It only serves to hint,

What grave defects and wants are mine;
That I'm no Hilton in design-

In nature no Dewint!

XVI.

Thrice happy time!-Art's early days!
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung!

When great Rembrandt but little seem'd,
And such Old Masters all were deem'd

As nothing to the young!

WELL! -Monsieur Brunel,

How prospers now thy mighty undertaking,
To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends
Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping,-

Never be stopping,

HAMLET.

But poking, groping, in the dark keep making
An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons,
For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons,
To cross the water in inverse proportion,
Walk under steam-boats under the keel's ridge,
To keep down all extortion,

And without sculls to diddle London Bridge!
In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry,
Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow,
Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey,
To give us the "View hollow."

In short it was thy aim, right north and south,
To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth;
Alas! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when
Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof,
Came, like "a tide in the affairs of men;"

And with a mighty stormy kind of roar,

Reproachful of thy wrong,

Burst out in that old song

Of Incledon's, beginning "Cease, rude Bore”—
Sad is it, worthy of one's tears,

Just when one seems the most successful,
To find one's self o'er head and ears

In difficulties most distressful!

Other great speculations have been nursed,
Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf;
But thy concern was at the worst,

When it began to liquidate itself!

But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden,
And languishes thy Tunnel,—so to paint,
Under a slow incurable complaint,

Bed-ridden!

Why, when thus Thames-bed-bother'd-why repine !
Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine !

Yet let none think thee daz'd, or craz'd, or stupid;
And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft ;

Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid
Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft!
I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do;
Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two,
The wine does better than such water trades:

Stick up a sign—the sign of the Bore's Head;
I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead,
And make thy cellar subterrane,-Thy Shades?

ANACREONTIC.

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse or fit season,
For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass,
Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,

And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen,

Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast,
Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen !

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom
The past Year has been pleasant and sunny;
Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom
Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey—
Days usher'd by dew-drops, instead of the tears,
May be wrung from some wretcheder cousin-
Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!

Hip Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bow'd to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd,
Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury,—

Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime,

The regrets of remembrance to cozen,

And having obtained a New Trial of Time,

Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

A WATERLOO BALLAD.

To Waterloo, with sad ado,
And many a sigh and groan,
Amongst the dead, came Patty Head,
To look for Peter Stone.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If I shall find him here?

I'm come to weep upon his corse,
My Ninety-Second dear!

'Into our town a sergeant came
With ribands all so fine,
A-flaunting in his cap-alas
His bow enlisted mine!

"They taught him how to turn his toes,
And stand as stiff as starch;

I thought that it was love and May,
But it was love and March!

A sorry March indeed to leave
The friends he might have kep',-

No March of Intellect it was,

But quite a foolish step.

"O prithee tell, good sentinel,
If hereabout he lies?

I want a corpse with reddish hair,
And very sweet blue eyes."

Her sorrow on the sentinel

Appear'd to deeply strike :"Walk in," he said, "among the dead, And pick out which you like."

And soon she pick'd out Peter Stone,
Half turn'd into a corse;

A cannon was his bolster, and

His mattrass was a horse.

"O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone,

Lord here has been a skrimmage! What have they done to your poor breast, That used to hold my image?"