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May our Pæans and cries, with our Holocausts, rise
To thy dwelling on high, O thou Lord of the skies!"

The sacred band now falling back on either side to the sound of the dulcimer, tabret, lute, the silver cythern, and the Phrygian pipe, I perceived in the centre her whom I had ordered to be summoned-the poetess Sappho; the cincture that bound her white garments fastened by a golden sun, and her black hair and laurel wreath attached by a similar clasp. Of low stature, dark complexion, and features far from beautiful, there was yet something indescribably interesting, and even fascinating, in her appearance. It exhibited nothing wanton or immodest, and though her burning blood seemed to flush through her face and every part of her naked throat and arms, a high and holy intelligence sate with such a redeeming virtue upon her brow, that I pronounced her to be a mental, rather than a sensual voluptuary. As a votaress of Venus, love was her religion; as an exalted poetess herself, she reverenced intellect in others: and when these feelings combined to produce an intense excitement of all her ideas and sensations, both of heaven and earth, I easily imagined that she could abandon herself to their beatitudes with a passionate enthusiasm both of the head and heart, of the senses and affections, which might well terminate in that deliquium and ecstasy she has so eloquently described in her ode. In modern times she would have been a devotee-a fanatic -perhaps a maniac or a martyr; but she would have been cold and chaste, for the same reason that she was susceptible and amorous-because her religion en

joined it. Her modest and dignified rebuke of Alcæus, preserved by Aristotle, and her unalterable constancy to Phaon, for whom she finally sacrificed her life, confirm this view of her character, and seem to refute every imputation of gross or promiscuous attachment.

A dead silence pervaded the whole multitude as she stepped forward a few paces and made a graceful reverence to the sun. Methought her languid eyes at first justified her own phrase of the Όψεων υπολείψεις, but she had no sooner swept the golden lyre she held in her hand, than they became animated with a holy rapture; she then extended both arms to the god of day, and in a voice of surpassing sweetness began"Twin-born of Dian!"-when, lo! the envious curtain suddenly fell, and I found myself alone with the Enchantress of the Cave!

"By all that is beautiful and mysterious!" I passionately exclaimed, "disappoint me not thus!" and I was rushing forward to tear down the drapery that robbed me of this glorious vision, when she cried in an authoritative voice-" Rash man, forbear! you have seen my power; provoke not its exercise against yourself. You demanded to see, not to hear, the poetess;-have you not been gratified ?"-"O fully, most fully! And if this enchanting pageant must no more be seen, I have only to submit with gratitude, and depart; trusting that ere I quit this vicinity I may again be allowed to visit your abode, and witness some new display of your inexplicable power."-" That is unnecessary; you may summon me to your presence


whenever you think fit."-Startled at an announcement which suggested to my mind that I might be associating myself with some of the manifold incarnations of the arch-fiend, I replied with some hesitation By what name shall I invoke you, and how shall I obtain dominion over your magical incantations?”"You yourself," said the female with a playful smile, can best judge of your implicit power over me and my enchantments, when I inform



you that my name


The Fat Actor and the Rustic.

CARDINAL Wolsey was a man

Of an unbounded stomach, Shakspeare says,
Meaning (in metaphor) for ever puffing

To swell beyond his size and span;

But had he seen a player of our days

Enacting Falstaff without stuffing,

He would have own'd that Wolsey's bulk ideal
Equall'd not that within the bounds

This actor's belt surrounds,

Which is, moreover, all alive and real.

This player, when the peace enabled shoals

Of our odd fishes

To visit every clime between the poles,

Swam with the stream, a histrionic Kraken,

Although his wishes

Must not in this proceeding be mistaken,

For he went out professionally-bent

To see how money might be made, not spent.

In this most laudable employ

He found himself at Lille one afternoon; And that he might the breeze enjoy,

And catch a peep at the ascending moon, Out of the town he took a stroll,

Refreshing in the fields his soul

With sight of streams, and trees, and snowy fleeces,
And thoughts of crowded houses and new pieces.

When we are pleasantly employed, time flies;
He counted up his profits, in the skies,

Until the moon began to shine,

On which he gazed awhile, and then


Pull'd out his watch, and cried-" Past nine
Why, zounds, they shut the gates at ten!"-
Backwards he turn'd his steps instanter,
Stumping along with might and main;
And though 'tis plain

He couldn't gallop, trot, or canter,

(Those who had seen him would confess it,) he March'd well for one of such obesity.

Eyeing his watch, and now his forehead mopping,

He puff'd and blew along the road,

Afraid of melting, more afraid of stopping,

When in his path he met a clown

Returning from the town.

"Tell me," he panted in a thawing state,
"Dost think I can get in, friend, at the gate?"
"Get in?" replied the hesitating loon,

Measuring with his eye our bulky wight,—


Why- -yes, Sir, I should think you might, A load of hay went in this afternoon."

The Bank Clerk and the Stable-keepers.

Shewing how Peter was undone
By taking care of Number One.

OF Peter Prim (so Johnson would have written)
Let me indulge in the remembrance ;-Peter!
Thy formal phiz has oft my fancy smitten,
For sure the Bank had never a completer

Quiz among its thousand clerks,

Than he who now elicits our remarks.

Prim was a formalist, a prig,

A solemn fop, an office Martinet,
One of those small precisians who look big
If half an hour before their time they get
To an appointment, and abuse those elves
Who are not over-punctual, like themselves.

If you should mark his powder'd head betimes
And polish'd shoes in Lothbury,

You know the hour, for the three-quarter chimes
Invariably struck as he went by.

From morning fines he always saved his gammon, Not from his hate of sloth, but love of Mammon.

For Peter had a special eye

To Number One:-his charity

At home beginning, ne'er extends, But where it started had its end too; And as to lending cash to friends, Luckily he had none to lend to.

No purchases so cheap as his,

While no one's bargains went so far, And though in dress a deadly quiz,

No Quaker more particular.

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