ON THE DEATH OF MRS. MARTINEAU, SENR. 217

-For me, as o'er the frequent grave I bend,
And pensive down the vale of years descend ;-
Companions, parents, kindred called to mourn,

Dropt from my side, or from my bosom torn;

A boding voice, methinks, in Fancy's ear

Speaks from the tomb, and cries "Thy friends are here!"

ON A PORTRAIT.

BLEST art! What magic powers with thine may vie,

That brings (too seldom seen) a Brother nigh?

That gives, by colours into canvass wrought,

The hue of sentiment, and tinge of thought?
The lips, with soft affection's smile that glow,
And the mild wisdom of the studious brow?

I look, again I look, and still 't is there;

I catch, with varying lights, a happier air;
Approach, step back, the favouring distance choose,
And, line by line, the well known face peruse :
Almost expect the opening lips to pour

With usual flow the treasured mental store,
And fondly dream our meeting glances prove
The' accustomed beamings of fraternal love.

But O! should fate in some disastrous day,-
Avert it Heaven!-the living form decay;
Hide, hide, ye pitying friends, the mimic light,
Veil, veil the image from my tortured sight;
The shadow of past joys I could not bear,
Nor would it speak of comfort, but despair.

WEST END FAIR.

DAME Charity one day was tired

With nursing of her children three,

So might you be

If you had nursed and nursed so long

A little squalling throng;

So she, like any earthly lady,

Resolved for once she'd have a play-day.

"I cannot always go about

To hospitals and prisons trudging,

Or fag from morn to night

Teaching to spell and write

A barefoot rout,

The air is sweet, the month is gay,

And I," said she, "must have a holiday."

So said, she doffed her robes of brown

In which she commonly is seen,—

Like French Beguine,

And sent for ornaments to town:

And Taste in Flavia's form stood by,

Penciled her eyebrows, curled her hair,

Disposed each ornament with care,

And hung her round with trinkets rare,

She scarcely, looking in the glass,

Knew her own face.