Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main

Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accent of Cockaigne.

There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents;

Sink the Steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, oh, rot the Three per Cents!

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!

I will wed some savage woman least a dozen.

nay,

I'll wed at

There I'll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared;

They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairyfaced baboon,

Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff,

Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred

giraffe.

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,

Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.

Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,

For I hold the gray barbarian lower than the Christian cad.

I the swell the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,

I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces.

I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed very near

To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!

Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;

Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.

Morning Post (The Times won't trust me) help me, as I know you can;

I will pen an advertisement,

that's a never fail

ing plan.

"Wanted - by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman;

Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming!

"Hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters;

Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. - You must pay the letters."

That's the sort of thing to do it. Now I'll go and taste the balmy,

Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted Cousin Amy!

William Aytoun.

W

IN IMMEMORIAM

E seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great Intense

And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft,
We know enough, and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore
And look to earth and not aloft.

A something comes from out the gloom;
I know it not, nor seek to know;

I only see it swell and grow,

And more than this world would presume.

Meseems, a circling void I fill,

And I, unchanged where all is changed;
It seems unreal; I own it strange,
Yet nurse the thoughts I cannot kill.

I hear the ocean's surging tide,
Raise quiring on its carol-tune;
I watch the golden-sickled moon,
And clearer voices call besides.

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie

On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O Moon! whose golden sickle's gone;

O Voices all! like ye I die!

Cuthbert Bede.

F

SIR EGGNOGG

ORTH from the purple battlements he fared,
Sir Eggnogg of the Rampant Lily, named

From that embrasure of his argent shield

Given by a thousand leagues of heraldry
On snuffy parchments drawn. So forth he fared,
By bosky boles and autumn leaves he fared,

Where grew the juniper with berries black,
The sphery mansions of the future gin.
But naught of this decoyed his mind, so bent
On fair Miasma, Saxon-blooded girl,

Who laughed his loving lullabies to scorn,
And would have snatched his hero-sword to deck
Her haughty brow, or warm her hands withal,
So scornful she; and thence Sir Eggnogg cursed
Between his teeth, and chewed his iron boots
In spleen of love. But ere the morn was high
In the robustious heaven, the postern-tower
Clang to the harsh, discordant, slivering scream
Of the tire-woman, at the window bent
To dress her crispéd hair. She saw, ah, woe!
The fair Miasma, overbalanced, hurled
O'er the flamboyant parapet which ridged
The muffled coping of the castle's peak,
Prone on the ivory pavement of the court,
Which caught and cleft her fairest skull, and sent
Her rosy brains to fleck the Orient floor.
This saw Sir Eggnogg, in his stirrups poised.
Saw he and cursed, with many a deep-mouthed oath,
And, finding nothing more could reunite

The splintered form of fair Miasma, rode
On his careering palfrey to the wars,

And there found death, another death than hers.

Bayard Taylor.