“One morn I miss’d him in th’ accustom’d walks “Along the Park, and near his fav’rite trees; At night he sate not in my opera box, “Nor came to sup at Lady ――――’s. Next morn I heard that, just two days before, With a loved bride from busy Town he went: Sit down with patience a few moments more, And read a letter that he lately sent: THE LETTER. Here lives, retired from all the haunts of men, A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown: The muses frown’d not on his early pen, But Disappointment mark’d him for her own. His heart was warm, and his ambition high, But Heav’n decreed a safer, stiller life: He gave to pomp and pow’r a parting sigh: He gain’d from Heav’n a fond and faithful wife. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Nor wake his wishes for a world forgot: Here, in his rustic home he finds repose, And love and letters bless his lonely cot. From _Posthumous Parodies and other Pieces_, composed by several of our most celebrated Poets. London. John Miller, 25, Bow Street. 1814. ――――:o:―――― THE LAST OF THE LOTTERIES. (Public Lotteries were abolished by Act of Parliament in 1826, and the last was drawn on October 18, 1826.) The Chancellor has passed the stern decree, The daily press rings out the doleful knell, Warning each old adventurer, that he Must now of Lotteries take a last farewell! Dismay and wonder now pervade Cornhill―― The printers, too, are in a dismal rout, Swearing they ne’er shall print another bill, When those for whom _they puffed_ are thus _puffed_ out. O Fred’rick Robinson, thou man of death! Our scanty pittance why should you begrudge it? Why――oh! why thus in dungeon stop our breath, And shut us cruelly from out thy budget? What was it seem’d offensive in thine eyes, And gave thine act a plausible pretence? Say――didst thou think the selling _a large prize_ Was in itself a _capital_ offence? Whatever be the cause, the effect is sad; Since thou must close his well-known lucky wicket, _Bish_, our Leviathan, is gone half mad, And looks as dismal as a blank-drawn ticket. _Carrol_――alas! his carols, turned to sighs, Seem to his cheerful name to give the lie; _Hazard_, with fear of _death_ before his eyes Declares he’ll stand the “_hazard of the die_.” _Swift_, of the _Poultry_, too, is ill at ease, His grief breaks forth in this pathetic swell―― I go to pine on wretched bread and cheese, For, ah! to _poultry_ I must bid farewell! _Martin_ complains his rapid flight is checked, And doth the ruin of his house deplore, Wond’ring that _martin’s_ nests don’t claim respect, As they were wont to do in times of yore.