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And Mrs Dickson bask'd in fairy bower,

Her doting love still kinder every hour.

Time fann'd her flame, but cool'd her husband's down;
By bus'ness call'd, he oftener went to town;
But still the fire would in her bosom burn,
As sad she sigh'd, and watch'd his late return.

One year of love had scarce their union crown'd,
When Frank at home, by day, was seldom found;
While ev'ry art in vain Dame Dickson tried,
She simper'd, ogled, reason'd, smil'd, and sigh'd.
At morn he left her, with a careless air,
Abroad to roam, but seldom told her where ;
And she would mope alone till past midnight,
Sometimes would sit till morn's returning light;
Then would she heave the sad, reproachful sigh,
The big tear trembling in her downcast eye;
While Frank, with countenance compos'd and cool,
Would calmly say, she was a snivelling fool.

When man and wife in bitter words reply,
Respect will cease, and cold contempt is nigh;
Then slighted Love-if Love has e'er been there,
Takes leave for ever of the hapless pair;
And in his place fell Jealousy succeeds,
Whose fangs strike deeper, as the victim bleeds:
The deadly venom fir'd Dame Dickson's breast,
And every glance the demon's power confess'd:
Thus, while she felt her heart with anguish wrung,
Reproach flow'd copious from her fluent tongue.
Frank felt he had no measures now to keep,
And, all unmov'd, beheld his partner weep;
For ever set his mild domestic sun-
Her sullen gloom and stormy rage to shun,
With sensual bliss he sooth'd his sordid soul,
The gambler's table, and the toper's bowl;
And beauty, more congenial to his mind,
A syren fair, whose smile was ever kind.

His slighted wife thus shunn'd, despis'd, and scorn'd, Now rav'd in frenzy, now in anguish mourn'd,

And sigh'd, impatient, for the welcome hour,

When death should free her from a tyrant's power.

Nor less the husband's anxious wish to part,

He hop'd that pride and scorn would break her heart.

But both were doom'd their folly to deplore;

And, thirty years of sin and suffering o'er,
Dame Dickson's weary head was laid at rest,
And Frank his freedom and her wealth possess'd-
His future fate may afterwards appear
Amidst the annals of some later year.

Register of Burials.-Andrew Darling.

THAT green sod covers Andrew Darling's head,
For whom no sigh was heav'd, no tear was shed;
His rich relations, in the parish round,
On him had, like his early fortunes, frown'd.
At school, it by the teacher was confess'd,
Of all his scholars, Andrew read the best;

VOL. XI.

On Ovid, Horace, and the Mantuan bard,
He ponder'd nightly, with a fond regard.
When call'd to join his father on the farm,
He thought with rapture on " each rural charm;"
But Andrew's father farm'd by other rules
Than Virgil's Georgics, and the classic schools:
Thus, sire and son opinion would divide,
And still with Andrew, Maro must decide;
Their wranglings oft to keen contention led;
But other whims soon fill'd the scholar's head.

He met Bell Modely at the village fair,
A sprightly damsel, with a jaunty air;
Her eyes were bright, good nature in her face,
Each motion easy, and she danced with grace;
Her slender ancle, in silk stocking neat,
As o'er the floor she tripp'd, with fairy feet,
With fascination fix'd the scholar's gaze,

As light she bounded through the mirthful maze.
With hinds and village-maids, of manners free,
Restraint was banish'd-all was jollity:
But Bell in modesty superior shone;
In dress and manners graceful, mov'd alone.
She was a wench of admiration vain,

Her pride, to have some danglers in her train;
The more the better, was her maxim still;
Her beauty lur'd them; and the maid had skill
To kindle hopes, and still preserve her heart;
The fire she felt not she could well impart,
For she could ogle, trifle, smile, and toy,
Now blushing fondness, next reserv'd and coy;
Could lure the bashful and restrain the bold,
And over both her sure dominion hold:
Such was the flirt, the gay, but cold coquette,
Who now had Andrew in her silken net.
He watch'd her motions-join'd her on the road,
While every nerve with tingling rapture glow'd;
And begg'd the happiness her steps to tend,
And see her safely to her journey's end.
With well-feign'd modesty, and virgin pride,
She long refus'd-reluctantly complied;

"Twas three long miles; he thought them scarcely one,
And deeply sigh'd to find his pleasure done.

How long they stood, while parting at the stile

How soft her blush-how sweet her dimpling smile,

He never told, and none was witness there;

Home he return'd-to dream, but not despair.

No longer now was lofty Virgil read

Bell Modely, love, and Ovid fill'd his head;

And while behind the trenching plough he strode,
Romantic scenes and sunbright halos glow'd;
Above, around him, Fancy's magic wand
Led him in Love's delightful fairy land!
Still it was but the fever of the brain,

His heart, untouch'd, had never felt the pain.
Such is the passion love-sick boys affect;
The reins of Fancy laid on Folly's neck,
Away she canters, in a devious track,
The giddy boy light bounding on her back;
Till in the wild-goose chace, begun to tire,
She founder'd, falls, and flings him in the mire.

C

Thus Andrew rode, careering on his way,
While Love's Elysium fair before him lay;
Bell Modely's eye the bright, the polar star,
To guide his course, through trackless fields afar.
Love in his head, and Ovid on his tongue,
His passion in poetic strains was sung;
The song display'd his memory's treasur'd store,
A splendid mass of mythologic lore;

And there, above each fair of classic fame,
In sounding verse, stood Bella Modely's name-
As Hebe lovely, with Minerva's air,

Chaste as Diana, and as Venus fair!

Could she resist such soft and flattering lays,

Or scorn a lover who in verse could praise?
Though Bell thought reading but romantic stuff—
Herself the subject-these were well enough!
Yet had they flow'd to some sweet rural air,
The Cottage Maid, or Jockey to the Fair,
Her name might then have o'er the parish rung-
Her praise the theme of every ploughman's tongue!
So thought the fair; but on her poet smil'd;
He sigh'd, she blush'd, and all his doubts beguil'd.
Again Love led him on the joyous way,
When golden twilight gleam'd her parting ray:
As Andrew lightly cross'd the woodland sere,
The sound of secret converse echoed near;
As on his ear the murmur'd whisper fell,
He paus'd and listen'd-sure 'twas lovely Bell!
Light o'er the gras, with stealing steps he trode,
Then, cautious, crept along the flow'ry sod;
Beneath a shrub, in silent ambush laid,
He saw before him, in the secret shade,
Bell Modely lean on farmer Barton's breast,
His brawny arm around her slender waist:
He twin'd a ribbon in her flowing hair,
And softly said, "Now, hear me, lovely fair!
Like Andrew Darling, I cannot rehearse

Your matchless charms, and praise in sounding verse;
But I can love-and now, these charms to deck,
Come, let me bind this trinket round your neck;
And when you see it in the morning shine,

Say which becomes you-Andrew's gift, or mine?”
Her slender neck the glittering toy embraced;
Her braided hair his figur'd ribbon graced;
She smil'd-he did-what Andrew never dar'd-
And on her ripe lip found his rich reward!
Then with a sigh, "Could I like Andrew sing,
Your name, my love, should o'er our vallies ring!"
"Speak not of him! I loathe his name to hear!
His rhyming nonsense pains my wearied ear-
I read it once, before 'twas seen by you-
And never since, nor e'er intend to do!

Then teaze me not with him-a boy from school!
He's poor-a pedant-poet-and a fool!"

Contempt, like water, cools the fiercest flame,
And Andrew sicken'd at Miss Modely's name :
But still the scholar's head was far from sound,
And beauty's glance was sure his peace to wound.
He saw Eliza-sought her heart to gain-
But not by song, and soft Ovidian strain ;

He tried, with studious care, her taste to find,
What present most would please the fair one's mind:
She was a dreamer-and a lottery prize—

A thousand pounds, in sleep, had bless'd her eyes-
And she was sure her dreams were always true-
But niggard Fate forbade her fortune to pursue.

The hint was plain-a ticket Andrew bought,
A free-will offering to Love's altar brought:
As Bishops blush when they refuse a see,
Or Lawyers leering at the golden fee;
So blush'd Eliza, simper'd, smil'd, and took
The gift of Fortune with delighted look;
And said, with pleasure sparkling in her eyes,
"Dear Sir, 'tis mutual, whether blank or prize."
"No-this, or that-your heart, your hand is mine!
To these my hopes, my wishes I confine-
In wealth or poverty you are my bride;

And death alone our hearts shall e'er divide !"

Time speeds along, and Fortune's wheel goes roundThe ticket's drawn-a prize!-ten thousand pounds! On wings of Love delighted Andrew flew,

The gate of Eden opening on his view;

"Come, generous friend!" she cried, "receive your part.” "No-all is mine, in lov'd Eliza's heart!"

"What!-have it all?" with playful smile she said;
"Yes," Andrew cried, and clasp'd the blushing maid;
"Come, name the day that shall our hands unite!"
She tapp'd his cheek, and said, "No-not to-night!"
Love led him to Eliza twice a-week,

And still he saw fresh roses on her cheek;
But ere a month-a little month had fled,

Dick Trap Eliza to the altar led!

This was too much, and more than man could bear,
And Andrew roam'd, his heart indifferent where ;
But studied so to steer his wayward flight,

That woman's smile no more should blast his sight:
Then in resentment for his fate severe,
Enroll'd himself a British Grenadier-

Cross'd the Atlantic-with the Yankees fought,
And toil'd, and bled, and barren laurels sought;
But step-dame Fortune ever prov'd unkind,
He home return'd, but left a leg behind!

A hut he rear'd, deep in the heathy glen,
Sequester'd far from the abodes of men ;
His Chelsea pension all his wants supplied-
For independence was his boasted pride:
By labour form'd, and unremitting toil,
A little garden graced the ungen'rous soil,
In which his vegetable store was seen,
The swelling cabbage, and the colewort green;
Potatoes clustering round the genial root,
Carrots and parsnips rich, that downward shoot.
This cultur'd spot, with Nature's bounty stor'd,
Spread wealth and plenty on his homely board:
A ditch and fence the whole encompass'd round,
With verdant twigs of pliant osiers crown'd;
Of these, with cunning hand, he baskets made,
A skilful artist in his humble trade;

So neat, so light, he found a brisk demand,
And constant labour for his thrifty hand;
For workshop, kitchen, bed-room, parlour, hall,
His hut, twelve feet by twenty, serv'd for all;
One window glaz'd, four little panes display'd,
A boarded wicket sometimes lent its aid;
A crazy chair and stool, a truckle bed,
Beneath with straw, above with rug o'erspread;
A deal-board shelf the cupboard's place supplied,
And pendant hung, by twisted osiers tied.
No Sunday suit was in his wardrobe found;
His dress the same, each varying season round;
His jerkin patch'd, the lapse of time had scorn'd,
A cat-skin cap his shaggy brows adorn'd;
With thick, black, bristling beard, and visage grim,
He hopp'd to market, with his wooden limb.
His neighbours smil'd and pitied-strangers gaz'd,
And all agreed that Andrew's wits were eraz'd;
For dark misanthropy had chill'd his mind,
But chief, his hatred swell'd at womankind:
No female form durst enter Andrew's door,
Nor woman's work supply his scanty store!

When Death's cold hand lay heavy on his breast,
Old Bridget came, and kind, her cordials press'd;
With indignation in his death-glaz'd eye,

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Begone!" he cried; "leave me in peace to die!
And if you wish my troubled spirit rest,
Let none of female kind my corpse molest!
For long has woman craz'd this aching head-
Let not her meddling hands disturb me dead!"
She press'd the cup-with red resentment fir'd,
He, writhing, gasp'd-and, with a groan, expir'd.

So liv'd neglected, and so died forlorn,
The dupe of fancied love, and woman's scorn:
In youth, a weak, romantic, hot-brain'd fool,
Of vain coquettes and sordid minds the tool;
In age, a misanthrope-his passions' slave-
Despis'd in life-forgotten in the grave!

THE FINE ARTS IN LONDON.PART II

Spring Exhibitions.

Somerset House.

A. I THINK a second visit to this most pleasant of in-door lounges is always more productive of amusement than the first. Perhaps about a tenth part of the pictures here are well worth looking at; and, of this tenth part, one-half, at least, consists of those smaller and more unpretending works which we are apt to pass over in the crowd, heat, and hurry, that usually prevail during the first few days of exhibition. Indeed, I'm afraid it must be admitted, that the art is at present in that state

of elegant mediocrity during which this less ambitious class of pictures greatest comparative degree of merit. will always be found to include the is not true with regard to the present Let us, at all events, see whether this collection, which must, I suppose, be taken as a fair criterion of the actual state of the art; and, to this end, let movement, as we did on our first vius not range about in an ad libitum sit, but " ment:" and, in proof of my position, look at these three little pictures im

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