COLOGNE.

IN Köhln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones,
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,
All well defined, and several stinks!

Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,

Doth wash your city of Cologne;

But tell me, Nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE SAME CITY.

As I am rhymer,

And now at least a merry one,

Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer

And the church of St. Geryon

Are the two things alone

That deserve to be known

In the body and soul-stinking town of Cologne.

NE PLUS ULTRA.

SOLE Positive of Night!
Antipathist of Light!

Fate's only essence! primal scorpion rod--
The one permitted opposite of God !—
Condensed blackness and abysmal storm
Compacted to one sceptre

Arms the Grasp enorm―

The Intercepter

The Substance that still casts the shadow Death!— The Dragon foul and fell—

The unrevealable,

And hidden one, whose breath

Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!—
Ah! sole despair

Of both th' eternities in Heaven!
Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,

The all-compassionate!

Save to the Lampads Seven,

Reveal'd to none of all th' Angelic State,

Save to the Lampads Seven,

That watch the throne of Heaven!

NAMES.

I ASKED my fair one happy day,

What I should call her in my lay;

By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;

Lalage, Neæra, Chloris,

Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,

Arethusa or Lucrece.

"Ah!" replied my gentle fair,
"Beloved, what are names but air?

Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me Thine."

LINES

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW.

WHAT though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus
From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak:
So was it, neighbour, in the times before us,
When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak,
Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse
(That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine,
Was married to—at least, he kept—all nine)
Fled, but still with reverted faces ran;

Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,
They had allur'd the audacious Greek to use,
Swore they mistook him for their own good man.
This Momus-Aristophanes on earth
Men called him-maugre all his wit and worth
Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should
Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?
No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,
"I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!"

you,

THE IMPROVISATORE;

OR, JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, JOHN."

Scene-A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining.

Katharine. What are the words?

Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore; here he comes. Kate has a favour to ask of you, Sir; it is that you will repeat the ballad that Mr.

Friend. It is in Moore's Irish not recollect the words distinctly. however, I take to be this:

-sang so sweetly. Melodies; but I do The moral of them,

Love would remain the same if true,
When we were neither young nor new;
Yea, and in all within the will that came,

By the same proofs would show itself the same

Eliz. What are the lines you repeated from Beau> mont and Fletcher, which my mother admired so much? It begins with something about two vines so close that their tendrils intermingle.

Fri. You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in "The Elder Brother."

We'll live together, like two neighbour vines,
Circling our souls and loves in one another!
We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit;
One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn;
One age go with us, and one hour of death

Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy.

Kath. A precious boon, that would go far to reconcile one to old age-this love-if true! But is there any such true love?

Fri. I hope so.

Kath. But do you believe it?

Eliz. (eagerly). I am sure he does.

Fri. From a man turned of fifty, Katharine, I imagine, expects a less confident answer.

Kath. A more sincere one, perhaps.

Fri. Even though he should have obtained the nick-name of Improvisatore, by perpetrating charades and extempore verses at Christmas times?

Eliz. Nay, but be serious.

Fri. Serious!

Doubtless. A grave personage of my years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, cannot well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suspect, would be for them to remain so. It will be asked whether I am not the "elderly gentleman" who sate "despairing beside a clear stream," with a willow for his wigblock.

Eliz. Say another word, and we will call it downright affectation.

Kath. No! we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, and ask pardon for our presumption in expecting that would waste his sense on two insignificant

Mr. girls.

Fri. Well, well, I will be serious. Hem! Now then commences the discourse; Mr. Moore's song being the text. Love, as distinguished from Friendship, on the one hand, and from the passion that too often usurps its name, on the other

Lucius. (Eliza's brother, who had just joined the trio, in a whisper to the Friend.) But is not Love the union of both ?

SO.

Fri. (aside to Lucius). He never loved who thinks