chiel's Warning," The Battle of the Baltic," "Hohenlinden," and " Ye Mariners of England" belong to no school but his own.

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