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naturally so prosaic as to be enabled to say, with Benedick"I can find out no rhyme to lady but baby, an innocent rhyme," I defy him to persevere in the use of this verse-compelling beverage, without committing poetry. Even a tea-board will convert and stimulate the most inert. Look you there! I am unconsciously lapsing into rhyme-an involuntary Improvisatore!—Tea, I was going to state, inspires such warm poetical desires.-Lo, where it comes again! One would imagine I had dipped my pen in Souchong instead of ink. It absolutely runs away with me, perpetrating bouts rimés in its course, and forcing me to commit to paper the following

ADDRESS TO MY KETTLE.

Leaving some operatic zany
To celebrate the singers many,
From Billington to Catalani,
Thy voice I still prefer to any,—

MY KETTLE!

Some learned singers, when they try
To spout, become embarrass'd, dry,
And want thy copious fluency,-

MY KETTLE!

They, when their inward feelings boil,
Scold, storm, vociferate, turmoil,

And make a most discordant coil,

MY KETTLE!

You, when you 're chafed, but sing the more;

And when just ready to boil o'er,

In silent steam your passions soar,

MY KETTLE!

To hear their strains, one needs must bear
Late hours, noise, lassitude, hot air,

And dissipation's dangers share,—

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THE WIDOW OF THE GREAT ARMY.

At the time that the great army under Napoleon perished in the snows of Russia, a French woman, stated to be of respectable family and education, was so deeply affected by the calamity of her country, and her melancholy apprehensions for its future fate, that she became deprived of her senses, put on widows' weeds, and wandered about Paris, bewailing the fate of the unfortunate armament. Dressed in deep sables, she may still almost daily be seen in the Champs Elysées, in the same state of mental alienation; and the Parisians, who allow neither national nor individual sorrows to deprive them of a heartless joke, have long since christened her "The Widow of the Great Army." This unfortunate female is supposed to utter the following stanzas at the period of the first invasion:

Half a million of heroes-I saw them all:
O God! 'twas a sight of awful delight
To gaze on that army, the glory of Gaul,
As it roll'd in its fierceness of beauty forth,
Like a glittering torrent, to deluge the North!

The war-horses' tramp shook the solid ground,
While their neighings aha! and the dread hurra
Of the myriad mass made the skies resound,
As th' invincible Chief, on his milk-white steed,
Vanwards gallop'd, their host to lead.

Sword, sabre, and lance of thy chivalry, France,

And helmet of brass, and the steel cuirass,

Flash'd in the sun as I saw them pass;

While day by day, in sublime array,

The glorious pageant roll'd away!

Where are ye now, ye myriads? Hark!

O God! not a sound;-they are stretch'd on the ground, Silent and cold, and stiff and stark:

On their ghastly faces the snows still fall,

And one winding-sheet enwraps them all.

The horse and his rider are both o'erthrown :-
Soldier and beast form a common feast

For the wolf and the bear; and, when day is flown,
Their teeth gleam white in the pale moonlight,
As with crash of bones they startle the night.

Oh, whither are fled those echoes dread,

As the host hurraed, and the chargers neigh'd, And the cannon roar'd, and the trumpets bray'd?— Stifled is all this living breath,

And hush'd they lie in the sleep of death.

They come! they come! the barbarian horde!
Thy foes advance, oh, beautiful France,

To ravage thy valleys with fire and sword:
Calmuc and Moscovite follow the track
Of the Tartar fierce and the wild Cossack.

All Germany darkens the rolling tide;
Sclavonian dun, Croat, Prussian, Hun,
With the traitorous Belgian bands allied;
While the Spaniard swart, and the Briton fair,
Their banners wave in our southern air.

Sound the tocsin, the trumpet, the drum !
Heroes of France, advance, advance!

And dash the invaders to earth as they come !
Where's the Grand Army to drive them back ?—
March, countrymen, march !-attack, attack!

Ah me! my heart-it will burst in twain!
One fearful thought, to my memory brought,
Sickens my soul, and maddens my brain,-
That army of heroes, our glory and trust,
Where is it? what is it?-bones and dust!

THE SPARE BLANKET.

COLD was the wind, and dark the night,
When Samuel Jinkins, call'd by some
The Reverend, (tho' I doubt his right,)
Reach'd Yarmouth's town, induced to come
By ardour in the cause of Zion,

And housed him at the Golden Lion.

His chamber held another bed,

But, as it was untenanted,

Our hero, without fear or doubt,

Undress'd, and put the candle out;
And, Morpheus making haste to drop his
Drowsiest soporific poppies,

Sleep soon o'ertook the weary elf,

Who snored like—nothing but himself.
The night was pretty far advanced,
When a stray smuggler, as it chanced,
Was by the yawning Betty led
To the aforesaid empty bed.

'Tis plain that, since his own bassoon
Did not awake him with its tune,
Sam could not hear his neighbour,

Who very leisurely undress'd,
Put out the light, retired to rest,
And, weary with his labour,
Form'd a duet with nose sonorous,
Although it sounded like a chorus.

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