Then, on the stone that hides his sleep,
These accents shall be graven deep;
Or, "Upton" and "C. B."* between,
Shine in the "Sporting Magazine;"
"Civil to none, except his brutes,
Polish'd in nought except his boots;
Here lie the relics of Joe Tarrell;
Also-Joe Tarrell's double-barrel!"

Ho! by the mutter'd sounds that slip,
Unwilling, from his curling lip;
By the grey glimmer of his eye,
That shines so unrelentingly;
By the stern sneer upon his snout,
I know the Critic, Andrew Crout!
The Boy-reviler! amply fill'd
With venom'd virulence, and skill'd
To look on what is good and fair,
And find, or make, a blemish there.
For Fortune to his cradle sent
Self-satisfying Discontent;

And he hath caught from cold Reviews
The one great talent, to abuse;
And so he sallies sternly forth,
Like the cold Genius of the North,
To check the heart's exuberant fullness,
And chill good-humour into dullness.
Where'er he comes, his fellows shrink
Before his awful nod and wink;
And whensoe'er those features plastic
Assume the savage or sarcastic,

Mirth stands abash'd, and Laughter flies,
And Humour faints, and Quibble dies.
How sour he seems! and, hark! he spoke;
We'll stop and listen to the croak;
"Twill charm us, if these happy lays
Are honour'd by a fool's dispraise!-
"You think the boats well mann'd this year!
To you, they may perhaps appear!
I, who have seen those frames of steel,
Tuckfield, and Dixon, and Bulteel,
Can swear-no matter what I swear!
Only-things are not as they were;
And then our Cricket! think of that!
We ha'nt a tolerable Bat;

* Two constant supporters of that instructive Miscellany.

It's very true that Mr. Tucker,
Who puts the Field in such a pucker,
Contrives to make his fifty Runs ;-
What then?-we had a Hardinge once!
As for our talents, where are they?
Griffin and Grildrig had their day;
And who's the Star of modern time?
-Octosyllabic Peregrine;

Who pirates, puns, and talks Sedition,
Without a moment's intermission!
And if he did not get a lift,

Sometimes, from me, and Doctor Swift,
I can't tell what the deuce he'd do
;-
But this, you know, is entre nous !
I've tried to talk him into taste,
But found my labour quite misplac'd;
He nibs his pen, and twists his ear,
And says he's deaf, and cannot hear ;'
And if I mention right or rule,-
Egad he takes me for a fool!"

Who is the youth, with stare confounded,
And tender arms so neatly rounded;
And moveless eyes, and glowing face,
And Attitude of studied grace?

;

Now Venus, pour your lustre o'er us!
Your would-be Servant stands before us.
Hail, Corydon! let others blame
The fury of his fiction'd flame;
I love to hear the beardless youth
Talking of constancy and truth
Swearing more darts are in his liver
Than ever gleam'd in Cupid's quiver;
And wondering at those hearts of stone,
Which never melted like his own.
Oh! when I look on Fashion's Moth,
Wrapt in his visions, and his cloth,
I would not, for a Nation's Gold,
Disturb the dream, or spoil the fold!

Gazing upon this varied scene
With a new Artist's absent mien,
I see thee, silent and alone,
My Friend, ingenious Hamilton.
I see thee there-(nay, do not blush,)
Knight of the Pallet and the Brush,

Dreaming of straight and crooked lines,
And planning Portraits, and Designs.
I like him hugely !—well I wis,
No despicable skill is his,

Whether his sportive canvass shows
Arabia's sands, or Zembla's snows,
A Lion, or a bed of lilies,
Fair Caroline, or fierce Achilles ;
I love to see him taking down
A Schoolfellow's unconscious frown,
Describing twist, grimace, contortion,
In most becoming disproportion,
While o'er his merry paper glide
Rivers of wit; and by his side
Caricatura takes her stand,

Inspires the thought, and guides the hand;
I love to see his honoured Books
Adorned with rivulets and brooks,
Troy frowning with her ancient towers,
Or Ida gay with fruits and flowers;
I love to see fantastic shapes,

Dragons and Griffins, Birds and Apes,
And Pigmy Forms, and Forms Gigantic,
Forms Natural, and Forms Romantic,
Of Dwarfs and Ogres, Dames and Knights,
Scrawl'd by the side of Homer's fights,
And Portraits daubed on Maro's Poems,
And Profiles pinn'd to Tully's Proems;
In short, I view with partial eyes
Whate'er my Brother-Painter tries.
To each belongs his own Utensil;
I sketch with Pen, as he with Pencil;
And each, with Pencil or with Pen,
Hits off a likeness now and then.
He drew me once-the spiteful creature!
"T was voted "like, in every feature;
It might have been so !-('t was lopsided,
And squinted worse than ever I did.)
However, from that hapless day,
I owed the debt, which here I pay;
And now I'll give my friend a hint ;-
"Unless you want to shine in print,
Paint Lords and Ladies, Nymphs and Fairies,
And Demi-gods, and Dromedaries.
But never be an Author's Creditor,
Nor paint a Picture of an Editor!"

And who the maid, whose gilded chain
Hath bound the heart of such a swain?
Oh! look on those surrounding Graces!
There is no lack of pretty Faces;
M-1, the Goddess of the night,
Looks beautiful with all her might;
And M, in that simple dress,
Enthralls us more, by studying less;
D-, in your becoming pride,
Ye march to conquest, side by side,
And A, thou fleetest by,
Bright in thine arch simplicity;

Slight are the links thy Power hath wreath'd,
Yet, by the tone thy Voice hath breath'd→→
By thy glad smile, and ringlets curled,
I would not break them for the world!
But this is idle! Paying court

I know was never yet my Forte;
And all I say of Nymph and Queen,
To cut it short, can only mean
That when I throw my gaze around,
I see much Beauty on the ground.

Hark! hark! a mellow'd note
Over the water seem'd to float!
Hark! the note repeated!

A sweet, and soft, and soothing strain,
Echoed, and died, and rose again,
As if the Nymphs of Fairy reign
Were holding to-night their revel rout,
And pouring their fragrant voices out,
On the blue water seated.

Hark to the tremulous tones that flow,
And the voice of the boatmen, as they row!
Cheerfully to the heart they go,

And touch a thousand pleasant strings, Of Triumph, and Pride, and Hope, and Joy, And Thoughts that are only known to Boy, And young Imaginings!

The Note is near, the Voice comes clear,
And we catch its Echo on the ear,
With a feeling of delight;

And as the gladdening sounds we hear,
There's many an eager listener here,
And many a straining sight.

One moment, and ye see

Where, fluttering quick, as the breezes blow,
Backwards, and forwards, to and fro;
Bright with the beam of retiring day,
Old Eton's flag, on its watery way,
Moves on triumphantly!

But what, that Ancient Poets have told,
Of Amphitrite's Car of Gold,

With the Nymphs behind, and the Nymphs before,
And the Nereid's song, and the Triton's roar,
Could equal half the pride,

That heralds the Monarch's plashing oar
Over the swelling tide?

And look!-they land, those gallant crews,
With their jackets light, and their bellying trews;
And Ashley walks, applauded, by,
With a world's talent in his eye;
And Kinglake, dear to Poetry,
And dearer to his Friends;
Hibernian Roberts, you are there,
With that unthinking, merry stare,
Which still its influence lends,
To make us drown our Devils blue,
In laughing at ourselves, and you!
Still I could lengthen out the tale,
And sing Sir Thomas with his Ale,
To all that like to read;

Still I could choose to linger long,
Where Friendship bids the willing Song
Flow out for honest Meade!

Yet e'en on this triumphant day

One thought of grief will rise;

And though I bid my Fancy play,
And jest, and laugh through all the lay,
Yet Sadness still will have her way,
And burst the vain disguise!
Yes! when the Pageant shall have past,
I shall have look'd upon my last;
I shall not e'er behold again
Our pullers' unremitted strain
Nor listen to the charming cry

Of contest or of victory,

That speaks what those young bosoms feel,
As keel is pressing fast on keel;