I don't expect for every line a crown,

As Moore, they say, obtain'd for Lalla Rookh; Nor think I, Longman, Hurst, Rees, Orme and Brown Will condescend on such a work to look ; Yet there are Publishers of good renown

Who wont refuse to print and sell my book. A CONSTABLE and Co. I'd best avoid,

If Scotch-I'll treat with " OLIVER and BOYD."

MURRAY to print me need not be afraid,
No pirate printer will purloin his profit,
Tho' here Don Juan's metre I've display'd,
I war with his morality, and scoff it;
Virtue's fair portrait I've before me laid,

And my mind's eye shall never wander off it.
Let me come out in Quarto, at a high rate-
Who'll dare in Duodecimo to pirate?

But to my subject-how shall I begin?

Sing heavenly muse no, that will never please, 'Tis Milton's, and to pilfer is a sin;

Some other invocation I must raise;
Better, perhaps, not mind it, but plunge in,
Unostentatiously,—“
"in medias res,"

Like Horace, or Lord Byron,—we remark
Homer too did it;-see first note by Clarke.

'Tis fair, however, to apprise the reader,

The subject of my poem is erratic,
A short excursion, not on Liffey, Tweed, or
Thames, nor American nor Asiatic;
Nor will I on parch'd Afric's sands proceed, or

On ocean launch. I'll make a tour (aquatic),
Not like Munchausen's, fill'd with the burlesque,
Nor, Syntax-like, in search of Picturesque.

But on the peaceful bosom of the Lee,

Seated in Steam Boat cabin, or on deck,
Where men and manners I may safely see,
Fearless of tempest and secure from wreck ;
No mail-coach overthrow need dreaded be,
Cracking a leg, or breaking a man's neck.
But to proceed, and put an end to my
Muse's epistle introductory.—

'Twas Sunday morning, and the chapel bell

Of Brunswick-street awoke me before seven; While that of Christ-church, with its sober swell, Toll'd out its accents, solemn, slow, and even,

Telling, as plainly as a bell could tell,

'Twas time to rise, and make our peace with heav'n.

Such invitation thus the soul to save, is his

Who lodges on the Grand Parade, at Davies's

Ah! wherefore then this fiend-like hellish strife, Where love and peace and harmony should dwell? Can the fir'd faggot, and the bloody knife

Exalt to heaven, precipitate to hell?

Why aims the Christian at the Christian's life,
A diff'rent form of worship to compell?
As if the gates of everlasting glory

Clos'd on all else!-but to resume my story:

Hungry I enter'd the Commercial room

To breakfast,--but was scarcely seated, when A waiter, with a look portending gloom,

Approach'd, (ye gods! avert such pests from men!) And whisper'd, "you're of the army, I presume,

"Or navy, sir?" "I'm neither, sir, what then?" "None else can breakfast here, such my instruction, "Save a subscriber, or by introduction."

Indignant at such treatment, I exclaim'd,

Is this the boasted liberality

"Of this great modern Tyre,-this city fam'd

"Once for its trade and hospitality?

"Alas! how few can now be " Merchants" nam'd-
"Where is their "Change?" none in reality-
"Yes, but there is-from Merchants into Factors,
"Brokers, Assurance Agents, and Contractors.

"O shade of Gresham!" but the pinching squeeze
Of hunger, check'd apostrophising more;
So bounding off-like "bark before the"-breeze,
I quickly gain'd the "Chamber's" open door,
Where eggs, and toast, and coffee, by degrees,

Fail'd not my sweet good humour to restore.
Hunger should ne'er be suffered in a nation,
For nothing's so rebellious as starvation.

Sated-down Patrick-Street 1 bent my way,

Call'd at the Post-Office, and got my letters, Which somewhat cool'd the ardour of the day,

Two having come from ruin'd bankrupt debtors, Foreboding scarcely any thing to pay.

But as much grieving ne'er misfortune betters, These tales of woe, I plung'd into my pockets, Resolving to forget both debts and dockets.

This is a happy philosophic state

Of mind, for any mortal to be bless'd with, But men of business bear these strokes of fate With pious patience; we're so often press'd with Our fellow-traders' sufferings, that we hate To appear angry; nay, we often jest with Each other on our losses-nor seem vex'd: Blanks we draw one day-prizes on the next.

That is, provided in trade's lottery wheel,

We several chances have. Tho' now and then A slight misfortune, we perchance may feel,

All is not lost ;-we still have many men
Solvent and prosperous debtors, and who deal
With certainty of payment,-and again,
When the ship rides by many anchors moor'd,
Tho' one give way, she's by the rest secur'd.

But frantic he, who in commercial pride,
Or rather desperation, sinks his all
In one sole venture, or who dares confide
That all to one, unknown what may befall
The freighted vessel on the stormy tide

Of commerce, tho' the risk appear but small,
She sometimes founders ;-headlong then she's hurl'd,
Condemn'd, despis'd, and laugh'd at by the world!

Onward proceeding towards Merchants' Quay,
The bugle's merry sounds salute the ear,
Some folks conceive these tunes profane the day,
And certainly, 'twere better far to hear
More sober music than they sometimes play.
"Music's the food of love." I therefore fear

We must beware what dishes we supply,
Lest "surfeiting," he "sicken, and so die."

"The roast beef of old England," is a dish

By Love's young tender palate ne'er enjoy'd; Tho' "peas-upon a trencher" he may wish, Hence, hence away, if tasted, he's destroy'd, And "drops of brandy," tho' good after fish,

Must never in his banquet be employ'd,Give him "a heart," he'll carve it with his arrow,— And sip the streamlet," and the "braes of Yarrow,"

Lo! on the wheel, O'Brien takes his stand,

Courteous alike to gentleman and lady,

Giving to all around the loud command,

"Make fast that rope there, let the plank be ready, "Here, Jack, why don't you take that lady's hand? "Don't be afraid ma'am, ev'ry thing is steady,"

While now and then, exulting in his glory,
He sidelong eyes the "Waterloo" and " Story!"

Now throng the hurrying passengers aboard,
Old age advancing cautious and secure :
Wild giddy youth-disdaining to afford
Attention to advice for footing sure.
Next comes the hamper with provisions stor'd,
Cold beef, ham, chicken, porter, wine, liqueur,
While, crowding in, come servant-girls, and fellows
Laden with baskets, jars, great coats, umbrellas.

Close to the plank, an anxious parent stands,
Bidding her chubby boy and nurse "good bye,"
The little urchin stretches forth his hands

Asking to go,-refus'd, begins to cry,

He little heeds his mother's mild commands,

She, sweetly soothing, wipes each streaming eye,
"Don't weep my darling, where's oor pretty laughy?
"Tiss poor mamma, here's money to buy Taffy."

'Tis half-past ten, the tide is ebbing fast,
The murmur of delay is buzzing round,
The Captain asks "five minutes, 'tis the last,"
And bids the bugle blow a parting sound,
"Come, hurry, gentlemen, our time is pass'd,

" Quick, quick, for God's sake, or we'll take the ground," Thrice shook the plank, as seeming to move in, But thrice a ten-penny steadied it again!.

On deck, beneath the awning's grateful shade,
Protected by a mother's guardian power,
Fair Ellen sits, a sweet angelic maid,

The opening rose-bud by its parent flower,
Each day some new-born lustre she display'd,
And bloom'd with brighter beauty ev'ry hour,
Health's glowing radiance o'er her brow was seen
With youth transcendent,-she was just sixteen!

Just at that age when love's enchanting smile
Wins easy entrance to the virgin's breast;
How strange at first! unconscious for awhile
Why throbs the heart—it must not be confess'd;

But ah! how vain thus longer to beguile

The once lov'd object on the soul impress'd; So thought fair Ellen, when a sigh betray'd Young Edward, idol of the blue-eyed maid.

Edward had enter'd on his twentieth year,
Each manly grace his youthful form combin'd;
He told his love-but to fair Ellen's ear

The tender secret was alone confin'd;
And oft at evening, when no parent near,

To one lov'd spot their mutual steps inclin'd.-
There, breath'd a passion,-so refin'd, so pure,
It must have pleased even Mistress Hannah More!

Why sends the maid her hurrying glances round?
Alas! no glance responsive meets her eye!
"Haul in the plank, go on," lo! at the sound

Her pale lip quivers, and the roses fly
Her cheek; a thousand bitter thoughts confound
Her brain, as hope and expectation die !
Some ill! some accident! some maid more dear!
And her heart sickens from a rivals's fear!