(An Experiment.)

When he whispers, "O Miss Bailey, Thou art brightest of the throng"-- She makes murmur, softly-gaily-- "Alfred, I have loved thee long."

Then he drops upon his knees, a Proof his heart is soft as wax: She's--I don't know who, but he's a Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another Artless bride was never seen, Coachee thinks that she's his mother --Till they get to Gretna Green.

There they stand, by him attended, Hear the sable smith rehearse That which links them, when 'tis ended, Tight for better--or for worse.

Now her heart rejoices--ugly Troubles need disturb her less-- Now the Happy Pair are snugly Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion, So they journey through the night-- London is their land of Goshen-- See, its suburbs are in sight!

Hark! the sound of life is swelling, Pacing up, and racing down, Soon they reach her simple dwelling-- Burley Street, by Somers Town.

What is there to so astound them? She cries "Oh!" for he cries "Hah!" When five brats emerge, confound them! Shouting out, "Mama!--PAPA!"

While at this he wonders blindly, Nor their meaning can divine, Proud she turns them round, and kindly, "All of these are mine and thine!"

* * * * *

Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic, Losing heart he loses pith-- Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic-- Swears that Moses was a myth.

Sees no evidence in Paley-- Takes to drinking ratifia: Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey While she's pouring out the tea.

One day, knocking up his quarters, Poor Miss Bailey found him dead, Hanging in his knotted garters, Which she knitted ere they wed.

ADVICE TO A POET.

Dear Poet, never rhyme at all!-- But if you must, don't tell your neighbours; Or five in six, who cannot scrawl, Will dub you donkey for your labours. This epithet may seem unjust To you--or any verse-begetter: Oh, must we own--I fear we must!-- That nine in ten deserve no better.

Then let them bray with leathern lungs, And match you with the beast that grazes,-- Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues, Or damn you with the faintest praises. Be patient--you will get your due Of honours, or humiliations: So look for sympathy--but do Not look to find it from relations.

When strangers first approved my books My kindred marvelled what the praise meant, They now wear more respectful looks, But can't get over their amazement. Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond That wielded by the fiercest hater, For all the time they are so fond-- Which makes the aggravation greater.

Most warblers now but half express The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter: If they attempted nought--or less! They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter. Fly low, my friend, then mount, and win The niche, for which the town's contesting; And never mind your kith and kin-- But never give them cause for jesting.

A bard on entering the lists Should form his plan, and, having conn'd it, Should know wherein his strength consists, And never, never go beyond it. Great Dryden all pretence discards, Does Cowper ever strain his tether? And Praed--(Watteau of English Bards)-- How well he keeps his team together!

Hold Pegasus in hand--control A vein for ornament ensnaring, Simplicity is still the soul Of all that Time deems worth the sparing. Long lays are not a lively sport, Reduce your own to half a quarter, Unless your Public thinks them short, Posterity will cut them shorter.

I look on Bards who whine for praise, With feelings of profoundest pity: They hunger for the Poets' bays And swear one's spiteful when one's witty. The critic's lot is passing hard-- Between ourselves, I think reviewers, When called to truss a crowing bard, Should not be sparing of the skewers.

We all--the foolish and the wise-- Regard our verse with fascination, Through asinine paternal eyes, And hues of Fancy's own creation; Then pray, Sir, pray, excuse a queer And sadly self-deluded rhymer, Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!) Has all the gust of alt hochheimer.

Dear Bard, the Muse is such a minx, So tricksy, it were wrong to let her Rest satisfied with what she thinks Is perfect: try and teach her better. And if you only use, perchance, One half the pains to learn that we, Sir, Still use to hide our ignorance-- How very clever you will be, Sir!

NOTES.