The world gave ground before her bright array;
And therefore have his volumes done such harm,
That all their glory, as a composition,
Was dearly purchased by his land's perdition.

HUMAN MOTIVES.

I hate a motive, like a lingering bottle
Which with the landlord makes too long a stand,
Leaving all claretless the unmoisten'd throttle,
Especially with politics on hand;

I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle,

Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the and; I hate it as I hate an argument,

A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content."

'Tis sad to hack into the roots of things,
They are so much intertwisted with the earth;
So that the branch a goodly verdure flings,
I reck not if an acorn gave it birth.

To trace all actions to their secret springs
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth;
But this is not at present my concern,

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern.

TRUTH.

'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange;
Stanger that fiction: if it could be told,
How much would novels gain by the exchange!
How differently the world would men behold!
How oft would vice and virtue places change!
The new world would be nothing to the old,
If some Columbus of the moral seas
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes.

What "antres vast and deserts idle" then
Would be discover'd in the human soul !
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men,
With self-love in the centre as their pole !
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control!
Were things but only call'd by their right narze
Cæsar himself would be ashamed of fame.

DEPARTED PLEASURES.

The evaporation of a joyous day

Is like the last glass of champagne, without
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay;
Or like a system coupled with a doubt;
Or like a soda bottle when its spray

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out;
Or like a billow left by storms behind,
Without the animation of the wind;

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest,
Or none; or like-like nothing that I know
Except itself;-such is the human breast;
A thing, of which similitudes can show
No real likeness,-like the old Tyrian vest
Dyed purple, none at present can tell how,
If from a shell-fish or from cochineal.
So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal!

But next to dressing for a rout or ball,
Undressing is a woe; our robe-de-chambre
May sit like that of Nessus, and recall

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear than amber.
Titus exclaim'd, "I've lost a day!" Of all

The nights and days most people can remember, (I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd,) I wish they'd state how many they have gain'd.

WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LONDON