You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;

And, with it, that odious "additional stanza," Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,

And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;-a Mere part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.

Just so 'twas with Byron's young eagle-eyed strain,
Just so did they taunt him ;-but vain, critics, vain
All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain !
To blot out the splendour of Fancy's young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledg'd beam!!!
Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, ev'n while these lines I

indite,

Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or

right,

And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!

That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards, That she should make light of my works I can't blame;

But that nice, handsome, odious Magan_what a shame!

Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I

rate him,

I'm really afraid-after all, I-must hate him.
He is so provoking-nought's safe from his tongue,
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, lord how he'd quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies, I've actually seen
A sneer on his brow at the Court Magazine!-
While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he

peruses,

And buys every book which that Weekly abuses. But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear, One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;

And though tried by the fire, my young genius shall

burn as

Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!

(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made

"crucible,"

Before this fine image of mine is producible.)

And now, dear-to tell you a secret which, pray
Only trust to such friends as with safety you may-
You know, and, indeed the whole county suspects,
(Though the Editor often my best things rejects),

That the verses signed so,

then see

which you now and

In our County Gazette (vide last) are by me.

But 'tis dreadful to think what provoking mistakes

The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.
For you know, dear,-I may, without vanity, hint-

Though an angel should write, still 'tis devils must

print;

And you can't think what havoc these demons some

times

Choose to make of one's sense, and what's worse, of

one's rhymes.

But a week or two since, in my Ode upon Spring, Which I meant to have made a most beautiful thing, Where I talked of the "dewdrops from freshly-blown roses,"

The nasty things made it "from freshly-blown noses!"

And once when, to please my cross Aunt, I had tried To commem'rate some saint of her clique, who'd just

died,

Having said he "had tak'n up in heav'n his position," They made it, he'd "tak'n up to heav'n his physician!"

This is very disheartening; -but brighter days shine, I rejoice, love, to say, both for me and the Nine ; For, what do you think?-so delightful! next year, Oh, prepare, dearest girl, for the grand news prepare,

I'm to write in the Keepsake-yes, Kitty my dear, To write in the Keepsake, as sure as you 're there!!

T'other night, at a Ball, 'twas my fortunate chance With a very nice elderly Dandy to dance,

Who, 'twas plain, from some hints which I now and

then caught,

Was the author of something - one couldn't tell

what;

But his satisfied manner left no room to doubt

It was something that Colbourn had lately brought

out.

We conversed of belles-lettres through all the quad

rille,

Of poetry, dancing, of prose, standing still;

Talk'd of Intellect's march-whether right 'twas or

wrong,

And then settled the point in a bold en avant.
In the course of this talk 'twas that, having just hinted
That I too had Poems which-longed to be printed,
He protested, kind man! he had seen, at first sight,
I was actually born in the Keepsake to write.