table for a dog." This is amongst the best things he ever said, because if it has little wit, it has sterling truth to recommend it. Sir Charles always acted so obsequeously to the powers in office, that he, no doobt, calculated on performing the "Vicar of Bray" all his life, and I cannot help thinking that he was made a tool of by the designing Orange Faction. I should as soon have suspected a lap-dog of high treason, as him to be guilty of offence to a superior; and should not wonder in the least, before Mr. Plunkett has done with him, to hear of his being accused of the sin of manhood, and hanged for a rape.

Poetry,

[ORIGINAL AND SELECT.]

STANZAS TO WOMAN.

ON VIEWING THE PICTURE OF VENUS.

(See Frontispiece.)

There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrim's found,
A balsam, which if we drink deep,
Is cure for every mortal wound.

It is the cup that heaven o'erflows
With choicest nectar from above,
With it joy, pleasure, rapture goes,

'Tis God's best gift-'tis woman's love.

The painter who fair Venus made

Resplendent rising from the sea,

To leaven's high arch for beauty stray'd,
And lur'd it thence on earth to be.

The rolling of the yielding wave,
Fortels inconstancy and care,

A sudden passion seized her heart,
In spite of her disdain,

She found a pulse in every part,

And love in every vein.

Oh! youth, said she, what charms are these,

That conquer and surprise,

Oh let me, for unless you please,

I have no power to rise.

She fainting spoke, and trembling lay,
For fear he should comply,

Her beaming eyes her heart betray,
And give her tongue the lye.

Thus she who princes had denied,
With all their power and train,
Was in a happy moment tried,
And yielded to a swain.

T. C.

WILBERFORCE, PUSEY, WILLIAM de BROOKE, & Co.

BLOOD-HOUNDS OF THE VICE SOCIETY.

STANZAS

ON UGLINESS, PRIVY VICES, AND MONSTROUS DEPRAVATIES.

There never was an uglier face

Than that of old Saint Wilberforce,

His brazen brow a thief would grace,
His nostrils well would grace a horse.

He speaks like any ass would roar,
A noisy puff of smoke and wind,
Disgusting unto all who hear,

And echoes tell his fame behind.

And yet the hypocrite will chuse ye

Those men for friends, in VICE who rot,
The King's most honourable Phillip Pusey,
Who keeps the Privy Chamber-Pot.

King's Gentleman in him means rogue,
He might be call'd with great propriety.
Lord Maniac William de Brook's colleague,
First dung-carts of the Vice Society.

Saint Wilberforce leads on the van,
Hypocrisy, vile cant, and pride,
Are blood-hounds he lets loose on man
Who dares his vices to deride.

Hark! forward, Pusey, William de Brooke,
Hunt down the morals of mankind,

But, Wilberforce be on the look,

For stink and ruin press behind.

Kensington Gore.

SUFFERING VIRTUE.

THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE CORTES.

A DIALOGUE.

CORTES. From pure duty and love,

Sir, we beg you'd remove

To your Majesty's city of Seville.

KING. I've the gout in my toe

I'll be d-d if I go !

I never saw men so uncivil.

My physicians agree

(But I tipp'd 'em a fee)

That my carcass I must not endanger;

So tease me no more

Pages, shew 'em the door!

This mob to good breeding's a stranger.

CORTES.- Sir, we know gouty Kings
Can do wonderful things;

And moreover it certainly true is,
That if the French come,

You the Cortes will hum,

And scamper away to fat Louis,
We therefore decree,

That your wise Majesty

Shall trudge in a fortnight to Seville !

KING.-If I must go, I must,

But 'tis very unjust

So I wish you were all at the Devil.

SPANISH WAR SONG.

BY J. M. R. N.

Sound, Spaniard, the war blast! unfurl o'er our plains
Young Freedom's red battle-flag! France comes with chains-
With chains and with laws: hear! ye ghosts of the brave,
Who conquer'd for Spain on the field and the wave;
But rampart and rock, and each death-dealing hand
Shall be blasted ere strangers give laws to our land!
To arms! then, give place the gay dance and guitar,
To the tramp of the war-horse, and trumpet of war!
Our bed in the battle-field welcome shall be,

Till we've beat back the foes of our land, and are free.

On, on to the battle! each moment's respite
Yields so much of our soil to dishonour and blight;
Round our borders we'll rally a patriot wall,
And dispute every step till we conquer or fall!
We fight not for riches, renown, or domain;
For obsolete treaties, or new ones, as vain,
But, Spaniards! we fight for the land of our sires,
And the Freedom new-born, which lends us its fires.
For the grey-hairs of age, with our babes by our side,
And beauties' eyes sparkling with tears and with pride,