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Thanks to thee, Thomas, thou truly art one of the Scots Worthies, and deservest credit for thy liberality in thus addressing us. You would, no doubt, like "Ye pugilists of England," which has almost (we are no egotists) as much lyrical animation as "Ye Mariners of England;" and which evinces our respect for your talents; in our making you our model in lyrical composition. We heartily commiserate you, in observing that you have so much uphill work with the New Monthly. You had better give the Nympholept your thanks, and dismiss him; and, I am sure you would find it, in every respect, more heartsome, to be enrolled in our triumphant corps. But this is only a hint; and we do not like to press matters; so you need not mention this to Colbourn, unless you are thoroughly convinced of its propriety.
Tom Moore for a guinea! exclaimed we, as we broke open a third packet. This is mindful now; and it raises you in our estimation. Certainly, Tom, thou art a "clever old fellow ;" and, though now and then radico-whiggish, still most of your compositions are much above " Fudge."
EPISTLE TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, ESQ.
Though lately I have been
With fruit and flowers for ever bright,
Have wander'd o'er, with bounding heart;
Hath been in memory's mirror dim:
Thy imaged form, in lith and limb,
Think not, dear Kit, when Lauerwinkel
Though forced to gulp the bitter bolus:
Go on, old boy, I love thy fun,
And laugh at all the stupid pigs,
Who shake their heads; but, rum old one,
Or, by St Patrick, I'm afraid,
That, ere another Christmas fall,
Farewell, old boy! on New-Year's day,
Farewell, dear North! success to thee,
Though thou hast caused my friends and me
To look a little blue and yellow!
Good Heavens! all poetry together! said we, as the fourth epistle displayed its snowy square before us. We are acquainted, as we before took an opportunity of letting the Public know, with three thousand versifiers, among whom are 1850 men of the greatest genius; but, in gratitude for this acknowledgment of our friendship, we never expected that we were to be inundated with such a torrent of New-Year's day compliments. But modesty ever has its own reward. Whether luckily or not, this one is short.
TO THE VEILED MAGICIAN.
NORTH! many a time upon thy glory musing,
Beside the meek cow ruminant. I feel
That thou hast beat and buffeted me about,
More than the cook-maid doth an old dish-clout;
Therefore, may thy bright fountain never fail,
And Wisdom's long-jerk'd feather o'er thee swale!
The hepdomadal hand! hear it, O Heavens! and believe, O Earth! The Jupiter of the Olympus of Cockaigne has, instead of launching thunderbolts at us, as he has often threatened, poured a phial of nectar, in the shape of a sonnet, on our bald crown; its kindly influence has extended itself even to the skirts of our robe; and acted as a balsam, also to the ball of our rheumatic toe itself. Well, this is kind, warm-hearted, and just as it should be. When a wanderer returns from the error of his ways, and volunteers a civil call, we know better than to slap the door in his face. Wonders will never cease; and, for all that has happened yet, there may yet subsist between Rimini and ourselves, something "like a how-d'ye-do-Georgy-my-boy sort of familiarity."
But we must get on; for we do not deny, that we sometimes require a nap, like other folks, though we have no ambition that our writings should be considered as soporifics. Well do we know this Miltonic fist! Well do we re
cognise the spell, that awakens in our minds the bold and majestic scenery of mountain solitudes, the wild forest, and the foaming cataract. Thy greetings are honourable to us, and are valued as they deserve to be. The gratulation of one of the purest hearts, and one of the most sublime of British intellects, is surely worth more than a new farthing; and we say so, without disparagement to that neat and sovereign-looking coin. Thanks to Wordsworth!
TOKENS OF NATURAL AFFECTION.
As from the lowly meadow ground,
With congregated vapours, dank and dense,
Leaving the meadow-ground all fresh and green,
Sequester'd, on a rural mount, I dwell
Of lofty elm or beech-tree; toppling o'er
By Nature hung in its deep leafy mass,
Whose undisturbed waters sleep below.
-Or, haply, when the western heavens are tinged
With orange light, sauntering adown the dale
In solitude, and watching the first ray
Of Evening's glittering star, the loveliest
Yet, though sequester'd from the world I dwell,
My English birth-right; that my bosom ne'er
Mourns o'er my country's sorrows; and swells proud
Not utterly degenerate hath grown,
But still can boast of thee, and such as thee!
A bright and bold noviciate thou hast pass'd;
Thy name is placed; and at thy parlour-door,
Hath his scythe humbled, or his shaft laid low.
But why on death dilate, and nature's debt?
My Lady Morgan's handsome compliment.
With dexterous quill, who wondering looks at thee,
Well stored with beef and biscuit; likewise rum,
As, from the central point from where the stone
Now, when the Christmas carols have gone by,
Another offering at our shrine from Cockney-land! Let us adjust our spectacles-Yes! without doubt it is so-ay, and from Barry Cornwall too; that is what we did not look for; we thought that he had been for some time in bed dreaming night and day of the Deluge. We have been mistaken. Let us see again-be steady our spectacles-this is surely a Supplement to Barry Cornwall's Dream about the Nereides blowing on cow-horns, Nebuchadnezzar— sphinxes-hypogriffs--and aerial mail-coaches. It is certainly very beautiful; and, with your leave, my Public, we shall read it over to you.
Figures there were amid the clouds,-
Lo! a chariot, hot steeds prancing,
To Dunedin by the sea,
And Tontine in West Countrèe.
Who comes riding, sailing thus
O'er the sea-like sky they glide,
And smoking his curl'd pipe anon:-
Crown'd like mother Cybele,
With South-Sea cap and tassel gay,
Overcome with all his peers,
That whelm'd beneath the mountains lie,.
As great Jove his foot doth lay on,
The vision shadowy vanished!
Saw bright glittering-this was North!
Unless we are wofully mistaken, here comes Byron with his famous letter on our Magazine. We know he is blood; but he shall find us a rum customer. If he does not go plump like a bag of wool over the ropes, our name is not Christopher. "By all the gods of Greece and Hellespont," as the tragic Odoherty exclaims, here, in lieu of an epistle, we have more poetry still..