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"Oh, I forgot-well, well-you'll call !

"Fanny, my love-why, where's your shawl ?"

Return we as the gallant Ching

Now starts, the friendly robe to bring--

To Chang, who I forgot to tell ye,

Was arguing with Prince C—i;

Both talked with wonderful ability,
The theme?" The doctrine of Utility."

A point so hard, if well contested-
Could scarce in such spot be adjusted;
So 'twas agreed on either side,
That Hallam should the point decide,
Since none more noted for addiction
To learning or-to contradiction.

This settled, they propose to canter
Off to the Umpire's house instanter ;
Forgetting, in the hot debate,

That now it was extremely late,

And that, perchance, sweet sleep assuages
His mind who wrote "The Middle Ages."

'Twas just as they were high in all

The grave dispute, that Ching was hurried

Away for Lady Fanny's shawl :

:

And just as Ching himself bestirred,

In many a warm, but graceful fold, her
Shawl to wrap across her shoulder,
That, knowing not himself, an inkling,

That Chang thus rudely to depart meant, Ching was snatched off;—and in a twinkling, Vanish'd away from the apartment.

"Tis very strange" said Lady Fan,

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But, really, Ching's a pleasant man !

""Tis very strange"-rejoin'd her mother, "But, really, Ching must cut his brother."

So left our Twins that sumptuous dome
To find the Historian-not at home;
And poor Utility is still

Bandied Macauley versus Mill;—

That sumptuous dome of fears and hopes-
Of raptures breath'd between the ropes,
As round, in languor and satiety,
Ripples the stream of "GOOD SOCIETY !"

Their way thus won to Fashion's fort,
Our brothers patronize the court-
Partake the genial Monarch's meal,
And see crowned heads in dishabille.

Chang joins the party of Lord Grey,
But Ching more loved Duke Arthur's sway:

K

So should Dame Fate uphold his Grace,
Gay Ching enjoys a cosey place;
And if the Earl should gain the head,
Why then the place is Chang's instead-
Fit emblem of the twin conditions,
Of all who 're rightly politicians—
To them alike each swift mutation,
Two faces-but the same snug station!
Ah! how convenient-how invincible-

That junction-bone called "Change of Principle!"

And Ching, to Chang's vexation, dances
Before the Queen with Lady Frances,
And thinks each smile the fair accords him,
A proof of her intentions tow'rds him ;
Hints to his friends how well he 's treated,
(Those lucky dogs are so conceited !)---
Nay, fancies that 'tis time to prove
By some bold act return of love;
And thinks the least that he can do,
To shew how Bancok gallants woo,
Will be some quiet night to clamber
Without the wall into her chamber.

"Heavens! what a coxcomb !"---I confess so,
But few your foreign dandies less so;
You'd think, to hear the rascals boast,

Each glance they shot had bagged its host--

And ye, soft sex, in truth distinguish
Those creature far beyond the English;
With them ride, ruralize, and flirt,
As if French scandal did no hurt--
Behold the danger of the thing,
And cut the coxcombs, warned by Ching.

Ching's project he to Chang unfolded,
Who slowly yielded, while he scolded,
(Glad, it may be, that Ching appeared
To love not where at first he feared,)
And in return, Ching gave a hearty
Assent to join Miss's party;
Who had engaged all Wisdom's scions
To tea--a coterie of Lions---

The punning-chemie-chattering-critical,
And œconomico-political.

In one night, then, the bond they ratify,
Their several tastes in turn to gratify :

First comes grave talk, the soul subliming,
"And then, my boy," cries Ching, "for climbing!"

"Tis eve! the party met, our pair,

The 'observed of all observers' there!
Charming the melange !---what variety
Chequers the tints of blue society!
A chatterer here, and there a still man,
A Malthus now, and next a Millman ;
A Spanish air, a German gutteral,
A sharp, dry sentence shot from Luttrel;

K 2

A song from Tom, a hit from Sam,

A glorious laugh from William Lamb;*
A prosy man from Timbuctoo,

A fine freethinking, liberal Jew;

A general hash of odds and ends--

New books---old medals-deaths of friends---
Stewed down into a conversation,
By men of "general information."

O ye great Authors of our time,
Be gentle to this gentle rhyme!
Abuse me not as you 've abused me--
You know how shockingly you 've used me---
Altho' you blandly clothed your guile,
And veiled your bite beneath your smile;
And, fearful ev'n of this poor satire,
Forbore to aid---but not to flatter
Yet is it just for him, who sues

No praise from bards, no help from Blues;
Who yields their idols cold respect,
Who shuns their dinners and their sect;
And from the world, to Reason flown,
Thinks for himself and lives alone-
For him, I fear, is scarce the trade,
By which neat piles of Fame are made.

*Who, as Viscount Melbourne and Secretary of State, will, we hope and believe, fulfil all that the country has long expected from his talents, and prove that a man may be honest and true, as well as wise and merry.

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