She moves like Dian in her woody bowers,
Or Flora floating o'er a bed of flowers;
To-morrow, laden with a motley freight
Of startling bulk and formidable weight,
She waddles forth, ambitious to amaze
The vulgar crowd, who giggle as they gaze!

THOMAS HOOD.

NO!

No sun-no moon!

No morn-no noon

No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day—

No sky-no earthly view

No distance looking blue—

No road-no street-no "t'other side the way"—
No end to any Row-

No indications where the Crescents go-
No top to any steeple—

No recognitions of familiar people

No courtesies for showing 'em-
No knowing 'em!

No travelling at all-no locomotion,

No inkling of the way-no notion

"No go"-by land or ocean

No mail-no post

No news from any foreign coast—

No park-no ring-no afternoon gentility—
No company-no nobility-

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member-
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds,
November!

THE DONKEY AND HIS PANNIERS.

THOMAS MOORE.

A DONKEY Whose talent for burden was wondrous,
So much that you'd swear he rejoiced in a load,
One day had to jog under panniers so pond'rous,
That-down the poor donkey fell, smack on the road.

His owners and drivers stood round in amaze-

What! Neddy, the patient, the prosperous Neddy, So easy to drive through the dirtiest ways,

For every description of job-work so ready!

One driver (whom Ned might have "hailed" as a "brother") Had just been proclaiming his donkey's renown,

For vigor, for spirit, for one thing or other

When, lo! 'mid his praises, the donkey came down.

But, how to upraise him?-one shouts, t'other whistles,
While Jenky, the conjurer, wisest of all,
Declared that an "over-production" of thistles--
(Here Ned gave a stare)-was the cause of his fall.

Another wise Solomon cries, as he passes

"There, let him alone, and the fit will soon cease; The beast has been fighting with other jack-asses, And this is his mode of transition to peace.""

Some looked at his hoofs, and, with learnèd grimaces,
Pronounced that too long without shoes he had gone-
"Let the blacksmith provide him a sound metal basis
(The wiseacres said), and he's sure to jog on."

But others who gabbled a jargon half Gaelic,

Exclaimed, "Hoot awa, mon, you're a' gane astray" And declared that "whoe'er might prefer the metallic, They'd shoe their own donkeys with papier maché."

Meanwhile the poor Neddy, in torture and fear,

Lay under his panniers, scarce able to groan, And, what was still dolefuler-lending an ear

To advisers whose ears were a match for his own.

At length, a plain rustic, whose wit went so far

As to see others' folly, roared out as he passed'Quick-off with the panniers, all dolts as ye are, Or your prosperous Neddy will soon kick his last."

ANONYMOUS

CARDINAL WOLSEY.

CARDINAL WOLSEY was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says,
Meaning (in metaphor), for ever puffing,
To swell beyond his size and span;

But had he seen a player in our days
Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,

He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equalled not that within the bounds,

This actor's belt surrounds,

Which is, moreover, all alive and real.

This player, when the peace enabled shoals
Of our odd fishes

To visit every clime between the poles,
Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken,
Although his wishes

Must not, in this proceeding, be mistaken;
For he went out professionally,-bent
To see how money might be made, not spent.

In this most laudable employ

He found himself at Lille one afternoon,
And, that he might the breeze enjoy,
And catch a peep at the ascending moon,
Out of the town he took a stroll,

Refreshing in the fields his soul,

With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.

When we are pleasantly employed time flies:-
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

Until the moon began to shine;

On which he gazed a while, and then

Pulled out his watch, and cried-" Past nine! Why, zounds! they shut the gates at ten."

Backward he turned his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main,
And, though 'tis plain

He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it), he Marched well for one of such obesity.

Eying his watch, and now his forehead mopping,

He puffed and blew along the road,

Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping,
When in his path he met a clown
Returning from the town.

"Tell me," he panted in a thawing state,
"Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate?"
"Get in " replied the hesitating loon,
Measuring with his eye our bulky wight,
“Why—yes, sir,-I should think you might;
A load of hay went in this afternoon."

Charles Medler loathed false quantities,
As much as false professions;
Now Mill keeps order in the land,
A magistrate pedantic;

And Medler's feet repose unscanned,
Beneath the wide Atlantic.

While Nick, whose oaths made such a din,

Does Dr. Martext's duty;

And Mullion, with that monstrous chin,
Is married to a beauty;

And Darrel studies, week by week,
His Mant and not his Manton;
And Ball, who was but poor at Greek,
Is very rich at Canton.

And I am eight-and-twenty now—

The world's cold chain has bound me;
And darker shades are on my brow,
And sadder scenes around me:

In parliament I fill my seat,
With many other noodles;
And lay my head in Germyn-street,
And sip my hock at Doodle's.

But oft when the cares of life

Have set my temples aching, When visions haunt me of a wife, When duns await my waking, When Lady Jane is in a pet,

Or Hobby in a hurry,

When Captain Hazard wins a bet,
Or Beaulieu spoils a curry:

For hours and hours, I think and talk
Of each remembered hobby;
I long to lounge in Poet's Walk-
To shiver in the lobby;

I wish that I could run away

From house, and court, and levee, Where bearded men appear to-day, Just Eton boys, grown heavy;

That I could bask in childhood's sun,

And dance o'er childhood's roses;