I'll want not then the yellow haze
Thou shed'st so faint by day
All earth in jewels then will blaze
And shame thy feeble ray-
Ten thousand times ten thousand dyes
In silv'ry robes will meet my eyes
And lift my soul from earth,
None but a God of wond'rous power
"Of mercy dropping like the shower,"
Could give such splendor birth.

My eyes are aching in this room
To watch thee quivering, die,
But yet a thought doth cheer the gloom
'Tis better you than I-
My lips that tell thy dying lot
Of melting grease all hissing hot
Of this at least may boast
Some other candle lights my way
Adown to death, unless the day
Receive my parting ghost.

Stay, light, while yet a little grease
Burns in thy brazen hearse
Stay but a moment if you please
And let me see my purse-
"Tis empty all-no-not a crown
I cannot chase a sixpence down,
Pshaw!-go then with a pun,

Thy fate is but the fate of Greece
Nought cheers her night of dark decease
But Liberty's bright Sun.

THE SPRING S.

I want a mould in which to run my lead

You've read dear B- the Cantos of Don Juan I'll take their stanza for what's in my head, And sketch a picture which shall be a true one;

I'm filled with Sulphur, white, blue, grey and red,
To drink such oceans, surely must undo one-
If, therefore, I should seem a spiteful devil
Excuse me-brimstone makes me thus uncivil.

I'm at the Springs, beyond the Alleghany,
The burning sun is scorching us like stubble,
The dust declares the weather is not rainy

And decent people have a world of trouble;
I'm sick of Springs all save old Hippocrene,
That had no sulphur, but with rhymes did bubble,
Now bubbling rhymes are difficult to stop up
So take them, dearest B., just as they hop up.

We have assembled here a crowd of folks
From bay of Mexico to Pass'maquoddy,
The welkin rings with laughter, caused by jokes,
By julep sometimes and sometimes by toddy.
Alas! to me, all seems like one great hoax,

A monstrous cheat imposed on every body-
But for the fashion, we should shun these waters
Ye fathers, mothers, brothers, sons and daughters!

Great men are plenty here, as well as little,
The high and low, plebeians and patricians,
Small fry and great! "of fish a pretty kettle"
Here mingle Congressmen, grand politicians!
With men whose only business is to whittle-
Here's one, long deemed the greatest of magicians,
And people whisper, that sulphureous station
Is just the place for dev'lish incantation.

"Tis time such calumnies should have an end
It's like his sable majesty rebuking sin ;
Or devil, undertaking broken legs to mend-
The game is but the game of out and in,
To this pole-star alone, all needles tend,

For this, all panic cries and clamorous din,
And things have lately had an end so tragical
That "non-committal" should expire with "magical."

How like a polypus, Springs multiply!-

Sweet, Salt and White! the Blue, the Red, the Grey!
Like the weird Sisters in Macbeth, they cry
And bid us, "mingle, mingle while me may"
Aye, blue spirits and grey, poor fools! we fly
To curse our folly at no distant day,

For when returned to long abandon'd homes
In ghastly form our hideous demon comes.

But then we have such charming promenades!
A gulf-stream, vast, in which are floating seen
Bewhisker'd fellows, and well bishop'd maids
And withered beldames of a stately mien.
Then come old men, with bald and shining heads
Which look like barbers' blocks alive, between-
Oh 'tis a scene it makes one smile to scan
In spite of all our sympathy with man.

God forbid that I should laugh at wrinkles,
I am so wrinkled and so old myself,

But when your eye with rheum gets red and twinkles,
Just lay yourself aside upon the shelf,

And think upon the straggling hair that sprinkles
Your head, and do not for all Rothschild's pelf
Your sinciput in public thus exhibit

So like a skeleton upon a gibbet.

A word of bishops-tell me if you please

What means the term?-my head is very thick, A bishop's one who owns a diocese,

In other words, he has a bishoprick.

Now prithee, what can ladies want with these?

And wherefore stick them where we see them stick, Much more do they resemble that high hump A dromedary carries on his rump.

That great philosopher, my Lord Monboddo,

Held men were monkies once, both male and female, That they continued by decree of God, so,

Till civilization "dock'd th' estate in tail."

The women doubtless will exclaim, oh lud no!
But once their gowns were made with monstrous trail,
And now they show, by these enormous tumors,
That having tails is one of their fond humors.

Ah! ha! I've stumbled on the secret hidden
In bishops, perched upon each lady's back,
Most women have, for ages, been priest-ridden.
The seat of honor too is a woolsack

Their backs, by sacks, should argal, be bestridden
And thus you see I've got upon the track:
Stop then, until I make a memorandum
That here's quod erat demonstrandum.

Do ladies think to laugh so much is pretty?
Their faces gleam with everlasting light-
The beaux must now be either vastly witty
Or else their stock of brains must be so slight
That blunders half convulse each screaming Kitty
And she is forced to show her ivory white,
And throw her body into such contortions
From witnessing dull Witling's sad abortions.

Since I have mention'd women here so freely
I'll handle now the Epigastric-

Why on such subjects should our mouths be mealy
Why dont some "Pulpit drum ecclesiastic"
Send forth anathema of thund'ring peal, eh!
Against that fashion, cruel and fantastic,
Of tightly squeezing up the poor abdomen,
Till busts are like inverted cones, in women.

A truce with gibes against the charming fair
For, after all, they're ev'ry way, delightful-
Now for those mouths all covered up with hair
Can any thing on earth be half so frightful?
Were I a despot they should dangle in mid air
The running noose I would, with all my might, pull,
Or banish them to herd with bearded goats
Which wear such dirty patches on their throats.

But that which beats bobtail and makes one stare.
That which all other fooleries doth bang,
Is the vile foppery of gumming down the hair
Till youth looks grimmer than Ourang Outang—
A further proof that once, men monkies were,
And to their "hurdies" next a tail will hang,
And if tis true, old maids lead apes about in hell
"Twill be but what is done, in this world, by a belle.

Nevertheless, there's something quite amusing
About these Sulphur Springs, in what one sees
Eight hundred people constantly abusing

The

waters-table-servants-flies and flees; And yet the whole affair's of their own choosing

All swarming here, as swarms a swarm of beesAnd never was there such a set of gluttons Devouring every year three thousand muttons.

A fellow has dyspepsia-fui quorum,

(I choose to have the Latin changed to please me,) Chotanker like, I take my morning jorum,

And then expect, vain hope! the spring to ease me; Next down my throat the buckwheat cakes I pour'em And then, of course, tremendous colics seize me, The Doctor's called-one of Jack Hornbook's scholars-I swallow pills-he swallows twenty dollars.

A man whose face is yellow as a pumpkin,
For calomel has gone off with his liver,
With no more prudence than a country bumpkin
Consumes more gravy than would make a river,
And feeds as freely as a Tony Lumpkin,

Then straightway has an Indian sweat or shiver,
And yet by gas-the sulphurated hydrogen-
He hopes to get,-ye gods!-upon his legs agen.

A friend complained about his nervous system
That Cassius like he "could not sleep o'nights"-
He hoped that Sulphur water would assist him
And set his weak and shattered nerves to rights-