(His First Attempt In Verse.)

"Evil, be thou my good." --MILTON.

How various are the inspirations Of different men in different nations! As genius prompts to good or evil, Some call the Muse, some raise the devil. Old Socrates, that pink of sages, Kept a pet demon on board wages To go about with him incog., And sometimes give his wits a jog. So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know, Keeps fresh relays of imps below, To forward from that nameless spot; His inspirations, hot and hot.

But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings-- Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings-- Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will, I'd show you mischief prettier still; Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks With age's sourest politics; The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall, Both duly mixt, and matchless all; A compound naught in history reaches But Machiavel, when first in breeches!

Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform, Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm, Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee-- No livelier lackey could they find thee. And, Goddess, as I'm well aware, So mischief's done, you care not where, I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle In Paddyland to play the Pickle; Having got credit for inventing A new, brisk method of tormenting-- A way they call the Stanley fashion, Which puts all Ireland in a passion; So neat it hits the mixture due Of injury and insult too; So legibly it bears upon't The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.

Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire; And why she's so, none need inquire, Who sees her millions, martial, manly, Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley. Already in the breeze I scent The whiff of coming devilment; Of strife, to me more stirring far Than the Opium or the Sulphur war, Or any such drug ferments are. Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul Than all such pests, from pole to pole, Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;" And thanks to practice on that land I stir it with a master-hand.

Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!" How Caravats and Shanavests Shall swarm from out their mountain nests, With all their merry moonlight brothers, To whom the Church (step-dame to others) Hath been the best of nursing mothers. Again o'er Erin's rich domain Shall Rockites and right reverends reign; And both, exempt from vulgar toil, Between them share that titheful soil; Puzzling ambition which to climb at, The post of Captain, or of Primate.

And so, long life to Church and Co.-- Hurrah for mischief!--here we go.

EPISTLE FROM CAPTAIN ROCK TO LORD LYNDHURST.

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at, Have both the same praiseworthy object, in private-- Namely, never to let the old regions of riot, Where Rock hath long reigned, have one instant of quiet, But keep Ireland still in that liquid we've taught her To love more than meat, drink, or clothing--hot water.

All the difference betwixt you and me, as I take it, Is simply, that you make the law and I break it; And never, of big-wigs and small, were there two Played so well into each other's hands as we do; Insomuch, that the laws you and yours manufacture, Seem all made express for the Rock-boys to fracture. Not Birmingham's self--to her shame be it spoken-- E'er made things more neatly contrived to be broken; And hence, I confess, in this island religious, The breakage of laws--and of heads is prodigious.

And long may it thrive, my Ex-Bigwig, say I,-- Tho', of late, much I feared all our fun was gone by; As, except when some tithe-hunting parson showed sport, Some rector--a cool hand at pistols and port, Who "keeps dry" his powder, but never himself-- One who, leaving his Bible to rust on the shelf, Sends his pious texts home, in the shape of ball-cartridges, Shooting his "dearly beloved," like partridges; Except when some hero of this sort turned out, Or, the Exchequer sent, flaming, its tithe-writs about-- A contrivance more neat, I may say, without flattery, Than e'er yet was thought of for bloodshed and battery; So neat, that even I might be proud, I allow, To have bit off so rich a receipt for a row;-- Except for such rigs turning up, now and then, I was actually growing the dullest of men; And, had this blank fit been allowed to increase, Might have snored myself down to a Justice of Peace. Like you, Reformation in Church and in State Is the thing of all things I most cordially hate. If once these curst Ministers do as they like, All's o'er, my good Lord, with your wig and my pike, And one may be hung up on t'other, henceforth, Just to show what such Captains and Chancellors were worth.

But we must not despair--even already Hope sees You're about, my bold Baron, to kick up a breeze Of the true baffling sort, such as suits me and you, Who have boxt the whole compass of party right thro', And care not one farthing, as all the world knows, So we but raise the wind, from what quarter it blows. Forgive me, dear Lord, that thus rudely I dare My own small resources with thine to compare: Not even Jerry Diddler, in "raising the wind," durst Complete, for one instant, with thee, my dear Lyndhurst.

But, hark, there's a shot!--some parsonic practitioner? No--merely a bran-new Rebellion Commissioner; The Courts having now, with true law erudition, Put even Rebellion itself "in commission." As seldom, in this way, I'm any man's debtor, I'll just pay my shot and then fold up this letter. In the mean time, hurrah for the Tories and Rocks! Hurrah for the parsons who fleece well their flocks! Hurrah for all mischief in all ranks and spheres, And, above all, hurrah for that dear House of Peers!

Exchequer tithe processes, served under a commission of rebellion.--Chronicle.

CAPTAIN ROCK IN LONDON.