DOTTATOR ET LINEATOR LOQUITUR.

(Explanation of the Plate.)

WHAT signifies the sculptor's fame,

Or glory of a painter's name!

All that an Angelo can give

Towards making the dull marble live,
Is, after many a year, at length
To clothe it with Herculean strength,
And show each muscle to the eye
In all its ponderous symmetry.
I scorn the art that merely traces,
By worn out rules, old-fashioned graces;
Or deals alone in tints to charm,

Though they were Titian's, rich and warm;
I know that I can do much more
Than artist ever did before;
With but a DoT and eke a LINE,
In every shape and act I'll shine.
I want no muscles,-no, not I,
To give my figures energy;
I want no colours to express

A female face; I want no dress

To fall before or gird around.

Their naked dames, let fools adore 'em,

And hang their curtains up before 'em:
My forms their every part reveal,

For they have nothing to conceal,
They show their all to every eye,
Nor wake the blush of modesty.

How gaily in the dance they meet.
Without the plague of hands or feet;
Without a finger, at their ease,
Give and return the tender squecze:
You'll see them breathe without a lung,
And say soft things without a tongue:
Nay, feel the power of Cupid's dart,
Without that silly thing, a Heart.

As lordly topers they can shine,
Without a paunch to hold their wine;
Without a Skin, or Flesh, or Bone,
They do all that by man is done.

He's mad, the well bred artist cries,
These are impossibilities!

Mad as he is with all your pride,
Just turn your haughty eyes aside,
Unfold the page, and there you'll view
That all which I have told is true.
Then masters of all ages, yield,

And leave me master of the field:
Lick clean at once, your gaudy palettes,
And cease to drive your clattering mallets:
Go, hide your heads, while thus I shine
PROFESSOR of the Dor and LINE!

Ackerman Rep.

LOVE.

LOVE's wings were never made to soar,
Among the busy haunts of care;
Where Discord dwells he shuns the door,
For Love can find no music there.

Where Pleasure reigns, he passes by,
Or hovers fearful o'er the trai::,
For if his bow be moisten'd there,
"Twill ne'er be strung aright again.

The rural cot, the shady grove,
The mossy bank, and silent glen,
Are still the soft retreats of Love,
From malice far, and far from men.

The little urchin there can see,

His victims loitering as they go,

Can mark in some the signs of glee,

In others mark the signs of wo.

To these he cries, " Your moments short,

How wisely ye devote to joy,

With sacred sweets ye idly sport,

How soon those plunder'd sweets will cloy."

To those "I find my arrows here,

Have pierc'd the mark with surer aim;
The wound is deep that draws a tear,
Weep on, weep on, it feeds the flame."

How true the maxims time will prove,
When transient passion is decay'd;
But oh! the tears of constant love

Will ever be with bliss repaid.

ORLANDO.

TO MARY.

LET not the yawning grave receive
The victim of Affection's pow'r,
Without one pitying word's reprieve,
To sooth his last, his dying hour.

The puny love that seeks return,
Is selfish when compared with mine:

I only ask that on my urn

My name may be inscribed with thine.

Canst thou so small a boon deny,
The slave of unrequitted love?

Couldst thou, unmoved, behold me die,
Nor let me thy forgiveness prove?

Oh! no-thy soul of every grace,
Of every Virtue is the seat;

And Nature when she stamp'd thy face,
Proclaimed thee Pity's soft retreat.

Speak then the heav'nly word, " Forgive,"
And life, unmurmuring, I resign;

In the last Pilgrimage of Childe Harold, lord Byron introduces the residence of Gibbon and Voltaire, and draws the characters of these celebrated men, with a skilful pencil.

LAUSANNE! and Ferney! ye have been the abodes,
Of names which unto you bequeathed a name;
Mortals who sought and found by dangerous roads,
A path to perpetuity of fame:

They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim,
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile

Thoughts which could call down thunder, and the flame
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while

On man and man's research could deign no more than smile.

The one was fire and fickleness, a child
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind,
A wit as various-gay, grave, sage or wild-
Historian, bard, philosopher combin'd;
He multiplied himself among mankind,
The Proteus of their talents: but his own
Breath'd most in ridicule,—which, as the wind
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,-
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shake a throne.

The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year,
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought,
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe,
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer;
The lord of irony,-that master-spell,

Which strung his foes to wrath, which grew from fear;

And doomed him to the zealot's ready Hell,

Which answers to all doubts so eloquently well.

LINES ADDRESSED TO EĄ.

On the attainment of her eighteenth year.

THY youthful charms, evince in early hour,
The budding beauties of a future flow'r;

When time shall thrice thy present years have told,
And summer friends, pronounce thee growing old;
Then, though the roses of thy cheeks be flown,
And all the graces of thy youth be gone,
Thou still shalt please; thy pure and gentle heart
Shall glow alone, when lesser charms depart;
As when the sun, his drooping splendour laves,
At time of eve, beneath the western waves,
And though his glory sinks conceal'd from view,
His mid-day beams absorb'd, in twilight dew,
Yet still the welkin, streak'd with gold remains,
And every cloud his brilliant tinge retains;
So, thy Affection shall, in life's last stage,
Charm, when thy sun of beauty sets in age.

ADOLPHUS.

SERENADE.

Suggested by the music of Cherubini's trio "Non mi negate, no."

Steal from the window, dear,

Beneath the dark trees plumy,

And crossing once by the moon-light clear,

Look down the garden to me.

Far strikes thy shape away,

And shows thee a refin'd one;

Thy step is like the air we play,
Thou lovely, frank, and kind one.

L. HUNT.

THE SIMILE OF A BEAUTIFUL NIGHT.

Literally translated from Homer.

As when around the moon the stars appear
Loveliest in heaven, and all is hush'd and clear,