And shouted but once more aloud, "My father, must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, There came a burst of thunder sound- With fragments strewed the sea! Monthly Magazine. THE DROOPING WILLOW. GREEN willow! over whom the perilous blast Is like the wounded heart, which, 'mid the storm, L. E. L. PUNCH AND JUDY. I sing of Punch,- and therefore must I sing The magic, oft admired, again to view; What is that shrill, inimitable cry, With joyous shouts of idle urchins blended? What that strange curtained box, well poised on high, With four long poles, by which its sides are ended? What should it be, but Punch?—who, passing by, Comes, like a conqueror from his wars, attended By music, far on London echoes borne, Drum, or Pandean pipe, or clanging horn. Little it matters, where that sound is heard, In smoky dens, and seldom sunshine smiles; And sparkling eyes, from door and window greet Most loved and most repeated, doth begin; But who shall paint that drama?—'t would employ Embraces, quarrels, reconciliations Blows, which, were either mortal, must destroy- 'Tis done that stroke has slain the dame outright :Now lay her out,-and o'er breathless corse An inquest hold;—while Punch-ah! wretched wight! Weeps with full anguish of too late remorse. But, lo! she wakes-she stirs—and, swift as light, Attacks the mourner with a fury's force : And how they hug-now fight-now part-now meetWhile unextinguished laughter shakes the street! Hark! how his head is knocked against the floor! Her lord,-who, in his turn, shall rise again : And now-but gaze thyself—for words are vain :— Punch hast thou seen?-then thou anew wilt see,If not, life has some pleasure yet for thee. Oh, Punch! no vulgar mountebank art thou, Fit the first honours from thy front to tear; With seas and mountains thou hast nought to do, Or fields, or babbling brooks :- thee none can view Nor where the learned pedant doth eschew But where the stream of life flows fastest on, The pausing porter throws his burthen down; Some man of high and orthodox renown, Thou art the child of cities, and art found - A wandering orb, with hundred satellites; Which thou hast charmed from all the gloomier sprites, And, even in London, where thou dost appear, Thou mak❜st one carnival throughout the year! European Magazine. A PERSIAN PRECEPT. FORGIVE thy foes;-nor that alone, So does the fragrant sandal bow In meek forgiveness to its doom; And o'er the axe, at every blow, Sheds in abundance rich perfume. ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON, ON THE PUBLI CATION OF CHILDE HAROLD. BY GRANVILLE PENN, ESQ. COLD is the breast, extinct the vital spark, Would joy to press that blest etherial ground, Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love abound. I "deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel," Like erring bark, of card and chart bereft The shore to which his soul would love to cleave; Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft, That bearing thus the helm, the land thou seek'st is left. Is Harold "satiate with worldly joy?" "Leaves he his home, his lands, without a sigh?” To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh, Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard chain; Vast is the privilege that man may gain;— Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain. Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal, Canst fly mankind to brood with her apart; When swells the soul, and heaves the labouring heart |