Down he tumbles as dead as bricks!
A pretty sight for his mates to view!
Those shaggy murderers looking so blue,
And for him above all,

Red-bearded and tall,

With whom, at that very particular nick,
There is such an unlucky crow to pick,
As the one of iron that did the trick

In a recent bloody affair

No wonder, feeling a little sick,

With pulses beating uncommonly quick,
And breath he never found so thick,

He longs for the open air!

Three paces, or four,

And he gains the door;

But ere he accomplishes one,

The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull, And, clasping his fingers round his skull, However the deed was done,

That gave him that florid

Red gash on the forehead

With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid, There's a tremulous quiver,

The last death-shiver,

And Red-Beard's course is run!

Halloo! Halloo !

They have done for two!

But a heavyish job remains to do!
For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand,

Like elder Sons of Giant Despair,

A couple of Cyclops make a stand, And, fiercely hammering here and there, Keep at bay the Powers of Air

But desperation is all in vain!

They faint- they choke,

For the sulphurous smoke

Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain ;
They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother;
One for a moment survives his brother,

Then rolls a corpse across the other!

Hulloo! Hulloo !

And Hullabaloo !

There is only one more thing to do
And, seized by beak, and talon, and claw,
Bony hand, and hairy paw,

Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw,

The four huge bodies are hauled and shoven
Each after each in the roaring oven!

The Eisen Hutte is standing still;

Go to the Hartz whenever you will,

And there it is beside a hill,

And a rapid stream that turns many a mill;

The self-same Forge,- you'll know it at sight

Casting upward, day and night,

Flames of red, and yellow, and white!

Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge,

There it is, the famous Forge,

With its furnace, the same that blazed of yore,Hugely fed with fuel and ore;

But ever since that tremendous revel,

Whatever iron is melted therein,

As travellers know who have been to Berlin.

Is all as black as the Devil!

ΤΟ

COMPOSED AT ROTTERDAM.

I GAZE upon a city,—a city new and strange;

Down many a watery vista my fancy takes a range:
From side to side I saunter, and wonder where I am;
And can you be in England, and I at Rotterdam!

Before me lie dark waters in broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams sleep, restless in their sleep;
A sort of vulgar Venice reminds me where I am;
Yes, yes, you are in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.

Tall houses with quaint gables, where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges, and trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels from western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England, but I'm in Rotterdam.
Those sailors, how outlandish the face and form of each!
They deal in foreign gestures, and use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learned near Isis, or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.
And now across a market my doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue, the Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus I offer my salaam ;
Who tells me you 're in England, but I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open - I mingle in its crowd,-
The dominos are noisy- the hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavor now of Fearon's, that mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you 're in England, and I'm at Rotterdam.
Then here it goes, a bumper- the toast it shall be mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry, tokay, or hock of Rhine;
It well deserves the brightest, where sunbeam ever swam
"The Girl I love in England" I drink at Rotterdam!
March, 1835.

THE SEASON.

SUMMER'S gone and over!
Fogs are falling down;
And with russet tinges
Autumn's doing brown.

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Round the tops of houses,
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.

Skies, of fickle temper,

Weep by turns, and laugh—

Night and Day together
Taking half-and-half.

So September endeth

Cold, and most perverse
But the month that follows
Sure will pinch us worse!

LOVE.

O, LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits; A player, masquerading many parts

In life's odd carnival; - a boy that shoots, From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots; The Puck of Passion-partly false-part realA marriageable maiden's "beau ideal”?

O, Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing, Making green misses spoil their work at school; A melancholy man, cross-gartering!

Grave ripe-faced Wisdom made an April fool? A youngster, tilting at a wedding-ring?

A sinner, sitting on a cuttie-stool?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel?

O, Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad
With palpitations of the heart-like mine
A poor bewildered maid, making so sad

A necklace of her garters — fell design!
A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line? O, Love!-but whither, now? forgive me, pray: I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

AN OLD BALLAD.

YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man,

A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetched a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The boatswain swore with wicked words.

Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit,

'T was nothing but a feint.