But, bending lowly to each holy story, Make this thy Chapel and thine Oratory.

THE CHANGE.

(Hone's Year Book, 1831.)

[Charles Lamb inscribed these freakish verses "To Louisa M, adding, "Whom I used to call Monkey."]

LOUISA serious grown and mild,
I knew you once a romping child,
Obstreperous much, and very wild.

Then you would clamber up my knees,
And strive with every art to tease,
When every art of yours could please.

Those things would scarce be proper

now,

But they are gone, I know not how,
And woman's written on your brow.

Time draws his finger o'er the scene;
But I cannot forget between
The thing to me you once have been:

Each sportive sally-wild escape,---
The scoff, the banter, and the jape,—
And antics of my gamesome Ape.

EXISTENCE, CONSIDERED IN ITSELF, NO BLESSING. FROM THE LATIN OF PALINGENIUS.

(The Athenæum, 7th July, 1832.) [As originally published in the Athenæum, this translation from the Latin of the Italian poet of the sixteenth century, Marcellus Palingenius, vide Zodiacus Vita, lib. 6, apud finem, had prefixed to it this explanatory note: The poet, after a seeming approval of suicide, from a consideration of the cares and crimes of life, finally rejecting it, discusses the negative importance of existence, contemplated in itself, without reference to good or evil."]

OF these sad truths consideration had

Thou shalt not fear to quit this world so mad,

THE PARTING SPEECH OF THE CELESTIAL MESSENGER TO THE POET.

FROM THE LATIN OF PALINGENIUS.

(The Athenæum, 25th February,
1832.)

[Another passage from the same old Italian author's masterpiece.]

BUT now time warns (my mission at an end)

That to Jove's starry court I reascend; From whose high battlements I take delight

To scan your earth, diminish'd to the sight,

Pendent and round, and as an apple small,

Self-propt, self-balanced, and secure from fall

By her own weight; and how with liquid robe

Blue Ocean girdles round her tiny

In secret ambuscade join'd forces,
To carry on unlawful courses.
These robbers' names-enough to
shake us-

Were Strymon one, the other Cacus. And, more the neighbourhood to bother,

A wicked dam they had for mother, Who knew their craft, but not forbid it; [it; And whatsoe'er they nimm'd, she hid Received them with delight and wonder

When they brought home some special plunder;

Call'd them her darlings, and her white boys,

Her ducks, her dildings--all was right, boys

"Only," she said, "my lads, have

And each his wicked wits 'gan rub, How to bear off the famous Club; Thinking that they sans price or hire would

Carry't straight home, and chop for fire-wood:

'Twould serve their old dame half a winter.

You stare; but, 'faith, it was no splinter:

I would not, for much money, spy Such beam in any neighbour's eye. The villains, these exploits not dull in,

Incontinently fell a-pulling.

They found it heavy, no slight matter, But tugg'd and tugg'd it till the clatter Woke Hercules, who in a trice Whipp'd up the knaves, and, with a splice

He kept on purpose, which before Had served for giants many a scoreTo end of Club tied each rogue's head fast; Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast;

And pickaback them carries townwards,

Behind his brawny back, head-downwards;

(So foolish calf--for rhyme, I bless

X

Comes nolens volens out of Essex ;) Thinking to brain them with his dextra,

Or string them up upon the next

tree.

That Club-so equal fates condemnThey thought to catch, has now . catch'd them.

Now, Hercules, we may suppose,
Was no great dandy in his clothes;
Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen
In calimanco or nankeen;

On anniversaries, would try on
A jerkin spick-span new from lion;
Went bare for the most part, to be
cool,

And save the time of his Groom of the Stole.

Besides, the smoke he had been in
In Stygian gulf had dyed his skin
To a natural sable--a right hell-fit,
That seem'd to careless eyes black
velvet.

Nor envy, nor detraction, ever found A harbour yet; an understanding sound;

Just views of right and wrong; perception full

Of the deform'd, and of the beautiful, In life and manners; wit above her

sex,

Which, as a gem, her sprightly converse decks;

Exuberant fancies, prodigal of mirth, To gladden woodland walk, or winter hearth;

A noble nature, conqueror in the strife Of conflict with a hard discouraging life,

Strengthening the veins of virtue, past the power

Of those whose days have been one silken hour,

Spoil'd fortune's pamper'd offspring; a keen sense

Alike of benefit, and of offence. With reconcilement quick, that instant springs

From the charged heart with nimble angel wings;

While grateful feelings, like a signet sign'd

By a strong hand, seem burnt into

her mind.

If these, dear friend, a dowry can confer

Richer than land, thou hast them all in her;

And beauty, which some hold the chiefest boon,

Is in thy bargain for a make-weight thrown.

TO THOMAS STOTHARD, R.A., ON HIS ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE POEMS OF MR. ROGERS. (The Athenæum, 21st December, 1833.)

CONSUMMATE Artist, whose undying

name

With classic Rogers' shall go down to fame,

Be this thy crowning work! In my young days

How often have I with a child's fond

gaze

Pored on the pictured wonders thou hadst done:

Clarissa mournful, and prim Grandison !

All Fielding's, Smollett's heroes, rose to view ;

I saw, and I believed the phantoms

true..

But, above all, that most romantic tale Did o'er my raw credulity prevail, Where Glums and Gawries wear mysterious things,

That serve at once for jackets and for wings.

Age, that enfeebles other men's designs,

But heightens thine, and thy free draught refines.

In several ways distinct you make us feel

Graceful as Raphael, as Watteau genteel.

Your lights and shades, as Titianesque, we praise;

And warmly wish you Titian's length of days.

TO CLARA N[OVELLO].

(The Athenæum, 26th July, 1834)

THE Gods have made me most unmusical,

With feelings that respond not to the call

Of stringed harp or voice-obtuse and

mute

To hautboy, sackbut, dulcimer, and flute;

King David's lyre, that made the madness flee

From Saul, had been but a jew's-harp to me:

Theorbos, violins, French horns, guitars,

Leave in my wounded ears inflicted

scars;

I hate those trills, and shakes, and sounds that float

Upon the captive air; I know no note,
Nor ever shall, whatever folks may say,
Of the strange mysteries of Sol and
Fa;

I sit at oratorios like a fish,
Incapable of sound, and only wish