ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT' OF

MAKING A FORTUNE.

NOW the "rosy morn appearing"

Floods with light the dazzled heaven;

And the schoolboy groans on hearing

That eternal clock strike seven :

Now the waggoner is driving

Towards the fields his clattering wain;

Now the bluebottle, reviving,

Buzzes down his native pane.

But to me the morn is hateful:

Wearily I stretch my legs,

Dress, and settle to my plateful

Of (perhaps inferior) eggs.

Yesterday Miss Crump, by message,

Mentioned "rent," which "p'raps I'd pay;"

D

And I have a dismal presage

That she'll call, herself, to-day.

Once, I breakfasted off rosewood,

Smoked through silver-mounted pipes

Then how my patrician nose would

Turn up at the thought of "swipes!"

Sing to me of "hungry foam;"

No imaginary "Marys"

Call fictitious "cattle home."

Araminta, sweetest, fairest!

Solace once of every ill!

How I wonder if thou bearest

Mivins in remembrance still!

If that Friday night is banished
Yet from that retentive mind,

When the others somehow vanished,
And we two were left behind :-

When in accents low, yet thrilling,
I did all my love declare;

Mentioned that I'd not a shilling

Hinted that we need not care:

And complacently you listened

To my somewhat long address

(Listening, at the same time, isn't

Quite the same as saying Yes).

Once, a happy child, I carolled

O'er green lawns the whole day through,

Not unpleasingly apparelled

In a tightish suit of blue:

What a change has now passed o'er me! Now with what dismay I see

Every rising morn before me!

Goodness gracious, patience me!

And I'll prowl, a moodier Lara,

Through the world, as prowls the bat,

And habitually wear a

Cypress wreath around my hat:

And when Death snuffs out the taper

Of my Life, (as soon he must),

I'll send up to every paper,

"Died, T. Mivins; of disgust."

ISABEL.

NOW o'er the landscape crowd the deepening

shades,

And the shut lily cradles not the bee;

The red deer couches in the forest glades,

And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea:

And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee,

The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams:

Lady, forgive, that ever upon me

Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams.

On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, And watch far off the glimmering roselight break O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake.