By sea, by land, his sword shall ever draw

For right, for freedom, and old England's law; 'Midst dangerous strife and death, shall pant for fame, And add new glory to Britannia's name.

ON MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.

The weeping willows gently bend,
Their scents the fragrant violets send,

O'er my dear mother's tomb ;

Here I have often heav'd a sigh,

Here wip'd the tear-drop from mine eye,
For her untimely doom.

She left us in the prime of life,
A daughter, mother, and a wife,

To seek her lowly grave;

Nor prayers, nor supplications vain,
Nor children's tears, nor husband's pain,
Her summon'd life could save.

But, as the deeply blushing rose,
Which in the summer sweetly blows,
Does perish in a day;

E'en so my mother, justly dear,

Whose name I ever shall revere,

Was torn by death away.

And though her once-beloved form,
Has fed the never-sparing worm

Beneath this sacred spot;

Tho' the green moss conceals the tomb

That marks her melancholy doom,

She ne'er will be forgot.

"DEVONIENSIS."

REFLECTIONS ON GREECE.

Clime of the unforgotten brave," Greece! once glorious honour'd name; But now the Moslem's trampled slave Lost is thy bright unrivall'd fame;

Yet still thy fallen glories show
The splendour of thy better days,
As the bright sun's descending glow
Faintly in the horizon plays.

A BURLESQUE ODE.

From Heliconia's sacred heights
Descend, ye Muses nine,

And 'round a humble suppliant's brow
Your wreath of bays entwine.

I do not sing of bloody fields,
Or Cupid's pleasant smart,
Or yellow plains of waving corn,
Or works of human art.

'Tis not the regal throne of state—
Ambition's golden dream;

A humbler strain my muse employs,
A pill-box is my theme.

When Jove, enrag'd, to mortals sent
Pandora's box of ills,

Apollo, as a counter-check,

Sent down a box of pills.

G. S.

This box sage Æculapius found,
Till then unknown by fame,
And, by its help, unnumber'd souls
Brought back to life again.

Black Pluto's realms were quickly thinn'd,
And Charon's purse grew low;

The shades, in hopes of getting out,
Kick'd up a royal row.

The god, enrag'd, to Jove thus pray'd—
O brother! don't you see
How this old quack, Apollo's son,
Makes game of you and me?

Hurl thou the dreadful thunderbolt,
Which laid the Titans low;
Pause not, I pray, but instantly
Strike dead our common foe.

Jove nods assent, the bolt is thrown,
The doctor breathless lay;

* *

* * * * * * * *

Machaon said, that Father Sol
Had borne the corpse away.

But this is sure, that mortal eyes
Ne'er saw him from that time;
And now I end, my jaded muse
Won't write another rhyme.

W. P. D.

DIFFICILE EST SATIRAM NON SCRIBERE.— JUVENAL.

Why should men be so fond of discovering and ridiculing the faults of others? Is it because they have no better employment for their time and talents? Or is satire the best food for amusement which the human mind can supply? Undoubtedly the latter is the motive: nothing is so gratifying, nothing so pleasing to mankind, as to listen with eager ears to their neighbour's petty foibles, and afterwards maliciously to expose them to the public eye.

us.

And what then are the consequences of thus exercising our wit against our fellow-creatures? How frequently we see those whom we have satirized consider themselves in the light of injured persons, and as such seek, by every means in their power, to revenge themselves on No breast, however innocent, can withstand the combined force of malice and hatred. Calumnies are eagerly spread by all our self-made enemies; they are quickly received and believed by every one. None pity the satirist: a common cause incites the public against him, for each can discover in his writings some failing which applies to himself, and accordingly concludes it was meant for him.

Now, again, if even none of these mishaps befall him, what is the satirist at best?

"Proprium est stultitiæ aliorum vitia cernere ; oblivisci suorum.” CICERO.

Born of respectable parents, possessing a good heart and understanding, no one could have lived happier than Anselmo, had he not cherished such an unbounded love of satire, that none of his neighbour's faults were suffered to pass unnoticed by his pen.

Unluckily, he sharply commented on a trifling foible of Count F's, who, indignant beyond measure, and denouncing his utmost vengeance, sought Anselmo, re

solving to impose upon him the alternative of a public apology, or that satisfaction which his sword alone could give. The aggressor refusing to retract his unprovoked assertions, a combat became inevitable. Anselmo being, by far, more expert at his weapon, mortally wounded the unfortunate Count. Overwhelmed with grief, he fled from Italy, from the insatiable fury of the Count's family, and came to England, there to drag on a miserable existence, hated by all who knew his story, and fearing to return to his native country, from the certainty that the utmost rigour would attend that crime, which had for its origin such a despicable amusement as satire.

D. W.

STREET NUISANCES, OR THE MISERIES OF A WALK IN LONDON.

During my stay, last spring, at the house of a friend, in Portman Square, I took my hat one afternoon, and set forth with the determination of taking a walk in the metropolis. When crossing towards Gloucester Place, a black, who was sweeping a passage, unluckily swept a quantity of dirt over my boot and trowsers, which, as my ill stars would have it, were drab. I walked along the pavement, considering this a mere trifle, when a lusty porter, jostling through the crowd, thrust a bed-post into my eye, shouting out, " By your leave, Sir,"-leaving me to console myself, that this unlucky accident would make me incapable of seeing any company, for at least a week. I proceeded to Welbeckstreet, not a little mortified at the preceding accidents, when a Jew boy, on one side, thrust a bundle of pencils into my face; and, on the other side, a rascal, with a quantity of sword-sticks, assailed me. To buy a dozen pencils of the Jew, and a stick of the other, was the only