And shows fair Hebe how to lay
The plates of gold in order gay.
The gods and goddesses admire
The labour of the God of Fire,
And give it a high-sounding name,
Such as might hand it down to fame:
If 'twere to us, weak mortals, giv'n
To know the names of things in heav'n;
But on our sublunary earth

We have no words of noble birth,
And even our bards, in loftiest lays,
Must use the populace of phrase.
However call'd it may have been,
For many a circling year 'twas seen,
To glitter at each rich repast,

As long as heav'n was doom'd to last.
But faithless lord--and angry wife-
Repeated faults rekindl'd strife
Abandon'd all domestic cares-

To ruin sunk their sound affairs-
The immortals quit the troubl'd sky
And down for rest and shelter fly

Some seek the plains, and some the woods,
And some the brink of foaming floods;
Venus, from grief religious grown,

Endows a meeting-house in town;
And Hermes fills the shop next door

With drugs far-brought, a healthful store!
What fate the Graces fair befel,

The Muse has learn'd, but will not tell.

To try and make afflictions sweeter
Momus descends and lives with Peter,
Though scarcely seen the external ray,
With Peter all within is day,

For there the lamp, by nature giv'n,
Was fed with sacred oil from Heav'n.
Condemn'd a learned rod to rule,
Minerva keeps a Sunday-school
With happier lot the God of day
To Brighton wings his minstrel way;
There come, a master-touch he flings,
With flying hand, across the strings;
Sweet flow the accents soft and clear,
And strike
upon a kindred ear;
Admitted soon a welcome guest,
The God partakes the royal feast,
Pleas'd to escape the vulgar throng,
And find a judge of sense and song.
Meantime from Jove's high tenement,

To auction every thing is sent;
Oh grief! to auction here below!--
The gazing crowd admire the show;
Celestial beds, imperial screens,
Busts, pictures, lustres, bright tureens.
With kindling zeal the bidders vie,
The dupe is spurr'd by puffers sly,

And many a splendid prize knock'd down,
Is sent to many a part of town,

But all that's most divinely great

To preach in prose, or chant in rhyme,
Of furniture the true sublime,

And teach the ravish'd world the rules
For casting pans and building stools.
Poor Vulcan's gift, among the rest,
Is sold, and decks a mortal feast,
Bought by a goodly alderman,

Who lov'd his plate and lov'd his can;
And when the feast his worship slew,
His lady sold it to a Jew.

From him, by various chances cast,
Long time from hand to hand it past:-
To tell them all would but prolong
The ling'ring of a tiresome song;
Yet still it look'd as good as new,
The wearing prov'd the fabric true :
Now mine, perhaps, by Fate's decree,
Dear Lady R, I send it thee;
And when the giver's days are told,
And when his ashes shall be cold,
May it retain its pristine charm,
And keep with thee his mem'ry warm.

The following short poem, the hasty effusion of Mr. Curran's pen, was produced on this occasion : A party of gentlemen had dined with a friend; in the enjoyment of the table they became rather indulgent, and having continued till a late hour, it was proposed that they, according to their remaining powers, should produce something worthy of so happy a day.

Mr. Curran's contribution was given upon the spur of the moment in these verses:

TO SLEEP.

O Sleep, awhile thy power suspending,
Weigh not yet my eyelid down,
For Mem'ry, see! with eve attending,
Claims a moment for her own.

I know her by her robe of mourning,
I know her by her faded light;
When faithful with the gloom returning,
She comes to bid a sad good night.

Oh! let me hear, with bosom swelling,
While she sighs o'er time that's past;
Oh! let me weep, while she is telling

Of joys that pine, and pangs that last.
And now, O Sleep, while grief is streaming,
Let thy balm sweet peace restore,
While fearful Hope through tears is beaming,
Soothe to rest that wakes no more.

THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS ON THE DESERT OF LIFE.

1.

O'ER the desert of life where you vainly pursu'd Those phantoms of hope which their promise disown, Have you e'er met some spirit divinely endu❜d, That so kindly could say you don't suffer alone? And however your fate may have smil'd or have frown'd, Will she deign still to share as the friend and the wife? Then make her the pulse of your heart, for you've found The green spot that blooms o'er the desert of life.

2.

Does she love to recal the past moments so dear,
When the sweet pledge of faith was confidingly giv'n,
When the lip spoke the voice of affection sincere,

And the vow was exchang'd and recorded in heav'n?
Does she wish to rebind what already was bound,

And draw closer the claim of the friend and the wife? Then make her the pulse of your heart, for you've found The green spot that blooms o'er the desert of life.

Mr. Curran's parliamentary life is so interwoven with the history of his country, that on it I purpose to subjoin whatever may be most interesting. On principle he became early attached to the Whigs, and to them, through all the undulations of a very varied fortune, he adhered with constancy. His career was not so distinguished in the senate as in the courts of justice. His business in the hall, till the period at which it was interrupted by the occasion before related, was so extensive as to leave him little leisure for the cultivation of politics. His mind consequently was not furnished with all the deep erudition necessary to perfect the practical statesman; but to an intimate acquaintance with the laws and the constitution of his country, he added a great knowledge of all the obliquities of human character, and with the acquired stock of literature, and his facility of public speaking, he marched always in the first ranks of the opposition.