AN INCANTATION.

From the London Times.

Sung by the Bubble Spirit.

Air-"Come with me, and we will go
"Where the rocks of coral

grow."

Come with me and we will blow

Lots of Bubbles, as we go;
Bubbles, bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy-or from soap;

Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!

Come with me, and we will blow
Lots of Bubbles, as we go.

Mix the lather, Johny W-lks,

Thou, who rym'st so well to "bilks;'
Mix the lather-who can be
Fitter for the task than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!
Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter, bring thy pipe,-
Thou, whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly lov'd that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or puffing Peter-

Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.
Bravo, bravo, Peter Me-re!
Now the rainbow humbugst soar,
Glittering all with golden hues,

Such as haunt the dreams of Jews

Some reflecting mines that lie

Under Chili's glowing sky,

Some, those virgin pearls, that sleep

Cloister'd in the southern deep;

Strong indications of character may be sometimes traced in the rhymes to names. Marvel thought so when he wrote

Sir Edward Sutton,

The foolish Knight who rhymes to mutton.

An humble imitation of one of our modern poets, who, in a poem against War, after describing the splendid habiliments of the soldier, apostrophizes him-"thou rainbow ruffian!"

Others, as if lent a ray

From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney!

Now's the moment-who shall first
Catch the Bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Br-gd-n, T-ynh-m, P-lm-rst-n;-
John W-lks, junior, runs beside ye,
Take the good the knaves provide ye!*
See, with upturn'd eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman,† Br-gd-n, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall

Down his swallow-lye and all!

See!

but, hark, my time is out

Now, like some great water-spout,
Scatter'd by the cannon's thunder,
Burst, ye Bubbles, all asunder!!!

[Here the stage darkens-a discordant crash is heard from the orchestra-the broken Bubbles descend in soponaceous but uncleanly mist over the heads of the Dramatis Personæ, and the scene drops, leaving the Bubble hunters-all in the suds.]

THE MILK-MAID AND THE BANKER.

A Milk-maid with a very pretty face,

Who liv'd at Acton,

Had a black Cow, the ugliest in the place;
A crooked-back'd one,

A beast as dangerous too, as she was frightful,
Vicious and spiteful,

And so confirm'd a truant, that she bounded
Over the hedges daily, and got pounded.
'Twas all in vain to tie her with a tether,
For then both cord and cow eloped together.

* 4 Lovely Thais sits beside thee,

"Take the good the Gods provide thee."

So called, by a sort of Tuscan dulcification of the ch, in the word "Chairman."

Arm'd with an Oaken bough, (what folly!
It should have been of birch, or thorn, or holly,)
Patty one day was driving home the beast,

Which had as usual slip'd its anchor,

When on the road she met a certain Banker,

Who stop'd to give his eyes a feast

By gazing on her features crimson'd high

By a long cow-chase in July.

"Are you from Acton pretty lass?" cried he. "Yes," with a curtesy she replied;

"Why then you know the laundress, Sally Wrench?” "She is my cousin, Sir, and next-door neighbour." "That's lucky-I've a message for the wench,

Which needs despatch, and you may save my labour. Give her this kiss, my dear, and say I sent it, But mind, you owe me one-I've only lent it."

She shall know, cried the girl, as she brandish'd her bough,

"Of the loving intentions you bore me;

But as to the kiss, as there's haste, you'll allow
That you'd better run forward and give it my Cow,
For she at the rate she is scampering now,
Will reach Acton some minutes before me."

RURAL RETIREMENT.

Remov'd a step above the dreary cell,

Where struggles squalid poverty in vain,
How sweet on nature's soft ascents to dwell,
Where health and quiet bless the village train;

To hail the soft-ey'd morning's golden ray,
With grateful hearts where mild devotion glows;
Well pleas'd to meet the labours of the day,

And taste those sweets which industry bestows;

The temp'rate meal, the well-earn'd leisure hour,
To books devoted, or the garden's care;
To mark the beauties of each op'ning flower,
Nature's gay children, exquisitely fair;

At eve to leave life's bustling cares behind,
The purest breath of heaven to inhale;
Dispensing health and vigour to the mind,
Soft as it blows along the blossom'd vale;

O let me still enjoy those chaste delights

Which bloom in nature's yet untainted fields; Bright days, untroubled slumbers, peaceful nights, And all the sweets which rural quiet yields!

Could any higher wish the mind beguile,

The cottage still would best my fancy please; A little competence to lighten toil,

To nurse my flowers, and taste sweet letter'd ease.

But hence, ye sordid joys of bloated wealth!
Let power and titles be to others given;

Life's humble walks I choose, where peace and health
May smooth my passage to a peaceful heaven.

SMILES.

From the poems of the late Mrs. Radcliffe.

It was a smile, a fleeting smile,

Like a faint gleam through Autumn's shade, That softly, sweetly, did beguile,

As it around her dimples played.

What are smiles, and whence their sway;
Smiles that, o'er features stealing,

To the gazer's heart convey

All the varied world of feeling?

What are smiles?

Do they dwell in beauty's eye?
No! nor in her playing cheek,
Nor in her wavy lip-though nigh-
Seems the glancing charm they seek.
Where do they dwell?

Where? Their home is in the mind;
Smiles are light-the light of soul!
Light of many tints combined,
And of strong and sure control,

Smiles are light.

There's a smile-the smile of joy,
Bright as glance of May's fresh morn;
And one, that gleams but to destroy,-

'Tis the lightning smile of scorn.

There is a smile of glow-worm hue,
That glimmers not near scenes of folly,
Pale and strange, and transient too,-
The smile of awful melancholy:

Like to the sad and silvery showers,
Falling in an April sun,

Is the smile that pity pours
O'er the deed that fate has done.

Dear is friendship's meeting look;
As moonlight on a sleeping vale,
Smoothing those the sun forsook,
So does that o'er care prevail.

EPIGRAM.

The Irish had long made a deuce of a clatter,
And wrangled and fought about meum and tuum,
Till England stept in, and decided the matter
By kindly converting it all into suum.

For the Port Folio.

THE ALBUM.

IN Pliny's Natural History we find a curious receipt for making the Roman Friendship, a cordial that was universally esteemed in those days, and very few families of any credit were without it. Pliny says, that they were indebted to the Greeks for this receipt, who had it in the greatest perfection.

The old Roman Friendship was a composition of several ingredients, of which the principal was Union of Hearts (a fine flower, that grew in several parts of that empire,) sincerity, frankness, disinterestedness, pity, tenderness of each an equal quantity; these all mixed up with two rich oils, which they called perpetual kind wishes, and serenity of temper. The whole was strongly perfumed with the desire of pleasing, which gave it a most grateful smell: it was a sure restorative in all sorts of vapours. The cordial thus prepared was of so durable a nature, that no length of time could