The Baron liv'd-'twas nothing but a trance :
The lady died-'twas nothing but a death:
The cupboard-cut serv'd only to enhance
This postscript to the old Baronial breath:
He soon forgave, for the revival's sake,
A little chop intended for a steak!

ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.,*

BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN.

AH me! what causes such complaining breath,
Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow?
It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death,
For laying Laing low!

From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe-
A shrill and persevering loud lament,
Echoed by Mrs. J.'s Establishment
"For Six Young Ladies,

In a retired and healthy part of Kent."

All weeping, Mr. L- gone down to Hades!
Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil !
Surrey takes up the tale,

And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones
With the two parlour-boarders and th' apprentice-
So universal this mis-timed event is-

Are joining sobs and groans!

The shock confounds all hymeneal planners

And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours; The girls at Manor House forget their manners,

And utter sighs like paviours!

* On the 3d inst., died in Springfield, near Gretna Green, David Laing, aged seventy-two, who had for thirty-five years officiated as high-priest at Gretna Green, He caught cold on his way to Lancaster, to give evidence on the trial of the Wakefields, from the effects of which he never recovered.— Newspapers, July 1827.

Down-down through Devon and the distant shires
Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime;
And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires
Of matches against time!

Along the northern route

The road is water'd by postilions' eyes;
The topboot paces pensively about,
And yellow jackets are all strained with sighs;
There is a sound of grieving at the Ship,
And sorry hands are ringing at the Bell,
In aid of David's knell.

The postboy's heart is cracking-not his whip-
To gaze upon those useless empty collars
His way-worn horses seem so glad to slip-
And think upon the dollars

That used to urge his gallop-quicker! quicker!
All hope is fled,

For Laing is dead

Vicar of Wakefield-Edward Gibbon's vicar!
The barristers shed tears

Enough to feed a snipe (snipes live on suction),
To think in after years

No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction,
Nor knaves inveigle

Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal.
The dull reporters

Look truly sad and seriously solemn
To lose the future column

On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters!

But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeauThat never real beau of flesh and blood

Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambaud.

Sleep-David Laing-sleep

In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee!
Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep,

And honest postboys mourn thee!

Sleep, David !-safely and serenely sleep,

Be-wept of many a learned legal eye!

To see the mould above thee in a heap

Drowns many a lid that heretofore was dry!— Especially of those that, plunging deep

In love, would "ride and tie !"

Had I command, thou shouldst have gone thy ways
In chaise and pair—and lain in Père-la-Chaise !

SONNET.

WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky
The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
Hues of all flow'rs, that in their ashes lie,
Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed,—
Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red,—
Like exhalations from the leafy mould,
Look here how honour glorifies the dead,

And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold!-
Such is the memory of poets old,

Who on Parnassus-hill have bloom'd elate;

Now they are laid under their marbles cold,

And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create ;

But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd,

And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate!

A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.

OH, when I was a tiny boy,

My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind!-
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
To cast a look behind!

A hoop was an eternal round

Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing;-

But now those past delights I drop,
My head, alas! is all my top,

And careful thoughts the string!

My marbles-once my bag was stored,―
Now I must play with Elgin's lord,
With Theseus for a taw!

My playful horse has slipt his string,
Forgotten all his capering,

And harness'd to the law!

My kite-how fast and far it flew !
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky!

'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes, The tasks I wrote-my present dreams Will never soar so high!

My joys are wingless all and dead;
My dumps are made of more than lead;

My flights soon find a fall

;

My fears prevail, my fancies droop,

Joy never cometh with a hoop,

And seldom with a call!

My football's laid upon the shelf;

I am a shuttlecock myself

The world knocks to and fro;

My archery is all unlearn'd,
And grief against myself has turn'd

My arrows and my bow!

No more in noontide sun I bask;
My authorship's an endless task,

My head's ne'er out of school:
My heart is pain'd with scorn and slight,
I have too many foes to fight,

And friends grown strangely cool!

The very chum that shared my cake
Holds out so cold a hand to shake,

It makes me shrink and sigh :-
On this I will not dwell and hang,--
The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye!

No skies so blue or so serene

As then ;-no leaves look half so green
As clothed the playground tree!

All things I loved are alter'd so,
Nor does it ease my heart to know

That change resides in me!

Oh for the garb that mark'd the boy,
The trousers made of corduroy,

Well ink'd with black and red;

The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill— It only let the sunshine still

Repose upon my head!

Oh for the riband round the neck!
The careless dogs'-ears apt to deck
My book and collar both!
How can this formal man be styled
Merely an Alexandrine child,

A boy of larger growth?