Oh! sometimes breathe a liquid kiss
Across the dark dividing brine;
And when thy daily cares are his,

Oh! let a fleeting thought be mine.

June 5.-Found the following Scraps on my table, in Bellamy's hand-writing.

The Sun had not yet lost his power,
But all was silent as midnight hour;

And the bay of neighbouring dog did sound
As if heard through midnight's gloom profound,

Yet the skies were blue, and the Sun shone bright,
And the air was cheerful, and cold, and light;
But I sate and wept alone the while,

For my heart was sore, and I could not smile.

III.

(Fragment of a Valentine.)

FROM his wintry sleep profound
Youthful Love is just awaking;
And the frozen chains, which bound
The heart so long, at last are breaking.

Glad spring noon is in the air,

Birds their wild sweet notes are trilling ;

What have we to do with care,

While the world with joy is thrilling?

June 10,-Somewhat surprized at discovering the following Parody from Scott's" Allen-a-Dale," written on a blank page of Jasper Harvey's" Scriptores Romani."

YOUNG Mr. Thrale to his wooing is come;

The Uncle he ask'd of his household and home-
"Though the villa at Twick'nham show stately and fine,
Yet a fairer domain," quoth the Poet, "is mine;"
"My castle's a cloud, which I hold in entail,
And my farm is Parnassus,” quoth young Mr. Thrale.

The Uncle was stiff, and the Aunt she was hard;
They return'd not his calls, and they own'd not his card;
But soon shall their pride and their haughtiness cease,
He had laugh'd on the maid in the yellow pelisse ;
And she went down to Fleet-street to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was young Mr. Thrale.

June 11.-" Candidus" wishes me to lend a helping hand to a young Gentleman who has spoken very highly of me. "Candidus" must excuse me. I cannot return the compliments, and therefore I shall hold my tongue.

Some contributions, to-day from Gerard; I shall say nothing of their merit, for I am unwilling to say anything but the truth; and, in the present instance, the truth would look like flattery.

66

June 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19.-Wholly occupied upon an Epic. A plaguy draw-back on No. IX.; but I have already told you, my Public, that I never mean to work upon The Etonian" till I have got over those concerns which you and I know to be of greater importance. If you grumble at this, my Public, I shall clap my Epic into my next Number; and if that don't poison you, you must have very strong powers of digestion, that's all! I can tell you the said Epic Dose is composed of very formidable ingredients. There are two or three battles and sieges, including the usual proportion of "arrowy sleet,' ""crimson flood," and "tottering walls." Then there is a Queen on horseback all over blood; who of course is of great use; killing five or six strapping Grenadiers with her own hand, and affording scope for some very fine Description. Then I Ihave a Philosopher with a long beard; who happens, like me, to send an impertinent letter to a Monarch: he is executed for his pains. Next I have a Triumph, abounding in Gold, Jewels, Captives, Soldiers, Garlands, and Dumb-Show. After having taken my Reader by the hand through all these wonderful things, I finally conclude in a delightful strain of meditative soliloquy over the ruins of Palmyra by Moonlight!-Euge poeta !

What say you to a specimen, my Public? You make a wry face! Never mind, I have nothing better to give you, so there it goes bang!

Walk in, Ladies and Gentlemen, walk in ;-here's old Longinus going to be executed, and Queen Zenobia in Hysterics :

XIX.

His hands were fasten'd, and his neck was bare,
Short time was giv'n for converse or for prayer;

"O Death," he whisper'd, "thou hast heard me call

Thou, the sure blessing, or the bane of all;

How shall I look upon thee? not with dread,

Thou quiet pillower of the restless head;
How shall I look upon thee?—not with mirth,
Thou silent dweller in the dreamless earth!
Art thou indeed a sorrow, or a joy?

Dost thou indeed give being, or destroy?
How dark art thou! how ignorant are the wise!

I come to learn thee-Death!"-He clos'd his eyes;

Quick flash'd the stroke, and quickly pass'd the pain-
They did not open to the day again!

XX.

Zenobia saw her servant kneeling there,
She saw the weapon gleaming in the air,
And still she did not move her hand to stay,
Her eye to comfort, or her lip to pray.

Perchance by that forc'd calmness she would show
How light she held the fury of the foe;
Perchance the woes she had been wont to see
Blunted the edge of what was yet to be.
But when the blow descended, and the dust
Drank the warm life-blood of the wise and just;
When the meek head lay rolling on the sand,
And the red rain was sprinkled on her hand,
Hopeless and careless, desolate and pale,
Without a word of passion or of wail,

But one long shriek, which those who heard aghast
Shudder'd, and look'd, and pray'd it were the last;
She fell beside!-she lay in her distress,
As deadly chill, as coldly motionless,
As the white features of a fallen stone,
Or the fix'd look of him she gaz'd upon.

The wondering Guard had aim'd that weapon well,
Yet he might fancy that on her it fell!

June 22.-Received six pages of Love-Verses. I am much puzzled what I ought to do with the "Nuga Canora" which I have lately received, for my time is growing so short that I am loth to make myself enemies by their rejection; while, at the same time, in closing my career, I am loth to injure my character by their insertion. In the present instance, however, I feel little difficulty. What can I do with a writer who is so rude as to put among his Love-Verses the following:

I never wish'd, in face or dress,

That you should seem a Saint, my Love!
And yet, ah! yet, I must confess,

I wish you wouldn't paint, my Love!
You can't conceive how ill you look,
You can't conceive, indeed, my Love,
When all your face appears a Book,
And "Pride" is what we read, my Love!
I gave you once a Lover's Vow,

You'll think me quite absurd, my Love;
But I'd rather wed a Picture now,

I would, upon my word, my Love!
For when" my Life, my Love," I cry,
A frown I often see, my Love;
The Picture, with its constant eye,

Would always smile on me, my Love!
A lack of brains you both would show,
And both a made-up cheek, my Love;
But then you've got a tongue, you know,
A picture couldn't speak, my Love!

I have taken some liberties with the following Stanzas "on Memory;" the author is apparently unused to composition, for his Verses run on so carelessly that I hardly know whether I ought rather to apologize to him for altering so much, or to my Readers for not altering more.

How sweet are the moments which Memory's pen
Devotes to the time that is pass'd;

As we dwell on the joys we may ne'er taste again,
And pleasures too brilliant to last.

How sweet is the tear which flows fast from the eye,
When Remembrance awakens the Mind,

To the thought of the friendships for ever gone by,
The warm, and the firm, and the kind.

Oh! suffer the tear in the eye to appear,
And forbid not the stream to flow on ;
'Tis the dew-drop of heaven that falls on the bier
Of the joy that was bright—but is gone.

'Tis the balm that affordeth a gentle relief
To the heart overburden'd with woe;

And shall I forbid it to glisten in grief,
Or deny it permission to flow?

Oh! forbid it, my God, that my folly should dare

What thy Providence wills to arraign;

But when Sorrow has blighted the hopes that were fair,

We may weep, though we may not complain.

Still, still there's a hope in the sadness of woe,
That Death cannot separate love;

That the spirits, so closely united below,

Shall unite in their raptures above!

June 25.-I am afraid Cynthia is angry; but how can she expect me to write long letters, when I have so much business on my hands? However, here is an apology in Rhyme, and I hope I shall receive my forgiveness by the next post.

E'en now, as thus I sit me down,
Scar'd by your thunder and your frown,
Two Fiends are hid aloof;
Two Fiends in dark Cocytus dipp'd;
A Blockhead with a Manuscript,
A Devil with a Proof!
Alas! alas! I seem to find
Some torment for my weary mind,

In every thing I see!

My Duck is old,-my Mutton tough,-
To some they may be good enough,
They smell of "Press" to me;
And when I stoop my lips to drink,
I often shudder as I think

I taste the taste of Printer's ink,
In chocolate and tea.

And what with friends, and foes, and

hits

Sent slyly out by little Wits,

A fulminating Breed;

And what with Critics, Queries, Quar.
rels,

Fame and fair faces, love and laurels,
Sermons and Sonnets, good and bad,
I'm getting-not a little mad,

But very mad indeed!

But you, who in your home of ease,
Are far from sorrows such as these,
Maid of the archly smiling brow,
What folly are you following now?
With you, amid the mazy dance,
That came to us from clever France,
Does he, that bright and brilliant star,
The future Tully of the Bar,

Its present Vestris, glide?
Or does he quibble, stride, look big,
Assume the face of Legal Prig,
And charm you with his embryo Wig,

In all its powder'd pride?
Is he the Coryphæus still,
Of winding Waltz, and gay Quadrille?
And is he talking fooleries

Of Ladies' love, and looks, and eyes,
And flirting with your Fan?
Or does he prate of wheres and whys,
Cross-questions, queries, and replies,
Cro. Car.-Cro Jac-and Cro. Eliz.
To puzzle all he can?

66

Is he the favourite of to-day,
Or do you smile with kinder ray
On him the grave Divine;
Whose Periods sure were form'd alike
In Pulpit to amaze and strike,

In Drawing-room to shine?
Alas! alas! Methinks I see,
Amid those walks of revelry,

A Dignitary's fall;

For lingering long in Fashion's scene,
He'll die a Dancer, not a Dean,
And find it hard to choose between
Preferment, and a Ball!

I do not bid thee weep, my Dear,
I would not see a single tear

In eyes so bright as those;
Nor dim the ray that Love hath lit,
Nor check the stream of mirth and wit,
That sparkles as it flows.

Be still the Fairy of the Dance,
And keep that light and merry glance,
Yet do not, in your Pride of Place,
Forget your parted Lover's face,

A poor one though it be!
Among the thousands that adore,
Believe not one can love you more;
And when retir'd from Ball or Rout,
You've nothing else to think about,—
Why, waste a thought on me!

June 28.-Just read the Review of "The Etonian" in the dear Quarterly!" How delightfully civil! All our friends are looking as pleased as Punch! and all our enemies are looking long in the face, and grumbling something about partiality; which I have not time to listen to. Partiality, forsooth!-Let the good Gentlemen be as partial as they please, and Peregrine will never be angry with them. But oh! horrible! The Critic talks about the Unsightly and unseemly emblem" on our cover. If this is not High Treason, tell me, Mr. Attorney General, what is! His Majesty of Clubs "unsightly and unseemly!" God save the King! Who ever suspected the "Quarterly" of designs against Monarchy? I am getting in a terrible passion, so I shall shut up my Scrap-Book.