calm is oft the ocean's breast,Though 'neath its deep blue waters lie
A thousand wrecks—so sorrows rest
In still and silent misery.
Remember me—remember me—
My latest thought will be for thee.
H. P.
THE COURSE OF LOVE
Go, trace the forest maze,
Or Cretan lab'rinth solve,
On Nature's myst'ries gaze,
Or Gordian knot resolve.
Tell whence the magnet's force,
The central motive scan,
Lay bare Nile's hidden source,
Earth's vast circumference span.
Results from such detail
Skill superhuman prove:
Yet powers like these would fail
To tell the course of love.
Direct the impulse fierce
Of ocean's watery sway;
When wint'ry tempests pierce,
Bind Boreas to obey.
Go, mould the fleeting cloud,
The lucid dew-drop mix,
The solar radiance shroud,
The trembling moonbeam fix.
Then bid the wand'ring star
Within the zodiac move;
'Twere task more hard by far
To guide the course of love.
Stop the meridian flight
Of Jove's proud plumy race;
Arrest the fiercest fight
When foe-men battle face.
Forbid the earth to turn.
Forbid the tides to flow,
Forbid the sun to burn,
Forbid the winds to blow.
Bid the fix'd orb of day.
Beyond his sphere to move,
Or cease th' attempt, I pray,
To stop the course of love.
T. F.
I'LL BE AT YOUR BALL
Ah! ce n'est pas moi qui romprait la première l'union sacrée de nos coeurs; vous le savez bien que ce n'est pas moi, et je rougirais presque, d'assurer ce qui n'est que trop certain.—Corinne, par Madame De Stael.
I'll be at your ball—dear Eliza,
Could you doubt of my wish to be there,
When ask'd by the maiden I prize a-
Bove all maidens, though e'er so fair?
Busy fancy brings back in my dreams
The walks, still enchanting, we took,
When the zephyrs scarce ruffled the streams,
No sound heard, save the murm'ring brook;
The stars we together have watched—
What pleasure these thoughts do recall!
Believe that your truly attached,
Dear Eliza, will be at your ball.
Can study those feelings estrange,
Of affection so ardent and true?
Or absence or time ever change
A heart so devoted to you?
My voice may have altered its tone,
My brow may be furrow'd by care,
But, oh, dearest girl, there are none
Possess of my heart the least share.
You say that my hair is neglected,
That my dress don't become me at all;
Can you feel surprised I'm dejected,
Since I parted from you at your ball?
I listlessly turn o'er the pages.
So fraught with amusement before
Tasso, Dante, and even the sages,
Once pleasing, are pleasing no more.
When I walk on the banks of the Mole,
Or recline 'neath our favourite tree,
As the needle is true to the pole,
So my thoughts still concentre in thee.
Old Time moves so slow, he appears,
"With age quite decrepit," to crawl;
And days seem now lengthen'd to years,
Before we shall meet—at your ball.
Daft Jamie.
RETROSPECTIVE GLEANINGS
Having occasionally (during my lucubrations) marked out sundry choice excerpts, quips, and quiddities, from a variety of authors, I shall, with your permission, submit to the reader an occasional chapter, with a few original remarks, &c., which I hope will prove agreeable.
POSTURE MASTERS
It is now a-days extremely common to style the tumble-down-dick exploits or posture masters, balancers, conjurers, &c. an art. To ridicule such an abuse of the term by applying it to mere adroitness, skill in trifles, and labour-in-vain performances, Quinctilian gives us this merry instance—"Qualis illius fuit, qui grana ciceris ex spatio distante missa, in acum continue, et sine frustratione inserebat; quem cum spectasset Alexander, donasse eum dicitur leguminis modio—quod quidem praemium fuit illo opere dignissimum." Translation—Of this kind of art, was his, who, standing at a certain distance, could continually, without missing, stick a small pea upon the point of a needle; which when Alexander had witnessed, he ordered him a bushel of that grain for his trouble, a reward quite adequate to such an exploit. We have a similar story related, I think, of Charles II.: a posture master climbed up Grantham steeple, and then stood on his head upon the weathercock. The facetious monarch, after witnessing his ascent, told him he might forthwith have a patent that none should do the like but himself.
TO MAKE BUBBLE AND SQUEAK
First—Take of beef, or mutton, or lamb, or veal, or any other meat, two pounds and a half, or any other quantity; be sure to keep it in salt till the saline particles have locked up all the animal juices, and rendered the fibres hard of digestion; then boil it over a turf or peat fire, in a brass kettle, covered with a copper lid, until it is over much done.
Second—Take a large turned cabbage, and boil it in a bell metal pot until it is done enough, or (if you think proper) too much.
Thirdly—Slice the meat, and souse that and the cabbage both in a frying pan together, and let them bubble and squeak over a charcoal fire for half an hour, three minutes, and two seconds.
Lastly—Devour the whole, which will not weigh more than four pounds, for a quantum sufficit; drink six pints of good, fat ale; sit, smoke, sleep, snore, and forget
