Rembrandt again arose with solemn phiz,
And looked as if he meant his guests to quiz
With a strange toast, of which not one who
heard

Could, for his soul, well understand one word-
"The brains of freemen! may they never be
So barricaded by the jack-ass bones

Of opposition, that their native energy

Be crushed, like adders' heads between two stones." Hawkins, with jaws extended wide, looked round,

His patent portable breathed not a sound,
In admiration and in wonder lost

Ignorant what tune to play to such a toast;
Then idly dropped his fingers on the keys,
And struck, apparently with perfect ease,
Such sounds of harmony as hungry cats,
Would make when running o'er the keys in
chase of rats-

The tune concluded, Rembrandt rose again
And gave a gentle toast in mildest strain,
"The friends of peace! may all else have such
bones

To gnaw, as, dried by twenty thousand moons,
May starve their hungry maws,

And break their jaws."

A toast so mild, deserved soft melting airs,

And Hawkins, ever prompt, assailed their ears

With that sweet march, which, when our freedom died,

A Gaul composed to sooth Mazzei's pride—
Rembrandt again rose up and roared aloud,
A toast among the philosophic crowd,
"The Philadelphia Ladies! as we love
Them all, we'll say, (before their naked beauties

prove

As horrible as bare bones,) may we see
Their limbs beneath the garb of modesty."

Could a philosopher this toast express?
Who loves sweet nature unadorned by dress?
Who loves to see her naked, unadorned?
Who, as superfluous, has always scorned
The artificial trappings of the world,

And swears that nature from her throne is hurled?
If future females should conceal each limb
With robes, philosophy would be a whim,
Uncertain theory, mere speculation,
An idle business of calculation-

What philosophic brain pretends to know
The changes female forms may undergo—
And if a change in female forms should be,
How should we know it, when we cannot see
Their limbs, beneath the garb of modesty?—
But, Orpheus! cease, for Heavn's sake cease that
strain:

I'm tired of singing, on my word, I am,
My throat is parched-give me a cooling dram-
When next I want thee I shall call again—

Yet one more breath to tell each curious ear, That after ten toasts and a volunteer,

Rembrandt first crept from out the Mammoth's

maw,

And hung suspended from its lower jaw,
Then eighteen feet dropt down upon the earth,
Where Raphael stood to greet him at his "

cond birth"

se

Some crept between the ribs-some through the

ears.

Gutted of all its guests, the beast appears,
Save Hawkins, who, within its belly latent
Took up his portable piano patent,

Together much too large t'escape before,
They found a passage through the wide back-

door.

March, 1802.

An EPIGRAM should be-if right,

Short, simple, pointed, keen, and bright,
A lively little thing!

Like wasp with taper body-bound
By lines-not many, neat and round,
All ending in a sting.

TO THE

MEMORY OF ROBERT BURNS.

EWING.

SWEET Caledonian! rest beneath thy turf, Thy reed is silent and thy lyre unstrung; No more the warmth of genius fires thy eye, Nor millions list the music of thy tongue.

The lamb, reclining on thy grass-grown grave, Warms thy cold sod, nor crops one tender blade;

Ah! learn from it to press with fairy foot

The spot where Scotia's idol, Burns, is laid.

When twilight rises from the moss-clad cave, And creeps, unheeded, down the silent vale, The muses seek the turf where Burns is laid, Sigh to the breeze and murmur to the gale.

What hedge the lily droops its pensive head,
Or rose-bud sips the chilly evening air,
Each Muse, dejected, seeks with silent tread,
To catch the dew-drops which may tremble
there.

Silent, returning to his lonely grave,

They brush, with velvet hand the dust away, Tear, with indignant hand, the barren briar, And pluck the nettle from his hallowed clay.

Around his grave, with slow, sad, pensive pace, Moving they chant a requiem to his shade, Scatt'ring the dew-drops, mingled with a tear, And hallow the green turf where Burns is laid.

Each, in her turn, to breathe one plaintive strain,

Plaintive as that from his half-broken heart, Robed in the mantle which for him they wove, Strikes on the lyre, and acts her mournful part.

The night-bird ceases her unheeded tale,

List'ning awhile to strains more sweet than those

She e'er had sung-then lends her feeble aid, And pours out one sad note to Burns's woes.

The morning twilight streaks the eastern skies, And smiles serenely on his clay-roofed urn; Life-wearied wanderer! Nature tuned that reed Which sang so sweetly" Man was made to