tops in the alley beneath, the shrill plaintive cry of some poor wandering cat, has suddenly broken in upon the dull catenation of my sickening thoughts, chilling my curdling soul with its wild piercing notes, till my sympathising imagination has fancied, in its long shrill tones, the far distant despairing shriek of some hapless sinking mariner; and I have mournfully mused over the pitiable fate of that poor perishing wretch" far, far at sea,' "tossed on the mountain billows, or sinking in the yawning caverns of the fathomless ocean; no ear near to catch the last despairing yellings of his fast-failing voice, and no friendly hand stretched to save him, till my own miseries have gradually faded away before the more painful picturings of my compassionating imagination, and my spirits have felt lightened of half their load of sorrow! Call not thy smiles of derision here, gentle reader, whoever thou art, who favourest not the feline race-but rather pity the misfortunes, or gladden in the pleasures, I have here so imperfectly described :

And should th' impassioned theme
Awake one answering sigh

for the dreaded evils I have here recorded-shouldst thou but entertain feelings of more tender regard towards the cat thou hadst before looked upon but as mere household furniture, well shall I be repaid for the slight trouble I have here undergone; and, oh! shouldst thou at any time view some fair stray cypress, or other coated individual of the beloved species, reposing in calm enjoyment on thy forbidden counterpane-shouldst thou observe her from the more terrestrial territories of thy garden terrace

Sleeking her soft alluring charms

on the moss-covered brick wall, ere she hastens onward to some felisitous interview-some tender meeting with the object of her mild affections-shy not the impaling stake-hurl not the ponderous bat at her unharming head! so shalt thou merit the blessings, and inherit the prayers, of

CATACHRESIS CATCALL.

SONG.

By Percy Bysshe Shelley.

The odour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy kisses breathed on me,
The colour from the flower is flown,
Which glow'd of thee, and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm,
With cold and silent rest.

I weep-my tears revive it not !

I sigh-it breathes no more on me ;

Its mute and uncomplaining lot

Is such as mine should he.

D 2

DISTRESSED GENIUS.

Haud facilè emergunt, quorum virtutibus obstat
Res angusta domi.-CLAUD.

WHEN We contemplate the lives and deaths of many most pre-eminent characters in the annals of literature-characters, whose very names we now regard with love or veneration-we cannot but turn heart-sickened from the melancholy scene. It is, indeed, a mournful spectacle to behold many of the great enlighteners of our mental darkness,-men, gifted with the highest intellectual powers, and entertaining the most exalted sentiments,—to behold such men struggling with all the horrors of cheerless poverty: to trace them through every stage of their complicated sufferings, and see them at last closing a life of wretchedness in death or insanity. Turn we over the volumes of history, and we shall find the brightest pages sullied by such scenes, from Homer even to the unhappy Chatterton. Where is the love of science? Are not private generosity and public spirit altogether extinct, when merit, worthy of the highest dignities, is suffered to pine away in obscurity, unaided and unnoticed? Thank Heaven! we live not in such an age! Societies for the encouragement of distressed genius are daily multiplying around us: the spirit of emulation has gone forth; the gates of the temple of science are wide unfolded: let genius rouse itself to its noblest exertions, and it will no longer meet with galling contumely, or at the best with chilling indifference.

A proportionate acuteness of sensibility and warmth of disposition seem to be inherent in genius: hence arise most of its sufferings, and many of its failings. This sensibility exalts the mind above the low occupations of poverty, while it leaves it more fully and painfully sensible of its distresses. As praise animates its exertions, so scorn and censure gall it to the quick; or, as it is beautifully expressed by Horace,

Sic leve, sic parvum est, animum quod laudis avarum
Subruit ac reficit!

Such light, such trivial things, depress or raise
A soul impassion'd with the love of praise.

Plato says, "The disposition of a poet or philosopher is incompatible with that of a miser or groveller: for that, in general, a powerful predilection for the muse subdues most other passions." Genius delights to soar unchecked amidst the regions of fancy: it loves to surround itself with ideal charms and beauties, till oft it is roused from its dreams of happiness by the startling call of dread necessity: then it awakes to all the horrors of reality; it sees no longer the cloudless skies and beaming landscapes pictured in its fancy, but a desert, cheerless and barren, without one sunny spot, on which the wearied eye may seek

repose.

Beattie has depicted with much energy and pathos the difficulties and sorrows to which distressed genius is subject:

Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb

The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar;
Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime

Has felt the influence of malignant star,

And waged with Fortune an eternal war:
Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown,
And Poverty's unconquerable bar,

In life's low vale remote has pined alone,

Then dropp'd into the grave unpitied and unknown.

But the same sentiments have been expressed no less feelingly, and with better experience, by one of genius's humble yet favoured sons: I allude to Clare, the Northamptonshire peasant; his unwillingness to quit his loved pursuits, though he met with nothing but taunts and rebuffs, is beautifully and naturally described in the following lines:

---But poor, and weak, and sunk beneath
Oppression's scorn although I be,---
Still will I bind my simple wreath,
Still will I love thee, Poesy!

LOVE AND PRUDENCE.

FAR from the world had Prudence flown,

Weary of all its follies

grown,

In solitude to dwell.

Love and Pleasure then ran riot,

Till Cupid found, a day of quiet,

In turn, might be as well:

To Venus the urchin confess'd, with a sigh,
That Love, without Prudence, must languish or die!

Red sank the sun, behind the hill,
The moon-beam glitter'd on the rill,
And Prudence left the grove :

She lock'd her gate-a stranger came―
Prim Prudence cried, "Your name? your name?"
"'Tis only little Love!"

"Get away, you young rogue!" from window above,
Cried Prudence, "I never give entrance to Love!"

Sly Cupid went-but soon crept back
In Friendship's garb, to make attack
On Prudence, thus conceal'd:---
To Friendship! Prudence op'd the door---
Once in, Love dropp'd the mask he wore,
And, laughing, stood reveal'd :---
Ah Prudence! poor Prudence! too late you will prove,
Who
opens to Friendship, must sure let in Love!

ROVER.

Z.

SUNDAY MORNING IN TOWN.

'Tis now the sabbath morn: from ev'ry church,
That boasts a belfry and a bell to ring,
Peals a loud summons to the godly given;
A sound unmeet to those who, late a-bed,
Fresh from a gay carouse or gaming room,
In broken slumbers lie and snore it out,
While dreams uncouth across their fever'd brains
In strange succession fly. Now mincing forth,
With look demure and red-morocco book,
The matron comes, with pace sedate and slow,
Prepared to seek her customary pew.
How tranquil is the town! each shop is shut,
For business now to rest and pleasure yields,
No more the din confused of carts and coaches,
Jarvies, and Jews, and loud obstreperous horn,'
Oysters, and oranges, cats' meat and dogs',
Beggars and ballad-singers, meets mine ear,
As erst it did a little day before.

The shoe-black, in his old-accustom'd nook,
Now takes his ready stand, prepared to give
A shine unwonted to the dusty shoe.
The barber brisk his weekly harvest makes,
And crops and reaps with due despatch and skill.
Now just emerging from the darksome shop
(Where all the week in 'durance vile' he stood,
Mid drugs offensive to the touch and smell)
The spruce apprentice comes-the time is his :
Let patients languish for a cooling draught,
And pills and poultices be d-d to-day:
Gay as a gossamer, and just as light,
He flits along bent on a pleasant spree.
From yonder house where hangs the toper's sign,
A bunch of grapes, forth glides a reeling sot;
The night he's pass'd within in low debauch;
His cheek is washy, and his maudlin eye,
Dazzled with day-light, shuns the blessed beam;
He strives to raise the catch he lately sung.
sorry sight'

But reason now presents a 6
His wife and children without food at home,
And all his money gone! then on he reels,
And cursing gin, and beer, and song, and catch,
And pipes, and pleasant company, he vows

To mend his ways, and live a sober life:
And so he does-till pay-night comes again.
Now a gay crowd, deck'd in their sabbath garbs,
From toil emancipated hurry forth,

To view green fields and smell the country air.

Now let Chalk Farm, and Copenhagen House,
Look that their larders are replenish'd well;
For the fresh air begets a relish keen,
And hungry customers will flock to-day.

Let Battersea's Red House, and Conduit's White,
Prepare with speed to bake, and boil, and fry;
Their beer seducing, and ambrosial ale,
Their tea delectable, and butter'd buns,
In requisition speedily will be.

While thus I go from street to street observing,
Full many a tempting pie, and goodly joint,
Hie to the baker's-thence to come again,
Embrown'd, and sending forth a savoury steam;
Oh! scent delicious to the hungry wight,
Who, coop'd in garret all the weary week,
(Lest dun or bailiff should in contact come,)
Pines on weak tea, thin broth, or pickled herring!

At yonder shop, where ev'ry other day,
Ripe Stilton cheese, and Epping's choicest pork,
Present a goodly show-a carriage stands;
With hampers freighted, fill'd with viands choice,
Cold hams and chickens, pies and pasties too,
And, last not least, good madam's home-made wine.
And now, all things prepared, the jovial crew,
Agog for pleasure, gaily sally forth;

First come the elder pair, whose looks disclose
The satisfaction which they seek to hide
Under a shade of thought, a prudent veil,

Lest folks should think they were beside themselves
At thought of journeying beyond Bow bells;
Then flock the younger brood, less careful they,
To hide the joy that mantles o'er their cheeks,
And sparkles in their eyes:-away they roll,
To where, sweet Richmond, thy seducing scene,
Rich in thy waving woods, and verdant lawns,
Invites the gazing cit—but ah! in vain
To me the country blooms-the woods present
Their waving foliage, or the dewy lawn
Spreads its green carpet to seduce my feet;
My fate confines me to the city walls,
To saunter on, and spin this idle verse.

ALLAN FITZALLAN.

ز