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But time's been so far from my wisdom enriching,
That the longer I live, beauty seems more bewitching;
And the only new lore my experience traces,
is to find fresh enchantment in magical faces.

How weary is wisdom, how weary!

When one sits by a smiling young dearie!

And should she be wroth that my homage pursues her,
I will turn and retort on my lovely accuser;
Who's to blame, that my heart by your image is haunted?
It is you, the enchantress — not I, the enchanted.

Would you have me behave more discreetly,

Beauty, look not so killingly sweetly.



An original something, fair maid, you would win me

To write — but how"shall I begin?
For I fear I have nothing original in me —

Excepting Original Sin!

George Canning.


Whkxe'er with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U

nlversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenblue.

Which once my love sat knotting in —

Alas, Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the TJ-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew,

Her neat post-wagon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view;

Forlorn I languished at the U

niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in!

My years are many — they were few When first I entered at the U

niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew.

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tutor, law professor at the U-

niversity of Got tingen, niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu,

That kings and priests are plotting in;

Here doomed to starve on water gruel, never shall I see the U

niversity of Gottingen. niversity of Gottingen,

Will Carleton.


"Th'art welcome, fitle bonnie bird,
But shouldn't ha' come Just when tha' did.

Times are bad." — Old English Ballad.

Hoot, ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way

Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day

Knowin' that we already have three of ye, and seven,

An' tryin' to make yerself out a New-Year's present o' heaven!

Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse,

An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat; and Nellie she have no shoes;

And Sammie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame);

And the one that was just before you we a'n't had time to name.

An' all the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folks fall;
An' boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight;
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night.

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somew'at to do,
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,
An' but for your poor, dear mother a-doin' twice her part,
Ye'd 'a' seen us all in heaven afore ye was ready to start.

An' now ye have come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,
A weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound;
With your mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready to be filled.

No, no, don't cry, my baby; hush up, my pretty one.
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, my boy; I only was just in fun.
Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'ous folks;
But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes.

Why, boy! did ye take me in earnest? Come, sit upon my knee.
I'll tell ye a secret, youngster; I'll name ye after me;
Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye topiay;
An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day.

Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,
But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;
An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still them's yer brothers there,
An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed It hair.

Say, when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear.

Did ye see. 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?

That was yer little sister; she died a year ago.

An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow.

Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knew
Came here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,
I'd show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd,
Before I'd sell to another my New-Year's gift from God.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.


Nor cold nor stern, my soul! yet I detest

These scented rooms, where to a gaudy throng. Heaves the proud rat her distended breast

In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint; But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment.


I Asked n.y fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay;

By what sweet name from Rome
or Greece:
Lalage, Nearra, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,

Arethusa, or Lucrece.

"*Ah!" replied my gentle fair,

"Beloved, what are names but air?

Choose thou whatever suitsthe line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris. Call me Lalaje or Doris,

Only, only call me Thine."


What though the chilly widemouthed quacking chorus

From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak;

So was it, neighbor, in the times before us,

When Momus, throwing on his attic cloak,

Romped with the Graces; and each

tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Pheebus, whom

bards call divine, Was married to —at least, he kept —

all nine)

Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,

They had allured the audacious Greek to use,

Swore they mistook him for their own good man.

This Momus — Aristophanes on earth

Men called him — maugre all his wit and worth

Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should you,

Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?

No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,

"I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!"


Composed before daylight, on the morning appointed for the departure of a very worthy, but n,< very pleasant visitor, whom it was feared the rain might detain.

Though you should come again tomorrow,

And bring with you both pain and sorrow;

Though stomach should sicken ami

knees should swell —
I'll nothing speak of you but well.
But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say You're a good creature in your way; Nay, I would write a book myself, Would fit a parson's lower shelf, Showing how very good you are. What then? sometimes it must be fair!

And if sometimes, why not to-day? Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

Dear Rain! if I've been cold and

Take no offence! I'll tell you why.
A dear old friend e'en now is here,
And with him came my sister dear;
After long absence now first met,
Long months by pain and grief be-
set —

With three dear friends! in truth we

groan — Impatiently to be alone. We three, you mark! and not one


The strong wish makes my spirit sore.


John GiLritr.

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he

Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear —

"Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day,

And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton

All in a chaise and pair.

My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride
On horseback after we."

He soon replied — " I do admire

Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear,

Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold,
As all the world doth know,

And my good friend the calender
Will lend his horse to go."

We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners —
In short, as soon as it is day,
Do go, dear Rain ! do go away!


Your poem must eternal be,
Dear sir; it cannot fail;

For, 'tis incomprehensible,
And without head or tail.


Quoth Mrs. Gilpin — " That's well said;

And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, which is both bright and clear."

John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;

O'erjoyed was he to find [bent. That, though on pleasure she was

She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought,

But yet was not allowed • To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.

So three doors off the chaise was stayed.

Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog

To dash through thick and thin.

Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,

Were never folks so glad.
The stones did rattle underneath,

As if Cheapside were mad.

John Gilpin at his horse's side
Seized fast the flowing mane,

And up he got, in haste to ride,
But soon came down again;

For saddle-tree scarce reached had he,

His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore,

Yet loss of pence, full well he know, Would trouble him much more.

'Twas long before the customers

Were suited to their mind. When Betty screaming came down stairs,

"The wine is left behind 1"

"Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it ine.

My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise."'

Now Mrs. Gilpin (careful soul)
Had two stone bottles found,

To hold the liquor that she loved,
And keep it safe and sound.

Each bottle had a curling ear.
Through which the belt he drew,

And hung a bottle on each side,
To make his balance true.

Then over all. that he might be

Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat.

He manfully did throw.

Now see him mounted once again

Upon his nimble steed.
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones

With caution and good heed.

But finding soon a smoother road
Beneath his well-shod feet.

The snorting beast began to trot,
Which galled him in his seat.

So "Fair and softly." John he cried;

But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon,

In spite of curb and rein.

So stooping down, as needs he must

Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands,

And eke with all his might.

IIis horse, who never in that sort

Had handled been before,
What thing upon his back had got

Did wonder more and more.

Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;

Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out,

Of running such a rig.

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,
Like streamer long and gay,

Till, loop and button failing both,
At last it flew away.

Then might all people well discern

The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side,

As hath been said or sung.

The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl.

Away went Gilpin — who but he?

His fame soon spread around — "He carries weight! he rides a race!

'Tia for a thousand pound!"

And still, as fast as he drew near,

'Twas wonderful to view
How in a trice the turnpike-men

Their gates wide open threw.

And now, as he went bowing down
11 is reeking head full low,

The bottles twain behind his back
Were shattered at a blow.

Down ran the wine into the road,

Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke

As they had basted been.

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