Instead of noon! one little miracle,

In pity, gentle Phœbus!

What a joy,

Oh, what a joy to be a seal, and flounder
On an ice island! or to have a den

With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!
It were a comfort to shake hands with Death,
He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self
In the gift shirt Deianeira sent,

Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep
The sun off; or toast cheese for Beelzebub,
That were a cool employment to this journey,
Along a road whose white intensity

Would make platina uncongealable
Like quicksilver.

Were it midnight I should walk,
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sunbeams, Jove!
O, gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more,

Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven!
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars
For cardamum, and drinks down peppermint,
Making what's left as precious as Tokay.
Send Mercury to salivate the sky,
Till it dissolves in rain. O, gentle Jove!
By some such little kindness to a wretch,
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat,
Who swells with calorique, as if a Prester
Had leaven'd every limb with poison-yeast;
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings,
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee,
And turn true Pagan.

Not a cloud nor breeze,

O, you most heathen Deities! if ever

My bones reach home (for the flesh upon them,

That hath resolved itself into a dew),

I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus !

Set me a Persian sun-idolater

Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him

With no Inquisitorial argument

But thine own fires.

Now woe be to me, wretch,

That I was in a heretic country born!

Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,

And burn away the calx of their offences,

In that great Purgatory crucible,

Help me, O Jupiter! my poor complexion !

I am made a copper-Indian of already,
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me
My very cellular membrane will be changed,
I shall be negrofied.

A brook! a brook!

Oh, what a sweet cool sound!

'Tis very nectar!

It runs like life thro' every strengthen'd limb! Nymph of the stream, now take my grateful prayer.

ULIA was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face. Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain: Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame. The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal.

With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,

He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;

The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,

The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.
Naught now remain'd but "Noes"-how little meant-
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptured fell :----
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?
The favourite on his mistress casts his eyes,
Giyes a melancholy howl, and--dies!

Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first,

On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled:-he woos a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
"Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacks the day be cross'd!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

THE KNIFE-GRINDER.

A DIALOGUE IN SAPPHICS BY GEORGE CANNING.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.1

EEDY Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road-your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in't,
So have your breeches!

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-

Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day Knives and
Scissars to grind O!'

"Tell me, Knife-grinder, how you came to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?

Was it the squire? or parson of the parish?

Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit ?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for Mr Tierney, M. P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. He was an assiduous member of the " Society of Friends of the People."