[Let the design represent a middle-sized and middle-aged poet, habited in blue, with buttons bearing the initials “P.L.U.C.” He must be leaning on an anchor, reading the last account of the capture of Warsaw. His books must be numerous and classical, but none bound in Russia, as it reminds him of despotism. A volume of his own poems should be lying before him, opened at “Hohenlinden,” as that exquisite composition has evidently suggested the idea of his new one, called “The Show in London.”] In London when the funds are low, And state-distresses deeper grow, The rule is this――to have a show, Designed with strict economy. We here this cheapened show have had; Who now shall deem the nation sad! Distress was there superbly clad, And Sorrow stalked not shabbily. All, all the troops were out; who choose To read the list their time may lose; The gaudy Guards, the Oxford Blues, Besides the Surrey Yeomanry. And many a line of Foot appears, With drummer-boys and pioneers, And last, the Loyal Volunteers, The drollest of the Infantry. Not last; for of the New Police Behold how one, in pure caprice, The hat knocks off――to keep the peace―― Of idler, answering snarlingly. That morn was seen by all the town King William’s brow without a crown; But ere yon autumn sun went down, ’Twas circled most expensively. The Debt still deepens. Could we save A trifle, Hume might cease to rave. Waive, Rundell, half your profits waive, And charge as low as possible. Few, few shall gain where many pay; The people must the cost defray, And give their guineas too to-day For seats to see the pageantry. ――――:o:―――― THE ANCIENT MARINER. (_S. T. Coleridge._) [The author of “The Ancient Mariner,” should be delineated after the poet’s definition of him, as a “noticeable man with small grey eyes.” A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the sea-shore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance.] The sun it shone on spire and wall, And loud rang every bell; Wild music, like a waterfall, Upon my spirit fell; But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all, Each spire was like a spell.