His whizzing water-pipe he waved; A fireman, and afraid of bumps! What are they feared on? fools--'od rot 'em!"– THE UPAS IN MARYBONE LANE. (BY JAMES SMITH.) A TREE grew in Java, whose pestilent rind Face-muffled, the culprits crept into the vale, Britannia this Upas-tree bought of Mynheer, The house that surrounds it stands first in the row, Tax, Chancellor Van, the Batavian to thwart, FROM "ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION." (BY HORACE SMITH.) AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story! When the Memnonium was in all its glory, Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy; Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade- In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played? Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass, I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Long after thy primeval race was run. HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. (BY HORACE SMITH.) DAY-STARS! that ope your frownless eyes to twinkle Ye matin worshippers! who, bending lowly Ye bright mosaics! that with storied beauty, Your forms create! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth, Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned; To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, There, as in solitude and shade I wander Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God. Your voiceless lips, O Flowers! are living preachers, Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers From loneliest nook. Floral apostles! that in dewy splendour "Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime! "Thou wert not, Solomon! in all thy glory, In the sweet scented pictures, heavenly artist! Of love to all! Not useless are ye, Flowers! though made for pleasure: Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night, From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories! angel-like collection! And second birth. Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, Priests, sermons, shrines! Sir Alexander Boswell. { Born 1775. ELDEST Son of "Johnson's Boswell," and grandson of Lord Auchinleck, a Scottish judge, was author of several amusing songs and poems in the Scottish dialect. He wrote some personal satires on Stuart of Dunearn, which led to a duel, in which Boswell was mortally wounded, and died 26th March 1822. JENNY'S BAWBEE. I MET four chaps yon birks amang, Quo' he, ilk cream-faced pawky chiel, The first, a captain till his trade, Marched round the barn, and by the shed, Quo' he: "My goddess, nymph and queen, But-Jenny's bawbee. money |