A Midnight Meditaion

By Sir E- B- L-.

Fill meonce more the foaming pewter up! Another hoard of oysters, ladye mine! To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.

These Mute inglorious Miltons are divine! And as I here in slippered ease recline, Quaffing of Perkins's Entire my fill, I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink; I snatch the pot again and yet again, And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!

This makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-- This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there. Where was I? Oh, I see--old Southey's dead! They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, And drain the annual butt--and oh, what head More fit with laurel to be garlanded Thanthis, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow, Like young Apollo's with his golden beams-- There should Apollo's bays be budding now:-- And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams That marks the poet in his waking dreams, When, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air, That from my fancy took their being's stamp: There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; There pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, Roams through the starry wilderness of thought, Where all is everything, and everything is nought.

Yes, I am he who sang how Aram won The gentle ear of pensive Madeline! How love and murder hand in hand may run, Cemented by philosophy serene, And kisses bless the spot where gore has been! Whobreathed the melting sentiment of crime, And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed Obscure philosophy's enchanting light! Until the public, 'wildered as they read, Believed they saw that which was not in sight-- Of course 'twas not for me to set them right; For in my nether heart convinced I am, Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more-- Somehow or other now they will not sell; And to invent new passions is a bore-- I find the Magazines pay quite as well. Translating's simple, too, as I can tell, Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed: Battered and broken are their early lyres, Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, And, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. But these are tilings would suit me to the letter, For though the Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better. A ficofor your small poetic ravers, Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these! Shall they compete with him who wrote 'Maltravers,' Prologue to 'Alice or the Mysteries'? No! Even now my glance prophetic sees My own high brow girt with the bays about.

What ho! within there, ho! another pint of Stout!

MONTGOMERY, A POEM.

Likeone who, waking from a troublous dream, Pursues with force his meditative theme; Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill;

Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen To rend his robes in agonies serene; Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore To all that lived behind him and before;

Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, He sang the mass around Servetus' pile,-- So once again I snatch this harp of mine, To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine.

Not now to whisper to the ambient air The sounds of Satan's Universal Prayer; Not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife That woman reigns the Angel of our life;

But to proclaim the wish, with pious art, Which thrills through Britain's universal heart,-- That on this brow, with native honours graced, The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed.

Fearnot, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; Let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn.

There are who move so far above the great, Their very look disarms the glance of hate; Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold.

Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. I, who have bathed in bright Castalia's tide, By classic Isis and more classic Clyde;

I, who have handled, in my lofty strain, All things divine, and many things profane; I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; I, who on mount-no, "honey-dew" have fed;

I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, And left no page for prophets to reveal; I, who in shade portentous Dante threw; I, who have done what Milton dared not do,--

I fear no rival for the vacant throne; No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own! Let dark Macaulay chant his Roman lays, Let Monckton Milnes go maunder for the bays,

Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid, LetWordsworth, ask for help from Peter Bell, Let Campbell carol Copenhagen's knell,

Let Delta warble through his Delphic groves, Let Elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-- I care not, I! resolved to stand or fall; One down, another on, I'll smash them all!

Back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; This brow alone is privileged to wear The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair;

These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, And make its mortal juice once more divine. Back, ye profane! And thou, fair Queen, rejoice: A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice.

Thus, then, I kneel where Spenser knelt before, On the same spot, perchance, of Windsor's floor; And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, The hallowed wreath from great Victoria's hand.