(_Thomas Moore._) “The Moor, I know his trumpet!”――OTHELLO. [A very _small_ space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing with “My dear Lord.” Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.] There’s a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth, Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth; An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown When a breathing from Araby blends with its own. But the lustre is not on that Peeress’s hair, Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there; And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast, Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass’d. This odour, ’tis not from the Abbey at all, But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class, Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass. Let, let but that lustre encircle me still! ’Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will. Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime, It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme. * * * * * No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day! You cannot mean _that_!――I’ll appeal then to Grey. My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new, Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you. Your music should mix with the drawing of corks, Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks. Economy charms me――but first I must dine; You may tamper with all constitutions――but mine. Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls, Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls; What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore ’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er! No dinner!――not even a sandwich―――― [The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.] ――――:o:―――― A GLANCE FROM A HOOD. (_Thomas Hood._) [Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that everybody else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in _italics_, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.]