ON RECEIVING FROM HIM A PRESENT OF A WINE-STRAINER.--1825. This life, dear C----y,--who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart’s[83] wine; When first the ruby drops flow out, How beautiful, how clear they shine! And thus awhile they keep their tint, So free from ev’n a shade,--that some Would smile, did you but dare to hint, That darker drops would ever come. But soon, alas, the tide runs short;-- Each minute makes the sad truth plainer; Till Life, like Ewart’s crusty Port, When near its close, requires a _strainer_. This, Friendship, can, alone, supply,-- Alone can teach the drops to pass, If not with all their rosiest dye, At least, unclouded, through the glass. Nor, C----y, could a boon be mine, Of which this heart were fonder, vainer, Than thus, if Life be like old wine, To have thy friendship for its strainer! E. For many years the goodness of Mr. Ewart’s old Port has been duly appreciated by his private friends. The preceding verses, in _The Times_ of Monday, (March 5, 1827,) have disclosed “the secret,” and now, probably, he will “blush to find it fame.” The knowledge of his “ruby drops” should be communicated to all who find it necessary to “use a little wine for their stomach’s sake, and their often infirmities.” Can the information be conveyed in more agreeable lines? [83] A vender of capital old Port in Swallow-street. * * * * * ~Beauty.~ A NATURAL COMPLIMENT. As the late beautiful duchess of Devonshire was one day stepping out of her carriage, a dustman, who was accidentally standing by, and was about to regale himself with his accustomed whiff of tobacco, caught a glance of her countenance, and instantly exclaimed, “Love and bless you, my lady, let me light my pipe in your eyes!” It is said that the duchess was so delighted with this compliment, that she frequently afterwards checked the strain of adulation, which was constantly offered to her charms, by saying, “Oh! after the dustman’s compliment, all others are insipid.” * * * * * PERSIAN SONG OF HAFIZ. BY SIR WILLIAM JONES. Sweet maid, if thou wouldst charm my sight, And bid these arms thy neck infold; That rosy cheek, that lily hand, Would give thy poet more delight Than all Bocara’s vaunted gold, Than all the gems of Samarcand. Boy! let yon liquid ruby flow, And bid thy pensive heart be glad, Whate’er the frowning zealots say:-- Tell them their Eden cannot show A stream so clear as Rocnabad, A bower so sweet as Mosellay. O! when these fair, perfidious maids, Whose eyes our secret haunts infest, Their dear destructive charms display;-- Each glance my tender breast invades, And robs my wounded soul of rest; As Tartars seize their destin’d prey.