At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore

Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more.

Yet in its depth what treasures!

You will see

You will see C; he who sits obscure

In the exceeding lustre and the pure
Intense irradiation of a mind,

Which, with its own internal lustre blind,

Flags wearily through darkness and despair-
A cloud-encircled meteor of the air,

A hooded eagle among blinking owls.

You will see H-t; one of those happy souls
Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom
This world would smell like what it is-a tomb;
Who is, what others seem;-his room no doubt
Is still adorned by many a cast from Shout,
With graceful flowers, tastefully placed about;
And coronals of bay from ribbons hung,
And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung,
The gifts of the most learn'd among some dozens
Of female friends, sisters-in-law and cousins.
And there is he with his eternal puns,

Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns
Thundering for money at a poet's door;
Alas! it is no use to say, "I'm poor!"
Or oft in graver mood, when he will look
Things wiser than were ever said in book,
Except in Shakespear's wisest tenderness.
You will see H-, and I cannot express
His virtues, though I know that they are great,
Because he locks, then barricades, the gate
Within which they inhabit;-of his wit
And wisdom, you'll cry out when you are bit.
He is a pearl within an oister shell,

F

One of the richest of the deep. And there
Is English P-with his mountain Fair
Turned into a Flamingo,-that shy bird
That gleams i'the Indian air.

Have you not heard
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo,
His best friends hear no more of him? but you
Will see him and will like him too, I hope,
With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope
Matched with this cameleopard; his fine wit
Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it;
A strain too learned for a shallow age,
Too wise for selfish bigots;-let bis page
Which charms the chosen spirits of the age,
Fold itself up for a serener clime

Of years to come, and find its recompence
In that just expectation. Wit and sense,
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in H. S.-And these,
With some exceptions, which I need not teaze
Your patience by decanting on, are all,
You and I know in London.

I recal

My thoughts and bid you look upon the night.
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight
Fills the void, hollow, universal air.
What see you?-Unpavilioned heaven is fair,
Whither the moon, into her chamber gone,
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan
Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep;
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep,
Piloted by the many wandering blast,

And the rare stars rush through them, dim and fast.
All this is beautiful in every land.

But what see you beside? A shabby stand
Of hackney-coaches-a brick house or wall,
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl
Of our unhappy politics;—or worse-

A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse
Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade,
You must accept in place of serenade-

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit
Built round dark caverns, even to the root

Of the living stems who feed them; in whose bowers
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers;
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne
In circles quaint, and ever changing dance,
Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance
Pale in the open moonshine; but each one
Under the dark trees seems a little sun,

A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray
From the silver regions of the milky way.
Afar the Contadino's song is heard,

Rude, but made sweet by distance;—and a bird
Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet

I know none else that sings so sweet as it
At this late hour;-and then all is still :-
Now Italy or London, which you will!

Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have
My house by that time turned into a grave
Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,
And all the dreams which our tormentors are.
Oh that H
were there,
With every thing belonging to them fair !—
We will have books; Spanish, Italian, Greek,

and

One of the richest of the deep. And there
Is English P-with his mountain Fair
Turned into a Flamingo,—that shy bird
That gleams i'the Indian air.

Have you not heard
When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo,
His best friends hear no more of him? but you
Will see him and will like him too, I hope,
With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope
Matched with this cameleopard; his fine wit
Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it;
A strain too learned for a shallow age,
Too wise for selfish bigots;-let his page
Which charms the chosen spirits of the age,
Fold itself up for a serener clime

Of years to come, and find its recompence
In that just expectation. Wit and sense,
Virtue and human knowledge, all that might
Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in H. S.-And these,
With some exceptions, which I need not teaze
Your patience by decanting on, are all,
You and I know in London.

I recal

My thoughts and bid you look upon the night.
As water does a sponge, so the moonlight
Fills the void, hollow, universal air.
What see you?-Unpavilioned heaven is fair,
Whither the moon, into her chamber gone,
Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan
Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep;
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep,
Piloted by the many wandering blast,

And the rare stars rush through them, dim and fast.
All this is beautiful in every land.

But what see you beside? A shabby stand
Of hackney-coaches-a brick house or wall,
Fencing some lonely court, white with the scraw}
Of our unhappy politics;-

-or worse

A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade

I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit
Built round dark caverns, even to the root

Of the living stems who feed them; in whose bowers
There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers;
Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn
Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne
In circles quaint, and ever changing dance,
Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance
Pale in the open moonshine; but each one
Under the dark trees seems a little sun,
A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray
From the silver regions of the milky way.
Afar the Contadino's song is heard,

Rude, but made sweet by distance;-and a bird
Which cannot be a nightingale, and yet

I know none else that sings so sweet as it
At this late hour;-and then all is still :-
Now Italy or London, which you will!

Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have
My house by that time turned into a grave
Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,
And all the dreams which our tormentors are.
Oh that H
were there,
With every thing belonging to them fair!-

and

We will have books; Spanish, Italian, Greek,