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And on every side the painter

Looks on wooded vale and plain And on fair hills, faint and fainter

Outlined as they near the main.

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Faultless in his hats and hosen,

Whom the Johnian lawns know well :

Oh my comrade, ever valued !

Still I see your festive face;
Hear you humming of “the gal you'd

Left behind” in massive bass :

See you sit with that composure

On the eeliest of hacks,

That the novice would suppose your

Manly limbs encased in wax :

“The kites know well the long stern swell

That bids the Romans close."-MACAULAY.

Or anon,—when evening lent her

Tranquil light to hill and vale,

Urge, towards the table's centre,

With unerring hand, the squail.

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Oh, among the dancers peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! Need I say to you that cheerless

Must my days be till I die ?

At my side she mashed the fragrant

Strawberry; lashes soft as silk Drooped o'er saddened eyes, when vagrant

Gnats sought watery graves in milk:

Then we danced, we walked together;

Talked—no doubt on trivial topics ; Such as Blondin, or the weather,

Which "recalled us to the tropics.”

But-oh! in the deuxtemps peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!Once more I repeat, that cheerless

Shall my days be till I die.

And the lean and hungry raven,

As he picks my bones, will start To observe ‘m. n. engraven

Neatly on my blighted heart.

STRIKING.

TT was a railway passenger,

And he lept out jauntilie. “Now up and bear, thou stout porter,

My two chattèls to me.

“Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red,

And portmanteau so brown: (They lie in the van, for a trusty man

He labelled them London town :)

"And fetch me eke a cabman bold,

That I may be his fare, his fare;

And he shall have a good shilling,
If by two of the clock he do me bring

To the Terminus, Euston Square."

“Now,—so to thee the saints alway,

Good gentleman, give luck, —
As never a cab may I find this day,

For the cabman wights have struck : And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn,

Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin

Right pleasantly they do suck.”

“Now rede me aright, thou stout porter,

What were it best that I should do: For woe is me, an I reach not there

Or ever the clock strike two."

“I have a son, a lytel son;

Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck's: Give him a shilling, and eke a brown, And he shall carry thy chattels down

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