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Slowly, her spirit waned, and when at last.'
Death came, she bow'd her meekly to the blast;
Still unrepining left this drear abode,
Nor feebly murmur'd at the will of God.

My boyhood's dream is over-Life hath fled,
With more of smiles than sorrow, o'er my head ;
And now, as standing in this silent gloom,
Friend of my childhood, I behold thy tomb,
In swift succession o'er my Memory fly
The dreamlike shadows of the days gone by.
Few were those days, but happy—all things smiled
On me, a sinless and unthinking child :
On every side the prospect glitter'd fair,
Light were my sorrows and I knew not care :
And friendly faces all around me shone,
And every voice breathed Friendship's sweetest tone;
Nor knew I then a kinder friend than her,
Whom now I honour in her sepulchre.

When the glad Sabbath bade the rustics meet,
And lightsome footsteps throng'd the swarming street,
How oft with looks of pride, in Sunday dress,
I sprung to meet her welcome and caress!
How oft, with beating heart and anxious eye,
Waited my smiling Parent's dread reply,
When she repeated the well-known request
“That I that evening might remain her guest,"
And led me to the hospitable door
Of thạt fair mansion I shall view no more.

Within that Hall glad faces used to shine, And young eyes gleam'd, and pulses throbbed with mine; And childhood's sports our footsteps drew around Yon smiling garden's fair and ample bound.

And when, at evening, in that Hall we met,
With cheeks all sunshine, souls without regret,
“ Laugh'd the heart's laugh,” nor knew th' approach of care,
(Still, still I feel those hours—how sweet they were!)
She, the fond mother, bless’d each happy child,
Beheld our pleasures-shared our joys, and smiled.
Time hath rollid on—now pass yon gloomy gate,
And view that mansion--lone and desolate;
No hum of happy voices meets the ear,
No joyous groupes Affection's bosom cheer :
Silent and sad the vacant chambers sleep,
And sorrowing menials scarce forbear to weep.
There but remains the Memory of her
A moonbeam glimmering on the sepulchre.

Spirit, who far above yon silent sky
Sleep’st in the bosom of Eternity,
Till the last trumpet's startling voice shall shake
This trembling globe, and bid the dead awake;
If aught can break thy tranquil dream of bliss,
If thou can'st hover near a world like this,
Let thy celestial form at night descend,
And o'er the slumbers of thy children bend :
Soothe all their sorrows, steep each troubled breast
In the pure essence of thy heavenly rest;
And lead their gentle Spirits up the sky
To the bright home of Immortality.

K. S.
August, 1819.

PETITION OF JEREMY GUBBINS. To his Most Gracious Majesty the King of Clubs. The Humble Petition of Jeremy Gubbins, Grocer, dealer in

tea, tobacco, and snuff, No.30, Bishopsgate-street Within ; who, having diligently perused the account of the proceedings in his Majesty's most excellent Club, humbly entreats that he will take his piteous case into consideration.

Please your Majesty, I hope your Majesty will excuse my neglect of the forms requisite to addressing so great a personage, on the score of my utter ignorance, having never been acquainted with the etiquette of Courts. Wherefore, trusting to your Majesty's sweetness of temper, I will proceed to state my case:

My father (peace be to his soul !) was a worthy and respectable Grocer, No. 30, Bishopsgate-street Within. He, poor man ! cared little of the luxuries of life, while he had his slice of bread and butter and cup of tea in the morning, and his pot of beer and pipe in the evening.

Having such a good example continually before me, I was, from my youth upward, a pattern of prudent and well-tried economy; indeed, my father, while he patted my head, used to say, that “ the honour and fortune of the Gubbinses would never suffer while I was the representative of the family." .... When my poor father (peace be to his soul !) departed this mortal life, I succeeded to the fortune and estate of the Gubbinses in Bishopsgate-street, whence I date the melancholy era of my miseries. I succeeded, by my own prudence and economy, to the utmost of my wishes. There was scarce a Lady in London who did not buy her souchong at No.30, Bishopsgate-street Within ; my shop was always the first to open and the first to fill ; it was never empty. Elated with such success, I began to relax my ancient parsimony, and when my customers came I wrapped the change, though it were only a farthing, in whity-brown paper; this extravagance, however, would not have utterly ruined me, had not love,“ that tyrant love,” caught my susceptible heart in his cayenne clutches. On the opposite side of the street lived a Tallowchandler, a prudent man like myself, but who unfortunately had a daughter, whose black eyes soon turned my small beer to vinegar. The shop was no longer attended to; the civil, engaging Jeremy Gubbins was no longer constantly behind the counter. The whole business was now left to the charge of the shopman ;-he, alas! poor man, had none of that engaging civility for which I was always so admired. I used to be watching at my window from day to day, in hopes of obtaining a favouring smile from my sugar plumb; so great constancy could not be long unrewarded. I paid my addresses ; Miss Whilhelmina Maggs blushed, smiled, and at last, simpering told me, that, provided her Papa had no objection, she could not possibly object to a man of my fascinating qualities. It is useless to describe the rest of the courtship; the marriage was put in the papers, and I hired a neat little villa at Hampstead, in order that we might pass the honeymoon as rurally and agreeably as possible. I remember reading in a good book, which my father gave me while a boy, that mortals are shortsighted; I found it now to be true. Miss Whilhelmina Maggs, or rather, Mrs. Whilhelmina Gubbins, had scarce been my adorable wife a fortnight, before I discovered, to my prime cost, that her soul was of a quality far too refined for the low and contracted scale in which I had been accustomed to weigh my happiness. For three whole weeks she bothered me night and day to make me give up my shop; for three whole weeks I stoutly resisted; but, alas! what could my untutored eloquence do against her irresistible torrent of Boarding School rhetoric! My argument could avail nothing against her well-moulded tongue; so, finding that I had got a bad article, I thought it best quietly to submit to be treated as if I were not worth an ounce of nutmeg; comforting myself with the thoughts, that though my doublerefined wife might be inclined for wholesale, I, at least, might enjoy the quiet of a retail life. To be short;—I gave up the shop, and bought the villa. The next article to be bought was a carriage, for my dear carraway comfit declared that she must and vould ride in her coach; a carriage could not be kept without horses, nor horses without a coachman. My dear then found out that it was impossible to be agreeable and fashionable without giving frequent parties ; at these, I, miserable man, was forced to preside, and be stuck at the head of the table at dinner. In consequence I always lost my dinner, for I had to carve for every body, and Mrs. Gubbins gave me to understand that nothing was so opposite to good manners as to keep the company waiting while I was finishing my dinner. Not long since I got scolded for saving a nice piece of the brown for myself, which Mrs. Such-a-one had particularly desired to have; and the same day was unfortunately detected in the act of wiping my mouth with my coat sleeve. Not a day passed without my getting into disgrace. I am now obliged (unheard-of extravagance!) to take sugar and cream to my coffee, though every mouthful sticks in my throat. I have been so little accustomed to this, that when I was, for the first time, asked by a lady whether I would take cream, I very innocently replied,

Il Siven if I seven oa am, I'll for

has acclajesty will atomed to stanut slinking behr

« No, thank you, Ma'am, I'll take tea.” I am now never allowed to dine till seven o'clock, and have been threatened to be never forgiven if I am ever seen eating with my knife. But, worse than all, I am compelled to forsake my dear apron, which, having been bequeathed to me by my dear father, (peace be to his soul!) has accompanied me through all the vicissitudes of life. I think your Majesty will allow that I am very much to be pitied, having been so long accustomed to stand behind the counter, that I now can never stand in a room without slinking behind a chair or sofa, which never fails highly to amuse my customers ; (I beg their pardon, my company.) Your Majesty must perceive, by this time, that I am very much adulterated in my present situation. What am I to do? Am I to continue in this miserable line, and serve as a butt to all my acquaintance, or am I boldly to assert my rights, as husband, and return to my snug little shop at No. 30, Bishopsgate-street Within? I await your Majesty's decision with the most anxious expectation, humbly craving that you will not overlook me, for I am convinced that my bodily faculties cannot long withstand this unnatural usage. With your Majesty's permission, I subscribe myself,

You Majesty's most devoted and

most loyal subject,

JEREMY GUBBINS. P.S. I forgot to mention that I am at this moment in disgrace for having preferred onions to olives, with my wine. By-the-bye, wine comes heavy, and Mrs. Gubbins drinks nothing under Hermitage.

REFLECTIONS ON WINTER. “ Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?” -CowPER. The Winter is approaching; our eyes are no longer dazzled by the penetrating rays of the sun, nor delighted by the variegated colours of a summer prospect; the earth, shrouded in white after the slow silent fall of the fakes of snow, presents to us on every side the same desolate scene; every thing from the hut to the castle, from the oak to the tuft of grass, wears an appearance of uniformity. Thus Winter seems contrasted with Summer, as the silence and the equality of the tomb is contrasted with the noisy bustle and continual variety of life. Yet I will say with the Poet,

O! Winter, ruler of th’inverted year,

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seemist,
And dreaded as thou art.

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