Were never caught in epigram or witticism,

Have no romances, sermons, plays, reviews,
In harams learning soon would make a pretty schism !

But luckily these beauties are no “ blues;”
No bustling Botherby's have they to show 'em
“ That charming passage in the last new poem.”
No solemn, antique gentleman of rhyme,

Who having angled all his life for fame,
And getting but a nibble at a time,

Still fussily keeps fishing on, the same
Small “ Triton of the minnows," the sublime

Of mediocrity, the furious tame,
The echo's echo, usher of the school
Of female wits, boy bards_in short, a fool !
A talking oracle of awful phrase,

The approving“Good !” (by no means good in law) Humming like flies around the newest blaze,

The bluest of blue bottles you e'er saw, Teasing with blame, excruciating with praise,

Gorging the little fame he gets all raw, Translating tongues he knows not even by letter, And sweating plays so middling, bad were better. One hates an author that's all author, fellows

In foolscap uniforms, turned up with ink, So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,

One don't know what to say to them, or think, Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink Are preferable to these shreds of paper, These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper. Of these same we see several, and of others,

Men of the world, who know the world like men,

Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers,

Who think of something else besides the pen; But for the children of the “ mighty mother's,”

The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily “ tea is ready,” Snug coterie, and literary lady. THE MUTINEERS OF THE BOUNTY AFTER

THEIR DEFEAT. Stern, and aloof a little from the rest, Stood Christian, with his arms across his chest. The ruddy, reckless, dauntless hue once spread Along his cheek was livid now, as lead; His light-brown locks so graceful in their flow Now rose like startled vipers o'er his brow. Still as a statue, with his lips comprest To stifle even the breath within his breast, Fast by the rock, all menacing but mute, He stood; and save a light beat of his foot, Which deepened now and then the sandy dint Beneath his heel, his form seemed turned to flint. Some paces further Torquil leaned his head Against a bank, and spoke not, but he bled, Not mortally-his worst wound was within : His brow was pale, his blue eyes sunken in, And blood-drops sprinkled o'er his yellow hair Showed that his faintness came not from despair, But nature's ebb. Beside him was another, Rough as a bear, but willing as a brother, Ben Bunting, who essayed to wash, and wipe, And bind his wound—then calmly lit his pipe, A trophy which survived an hundred fights, A beacon which had cheered ten thousand nights.

The fourth and last of this deserted group (stoop
Walked up and down—at times would stand, then
To pick a pebble up—then let it drop-
Then hurry as in haste-then quickly stop-
Then cast his eyes on his companions—then
Half whistle half a tune, and pause again
And then his former movements would redouble,
With something between carelessness and trouble.
This is a long description, but applies
To scarce five minutes past before the eyes ;
But yet what minutes ! Moments like to these
Rend men's lives into immortalities.

A SPANISH BULL FIGHT. The lists are oped, the spacious area clear'd, Thousands on thousands piled are seated round; Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is heard, No vacant space for lated wight is found : Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, Skilled in the ogle of a roguish eye, Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound;

None through their cold disdain are doom'd to die, As moon-struck bards complain, by love's soft archery.

Hush'd is the din of tongues, on gallant steeds,
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light poised
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, [lance,
And lowly bending to the lists advance;
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly prance :
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day,
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' lovely glance,

Best prize of better acts, they bear away,
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their toils repay.
In costly sheen, and gaudy cloak array'd,
But all afoot, the light-limbed Matadore
Stands in the centre, eager to invade
The lord of lowing herds; but not before
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed o'er,
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his speed:
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more

Can man achieve without the friendly steed
Alas! too oft condemn’d for him to bear and bleed.

Thrice sounds the clarion ; lo! the signal falls,
The den expands, and expectation mute
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls.
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty brute,
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot,
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe :
Here, there, he points his threatening front, to suit

His first attack, wide waving to and fro
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilated glow.

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fixed : away,
Away thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear :
Now is thy time, to perish, or display
The skill that yet may check his mad career.
With well-timed croup the nimble coursers veer ;
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes ;
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent clear:

He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellowings

speak his woes. Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 1 Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; Though man and man's avenging arms assail, Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force.

One gallant steed is stretched a mangled corse ;
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears,
His gory chest unveils life's panting source ;

Though death-struck, still his feeble frame he rears; Staggering, but stemming all, his lord unharm'd he

bears. Foild, bleeding, breathless, furious, to the last, Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances brast, And foes disabled in the brutal fray: And now the Matadores around him play,

Once more through all he bursts his thundering

wayVain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, Wraps his fierce eye'tis past he sinks upon the

sand! Where his vast neck just mingles with the spine, Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. He stops_he starts disdaining to decline : Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, Without a groan, without a struggle dies. The decorated car appears-on high The corse is piled-sweet sight for vulgar eyes

Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in dashing by.

CAIN'S PRAISE OF ADAH'S BEAUTY. Lucifer.

- What is that, Which being nearest to thine eyes is still More beautiful than beauteous things remote ?

Cain. My sister Adah. All the stars of heaven,