ANACREON IN BOW-STREET.

BY THE AUTHOR OF MY POCKET-BOOK."

As, rapt, I sweep the golden lyre,

To Love I cry 66

my notes inspire,
And let me sing of ROSA !"
But Thespian wars fill all my strain,
TOM HARRIS junior, hapless swain!
JOHN KEMBLE, and MENDOZA.

Then if I to the stage belong,
O let me sing the charms of song,

Of BILLINGTON and BRAHAM!
In vain !-again my wishes fail,
I sing of nought but heavy bail,
Of TOWNSEND and of GRAHAM.

The soul of Harmony is dead,
And vilest Discord reigns instead,
With rioting and battles-

To shrieking owls are turn'd my doves,
To O. P*. men the little Loves,

My lyre to horns and rattles!

* I find that HORACE makes particular mention of the O. P's, and the noise they made in Rome :

"OPES strepitumque Roma.”—OD. LIB. III. 29.

My old friend the late Mr. OPIE, was a man of celebrity; but he never made half so much noise in the world as any one of his numerous relations.

THE HAPPY HOURS.

ΤΟ

WHEN I recall the happy hours

That you and I have pass'd together, When 'neath our feet love strew'd his flowers, And o'er our heads youth beam'd fine weather. When brightly burn'd that ardent flame,

Of which there but remains the embers, And you so tenderly could name

Each little deed that love remembers. When sigh for sigh you then could give, And every kiss receiv'd an hundred,

I scarce can think that still I live,

And live to know our hearts are sunder'd.

For like a dream of dear delight,

Of love's creation-fairies' weaving,
That time appears, when day and night
Was past in vowing and believing.

Yet tho' those hours indeed are flown,
So much from memory I recover,
That still I think thee all my own,
And fancy I am still thy lover.

And was thy heart but still as warm,-
If not as warm-at least sincerer
Ah dearest girl! from this fierce storm,
Such calm would make thee then but dearer.

And I'd again gaze on thy charms,

And in thy smiles lose melancholy

Whilst thou should, in the husband's arms,
Forget to trace the lover's folly!

P. G.

TO ROSA.

Ir in possession passion die,
And when we marry, Love deny
His raptures still to tarry:

If that soft breast must cease to warm,
Those speaking eyes no longer charm,
O never let us marry!

If I shall hang not on thy lip,
Like bees on roses, when they sip,
And thence less honey carry ;
If I must cease to think it bliss,
To breathe my soul in every kiss,
O! never let us marry!

A

STANZAS

BY MR. ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

young Man occasionally calls upon me who was born Deaf and Dumb, and who has been educated at the Asylum in the Grange Road. They have taught him to make Shoes, and to write, and to speak a few Words, und the last Time he called on me, he announced his intended Marriage in the following Words: "Five Months I will getting she married."

OH how can the dumb go a courting,
Or how can the maiden approve?
'Tis easy; while fancy is sporting,

The eyes speak the language of love.
Poor Youth! altho' born without hearing,
Benevolence cheers such as you,
And teaches the words most endearing-
"God bless you," and "How do you do?"

From these and the use of your pen,

Tho' in grammar you're not over nice,
Love can make out your where and your when,
And supply all defects in a trice.

And though you hear not the soft sigh

Of delight, when you press on her cheek,

That loss other joys shall supply;

E'en the turn of a finger can speak.
We all deal in nodding and winking,
And talk through a smile or a frown;
But you, on whatever you're thinking,
Have a strange set of nods of your own.

This credit of nodding we grant you,
But all former specimens prove,
That nothing could ever enchant you,
Or light up your features like love,
For who shall describe the wild glee
That dwelt on your brow while you tarried
O'er that pen which recorded so free,
"Five months I will getting she married."
Perhaps she will study your face,

And read all your meanings with ease,
And prove that affection's pure grace
In despite of all language can please.
The balance is much on your side-

Should she scold, why who better can bear it?
You may see a child's mouth open'd wide
When it cries, but you never can hear it.

-

If your heart bounds with pleasure, or bleeds,
Should fortune prove friendly or shy,

No oaths in your book of misdeeds,

Will stare in your face when you die.
You're right thus to marry, methinks,

While young, though the wise ones have tarried;
For me, I'll remember your winks,

And, "Five months I will getting she married."

RETALIATION.

Ir Eve in her innocence could not be blam'd
Because going naked she was not ashamed,
Whoe'er views the ladies, as ladies now dress,
That again they grow innocent, sure will confess,
And that artfully too they retaliate the evil,

By the Devil once tempted they now tempt the Devil.