But Genius went pondering and choosing
Where gay shells and sea-flowers shine,
Grasped a sun-lighted wave in his musing,
And found his hand sparkling with brine.
Then push round the fiagon, &c.
""Tis well," said the goddess, as, smiling,
Each offering she curiously scanned,
On her altar mysteriously piling
The brine, and the wraik, and the sand; Mixing up, with strange spells as she used them, Salt, soda, and flint in a mass;
With the flame of the lightning she fused them,
And the marvellous compound was-GLASS!
Then push round the flagon, &c.
Beauty glanced at the crystal, half-frighted,
For stirring with life it was seen,
Till, gazing, she blushed all delighted,
As she saw her own visage within.
"Henceforth," she exclaimed, "be thou ever
The mirror to Beauty most dear;
Not from steel, or from silver, or river,
Is the reflex so lustrous or clear."
Then push round the flagon, &c.
But Genius the while rent asunder
A fragment, and raising it high,
Looked through it, beholding with wonder
New stars over-clustering the sky.
With rapture he cried, "Now is given
To Genius the power divine
To draw down the planets from heaven
Or roam through the stars where they shine."
Then push round the flagon, &c.
The rest fell to earth-Pleasure caught it-
Plunged his bowl, ere it cooled, in the mass;
To the form of the wine-cup he wrought it,
And cried, Here's the true use of Glass!"
Then leave, boys, the mirror to woman
Through the lens let astronomers blink— There's no glass half so dear to a true man As the wine-glass when filled to the briuk. Then push round the flask, each good fellow, Let's capture old Time ere he pass; We'll steal all his sands while he's mellow, And fill with the grape-juice his glass.
CHLOE, a maid at fifty-five,
Was at her toilet dressing;
Her waiting-maid, with iron hot,
Each paper'd curl was pressing.
The looking-glass her eyes engross,
While Betty humm'd a ditty;
She gaz'd so much upon her face,
She really thought it pretty.
Her painted cheeks and pencil brows
She could not but approve;
Her thoughts on various subjects turn'd,
At length they fixed on love.
"And shall," said she, "a virgin life
Await these pleasing charms?
And will no sighing blooming youth
Receive me to his arms?
"Forbid it, love!" She scarce had spoke,
When Cupid laid a trap,
For at the chamber door was heard
A soft and gentle rap.
Cried Betty, "Who is at the door?"
When straight a tender voice replied,
"Dear ma'am, I die for you.'
"What's that?" she said; "O, Betty, say!
A man and die for me!
And can I see the youth expire?
O, no!—it must not be!
Haste, Betty-open quick the door!"
'Tis done; and, lo! to view,
A little man with bundle stood,
In sleeves and apron blue.
"Ye powers!" cried Chloe, "what is this?
What vision do I see?
Is this the man, O mighty Love-
The man that dies for me?"
"Yes, ma'am ; your ladyship is right,"
The figure straight replied;
"And hard for me it would have been
If I had never dyed.
"La! ma'am, you must have heard of me,
Although I'm no highflyer;
I live just by, at No. 1,
I'm Billy Dip, the dyer.
'Twas I, ma'am, Betty there employed
To dye your lustring gown;
And I not only die for you,
But dye for all the town."
WHO is be, with coat so seedy,
Standing at the O. P. side?
In his hand he holds some papers,
Which he views with anxious pride.
On his brow a mournful smile is,
On his cheek a pallid hue,
On his legs a pair of trousers,
Which his feet are too far through.
And his hat, which once was glossy,
Quite its ancient lustre lost;
'Twas but four-and-twenty months since
Four-and-ninepence it had cost!
Forth he draws a worn bandana,
Brought from India's torrid clime,
(So at least the shopman told him
Where he bought it, at the time).
O'er that faded nap he draws it,
Heedless of the vulgar gaze,
But he fails to shed around it
The silken gloss of other days.
Then his boots-alas! that genius
Minus of a paltry sum,
That a soul and understanding
To such extremities should come!
Charles Shaksperius Mangel-worzel
Is that mournful-looking gent;
The papers are a five-act play,
Which to sell is his intent.
Visions bright of constant dinners-
Bread-and-cheese and half-and-half
Make that hungry-looking poet
Venture on a dismal laugh.
Then arrears of rent he thinks of-
How his landlady will stare
When his "little bill" he settles,
Due so long for that "two-pair!"
Suits of clothes, and Sunday journeys
Of his thoughts composed a part—
Greenwich Park was in perspective,
So was Moses' "Monster Mart."
All upon that five-act drama,
Did his happiness depend :
Straight a call-boy, Mangel-worzel
To the manager did send.
"Tell him," quoth he, "that an author Is on business waiting here,
And that'something touching greatly
His advantage' he may hear."
Vastly was the boy astonished
At his patronizing air;
And at Mangel-worzel's trousers
Gave a most irreverent stare.
Forth he went, the poet's message
To deliver ;-as he goes,
With a wink, he lays a finger
Wickedly upon his nose.
But the poet's eye is wandering
With a proud unconscious gaze,
Till the manager it rests on,
As he comes-and thus he says— "Pray, sir, do I guess aright, are
You the author who dispatchedMangel-worzel interrupting,
From his brow the hat detached;
"'Tis ine, sir," and he brought the drama Forth, the title he read out;
When the manager inquired if
He knew what he was about!
Charles Shaksperius muttered something Intimating his belief,
That his senses were in order,
When again resumed the chief :-
"I understand.-Want me to play it;
Leave it, and enclose your card."
Mangel-worzel at the speaker
Looked astonishingly hard.
"When I've leisure, some few weeks hence, Through its pages will I glance;
Call again-say this day three mouths;
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