'The little boy, to show his might and power, Turned Io to a cow, Narcissus to a flower; Transformed Apollo to a homely swain, And Jove himself into a golden rain. These shapes were tolerable; but by the mass, He's metamorphosed me into an ass!' There is no hesitancy in pronouncing which of Suckling's poetic pieces should be called the best. It is the _Ballad upon a Wedding_. For ease and jocoseness of description it stands almost unapproachable. Of course, many other such productions may show equal fidelity to nature; and there is a small class of poems which may boast a vein of the same sparkling humor; but it would be difficult--we were ready to say impossible--to cite another instance of so exquisite a commingling of these two elements. It requires a master-hand, it must be remembered, to harmonize these touches of playful fancy with what the poet is obliged to recognize as facts in nature. A tyro in the art is likely to transcend nature and alter a little things as he finds them, when he wishes to indulge in sportive recreation. Something well out of the common course must be laid hold on to excite that pleasant feeling of surprise which lies at the foundation of wit, if not of humor. Every one knows how much easier it is to call forth mirth by caricature than by simple truth; nor need it be added that while the former leaves but a momentary impression, the latter abides longer and seldom tires. Broad farce is rewarded by the tremendous applause of the gallery, but the pit and boxes confess to a deal more gratification in the quiet humor of an old comedy. This ballad displays all the vivacity and humor of light comedy, though we miss the virtue-inculcating moral at the close. We fear that we have already trespassed too far over the limits of a magazine article. We append only a part of this _chef d'oeuvre:_ 'I tell thee, Dick, where I have been, Where I the rarest sights have seen; Oh! things without compare! Such sights again can not be found In any place on English ground, Be it at wake or fair. 'At Charing Cross, hard by the way Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay, There is a house with stairs; And there did I see coming down Such folk as are not in our town, Forty at least, in pairs. * * * * * 'The maid, and thereby hangs a tale, For such a maid no Whitsun'-ale Could ever yet produce: No grape that's kindly ripe could be So round, so plump, so soft as she, Nor half so full of juice. * * * * * 'Her feet beneath her petticoat, Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But oh! she dances such a way! No sun upon an Easter-day Is half so fine a sight. * * * * *