Which the Bird, overhearing, flew high o'er his head, And some TOBIT-like marks of his patronage shed, Which so dimm'd the poor Dandy's idolatrous eye, That, while FUM cried "Oh Fo!" all the court cried "Oh fie!"

But, a truce to digression;—these Birds of a feather Thus talk'd, t'other night, on State matters together; (The PE just in bed, or about to depart for't, His legs full of gout, and his arms full of H-RTF-D,)

FUM-FUM, of course, spoke

"I say, HUм," says FUM

Chinese,

But, bless you, that's nothing-at Brighton one

sees

Foreign lingoes and Bishops translated with ease “I say, HUм, how fares it with Royalty now? "Is it up? is it prime? is it spooney- or how?" (The Bird had just taken a flash-man's degree Under B-RR-M-RE, Y-TH, and young Master L- -E)

From the bed-chamber came, where that long Man

C-stl-gh (whom Fuм calls the Confusius of

Prose),

Was rehearsing a speech upon Europe's repose
To the deep, double bass of the fat Idol's nose.

(Nota bene-his Lordship and L—V—RP—L come, In collateral lines, from the old Mother Hum,

C-STL

GH а HUм-bug-L-v-RP—L a HUм

drum.)

The Speech being finish'd, out rush'd C-STL-GH, Saddled HUM in a hurry, and, whip, spur, away, Through the regions of air, like a Snip on his hobby, Ne'er paused, till he lighted in St. Stephen's lobby.

LINES ON THE DEATH OF SH-R-D-N.

Principibus placuisse viris !-HORAT.

YES, grief will have way—but the fast falling tear Shall be mingled with deep execrations on those, Who could bask in that Spirit's meridian career, And yet leave it thus lonely and dark at its close :

Whose vanity flew round him, only while fed

By the odour his fame in its summer-time gave ;Whose vanity now, with quick scent for the dead, Like the Ghole of the East, comes to feed at his

grave.

Oh! it sickens the heart to see bosoms so hollow, And spirits so mean in the great and high-born;

To think what a long line of titles may follow
The relics of him who died-friendless and lorn!

How proud they can press to the fun'ral array
Of one, whom they shunn'd in his sickness and

sorrow:

How bailiffs may seize his last blanket, to-day,

Whose pall shall be held up by nobles to-morrow!

And Thou, too, whose life, a sick epicure's dream, Incoherent and gross, even grosser had pass'd, Were it not for that cordial and soul-giving beam, Which his friendship and wit o'er thy nothingness cast:

No, not for the wealth of the land, that supplies thee With millions to heap upon Foppery's shrine ;No, not for the riches of all who despise thee,

Tho' this would make Europe's whole opulence

mine;

Would I suffer what-ev'n in the heart that thou

hast

All mean as it is-must have consciously burn'd,

When the pittance, which shame had wrung from thee at last,

And which found all his wants at an end, was

return'd!*

"Was this then the fate,"-future ages will say,

When some names shall live but in history's curse; When Truth will be heard, and these Lords of a day Be forgotten as fools, or remember'd as worse;

"Was this then the fate of that high-gifted man, "The pride of the palace, the bower and the hall, "The orator,-dramatist,—minstrel, who ran Through each mode of the lyre, and was master

66

"Whose mind was an essence, compounded with art "From the finest and best of all other men's

powers;

"Who ruled, like a wizard, the world of the heart,

"And could call up its sunshine, or bring down

its showers;

The sum was two hundred pounds offered when Sh—r—d—n could no longer take any sustenance, and declined,

for him, by his friends.