PUNCH AND JUDY.

I sing of Punch,—and therefore must I sing
Of feats familiar, yet for ever new;
Of merry faces, gathered in a ring,

The magic, oft admired, again to view;
While laughter, like a river from its spring,
Throws o'er the spirit its refreshing dew;
And gushes on with unimpeded course,
Exhaustless still from an exhaustless source.

What is that shrill, inimitable cry,

With joyous shouts of idle urchins blended? What that strange curtained box, well poised on high, With four long poles, by which its sides are ended? What should it be, but Punch?—who, passing by, Comes, like a conqueror from his wars, attended By music, far on London echoes borne, Drum, or Pandean pipe, or clanging horn.

Little it matters, where that sound is heard,
Through this metropolis of Britain's isles;
Whether, where thousands are almost interred
In smoky dens, and seldom sunshine smiles;
Or where gay splendour revels:-in a word,
The parish of St. James, or of St. Giles,
Starts up alike; and every being round
Finds in his heart an echo to that sound.

And sparkling eyes, from door and window greet
The cavalcade, that moves with merry din,
Or sudden stops in some gay square or street,
Or in the learned fields of Lincoln's Inn.
Behold! the drama for no ear unmeet,

Most loved and most repeated, doth begin;
For, tell me, when was Edipus-Othello-
The Cid-played half so oft as Punchinello?

But who shall paint that drama?—'t would employ
Weeks, months, to go through all its operations ;—
The extreme vicissitudes of grief and joy,

Embraces, quarrels, reconciliations –

Blows, which, were either mortal, must destroy-
Falls, faintings, dyings, revivifications-
Descents—and re-appearances-love-strife,
And all the strange epitome of life!

'Tis done:-that stroke has slain the dame outright:-
Now lay her out, and o'er breathless corse
An inquest hold;— while Punch-ah! wretched wight!
Weeps with full anguish of too late remorse.

But, lo! she wakes- -she stirs—and, swift as light,

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Attacks the mourner with a fury's force :

And how they hug-now fight- -now part-now meetWhile unextinguished laughter shakes the street!

Hark! how his head is knocked against the floor!
Look, how he writhes his body, as in pain!
And widowed Judy must, in turn, deplore
Her lord,-who, in his turn, shall rise again :
And now they roll and tumble o'er and o'er-
And now
- but gaze thyself-for words are vain :-
Punch hast thou seen?-then thou anew wilt see,-
If not, life has some pleasure yet for thee.

Oh, Punch! no vulgar mountebank art thou,
That splits our ears at holiday or fair;
Thou dost not bring a frown upon the brow,
By pains inflicted upon dog or bear;
Nor stands a theatre in Britain now,

Fit the first honours from thy front to tear;
Nor gilded dome, nor stately structure, worth
Thine unelaborate and itinerant mirth.

With seas and mountains thou hast nought to do,
Or simple nature in her savage mood,

Or fields, or babbling brooks :-thee none can view
'Mid variegated scene of rock and wood;

Nor where the learned pedant doth eschew

His fellow men in bookish solitude;
Thou hast not loved the monkish cell, nor played
With Amaryllis in the rural shade:

But where the stream of life flows fastest on,
Where boils the eddying vortex of the town,
There art thou seen; while ever and anon
The pausing porter throws his burthen down;
And even the grave and magisterial don,

Some man of high and orthodox renown,
Ashamed to stop, unwilling to advance,
Casts back a stealthy, longing, lingering glance!

Thou art the child of cities, and art found

A wandering orb, with hundred satellites ;-
Where streets and congregated men abound,
And listless gazers seek whate'er excites
Them most; for no ennui dares haunt the ground,

Which thou hast charmed from all the gloomier sprites,

And, even in London, where thou dost appear,
Thou mak'st one carnival throughout the year!

European Magazine.

A PERSIAN PRECEPT.

FORGIVE thy foes;-nor that alone,
Their evil deeds with good repay,
Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

So does the fragrant sandal bow

In meek forgiveness to its doom;

And o'er the axe, at every blow,
Sheds in abundance rich perfume.

ADDRESS TO LORD BYRON, ON THE PUBLI

CATION OF CHILDE HAROLD.

BY GRANVILLE PENN, ESQ.

COLD is the breast, extinct the vital spark,
That kindles not to flame at Harold's muse;
The mental vision, too, how surely dark,
Which, as the anxious wanderer it pursues,
Sees not a noble heart, that fain would choose
The course to heaven, could that course be found;
And, since on earth it nothing fears to lose,

Would joy to press that blest etherial ground,

Where peace, and truth, and life, and friends, and love abound.

I "deem not Harold's breast a breast of steel,"
Steeled is the heart that could the thought receive,
But warm, affectionate, and quick to feel,

Eager in joy, yet not unwont to grieve;

And sorely do I view his vessel leave-
Like erring bark, of card and chart bereft-

The shore to which his soul would love to cleave;
Would, Harold, I could make thee know full oft,
That bearing thus the helm, the land thou seek'st is left.

Is Harold "satiate with worldly joy?"

“Leaves he his home, his lands, without a sigh?”
'Tis half the way to heaven!—oh! then employ
That blessed freedom of thy soul, to fly

To Him, who, ever gracious, ever nigh,

Demands the heart that breaks the world's hard chain ;
If early freed, though by satiety,

Vast is the privilege that man may gain;

Who early foils the foe, may well the prize obtain.

Thou lovest Nature with a filial zeal,

Canst fly mankind to brood with her apart;
Unutterable sure, that inward feel,

When swells the soul, and heaves the labouring heart

With yearning throes, which nothing can impart
But Nature's majesty, remote from man!

In kindred raptures, I have borne my part;
The Pyrenean mountains loved to scan,

And from the crest of Alps peruse the mighty plan.

"T is ecstasy "to brood o'er flood and fell,” "To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,” Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er, or rarely been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flocks that never need a fold; Alone o'er steeps, and foaming falls to lean;This is not solitude!—'t is but to hold Converse with Nature's God, and see His stores unrolled.

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Forget we not the Artist in the art, Nor overlook the Giver in the grace; Say, what is Nature, but that little part Which man's imperfect vision can embrace Of the stupendous whole, which fills all space; The work of Him by whom all space is bound! Shall Raphael's pencil Raphael's self efface? Shall Handel's self be lost in Handel's sound? Or, shall not Nature's God in Nature's works be found?

But Harold "through sin's labyrinth has run,"
Nor "made atonement when he did amiss;"
And does the memory of that evil done
Disturb his spirit, or obscure his bliss?
"Tis just; 'tis Harold's due-yet let not this
Press heavier on his heart than heaven ordains;
What mortal lives, not guilty nor remiss?

What breast that has not felt remorse's pains?
What human soul so pure, but marked by sin's sad stains?

And can this helpless thing, pollute, debased,
Its own disfigured nature e'er reform?
Say, can the sculptured marble, once defaced,
Restore its lineament, renew its form?