TO "BEAUTY."
The morn is up! wake, Beauty, wake!
The flower is on the lea,
The blackbird sings within the brake,
The thrush is on the tree;
Forth to the balmy fields repair,
And let the breezes mild
Lift from thy brow the falling hair,
And fan my little child—
Yet if thy step be 'mid the dews,
Beauty! be sure to change your shoes!
'Tis noon! the butterfly springs up,
High from her couch of rest,
And scorns the little blue-bell cup
Which all night long she press'd.
Away! we'll seek the walnut's shade,
And pass the sunny hour,
The bee within the rose is laid,
And veils him in the flower;
Mark not the lustre of his wing,
Beauty! be careful of his sting!
'Tis eve! but the retiring ray
A halo deigns to cast
Round scenes on which it shone all day,
And gilds them to the last:
Thus, ere thine eyelids close in sleep,
Let Memory deign to flee
Far o'er the mountain and the deep,
To cast one beam on me!
Yes, Beauty! 'tis mine inmost prayer—
But don't forget to curl your hair!
Blackwood's Mag.
GOG AND MAGOG.—(A Fragment.)
Pensively and profoundly was I meditating, seated one evening upon a stone bench in Guildhall, when, as the gathering gloom invested the solemn faces of Gog and Magog, rendering them mysteriously dim and indistinct, methought I saw them slowly shut their eyes, nod their heads, fall asleep, and actually begin to snore. Never did I hear any thing more sonorously grand and awful than that portentous inbreathing of Gog and Magog, resounding through the Gothic vastness of Guildhall; but, behold! how omnipotent is the dreaming imagination! I myself had been dozing; the sound of my own nose, transferred by a metonymy of the fancy to the nostrils of those wooden idols, had become, as it were, the living apotheosis of a snore, which had subdued me by its sublimity. Most fortunate was it that I awoke; for, on attentively inspecting the faces of the figures, I saw them working and writhing with all the contortions of the Pythoness or the Sibyl, labouring in the very throes of inspiration, struggling with the advent of the prophetical afflatus. At length their lips parted, when, in a low, solemn voice, that thrilled through the dark, deserted, and silent hall, they poured forth alternately the following vaticinal strain, each starting and trembling as he concluded:—
"From Bank, Change, Mansion-house, Guildhall,
Throgmorton, and Threadneedle,
From London-stone, and London wall,
When City housewife's wheedle
To Brunswick, Russell, Bedford Squares,
And Portland-place, their spouses,
Anxious to give themselves great airs
Of fashion in great houses,
Then Gog shall start, and Magog shall
Tremble upon his pedestal."
"When merchant, banker, broker, shake
In Crockford's club their elbow,
And for St. James's clock forsake
The chiming of thy bell, Bow:
When Batson's, Garraway's, and John's,
At night show empty boxes,
While cits are playing dice with dons,
Or ogling opera doxies;
Then Gog shall start, and Magog shall
Tremble upon his pedestal."
"When city dames give routs and reels,
And ape high-titled prancers,
When City misses dance quadrilles,
Or waltz with whisker'd Lancers;
When City gold is quickly spent
In trinkets, feasts, and raiment,
And none suspend their merriment
Until they all stop payment,
Then Gog shall start, and Magog shall
Tremble upon his pedestal."
I was reflecting what dire calamities would fall upon the doomed City, since the era of luxury, corruption, and desertion, thus denounced, had now manifestly arrived, and Gog and Magog were actually starting and trembling upon their pedestals, when the hall-keeper, shaking me by the shoulder, exclaimed—"Come, Sir, you musn't be sleeping here all night! Bundle out, if you please, for I am just going to shut the great gates!"—New Monthly Mag.