From Lady Snooks: "Dear Sir, you know You promised me last week a Rebus; A something smart and apropos, For my new Album?"--Aid me, Phoebus! "My first is follow'd by my second; Yet should my first my second see, A dire mishap it would be reckon'd, And sadly shock'd my first would be. "Were I but what my whole implies, And pass'd by chance across your portal You'd cry 'Can I believe my eyes? I never saw so queer a mortal!' "For then my head would not be on, My arms their shoulders must abandon; My very body would be gone, I should not have a leg to stand on." Come that's dispatch'd--what follows?--Stay "Reform demanded by the nation; Vote for Tagrag and Bobtail!" Ay, By Jove a blessed REFORMATION! Jack, clap the saddle upon Rose-- Or no!--the filly--she's the fleeter; The devil take the rain--here goes, I'm off--a plumper for Sir Peter! THE POPLAR. R. HARRIS BARHAM. Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately, On whose tender rind--'twas a little one then-- We carved HER initials; though not very lately, We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. Yes, here is the G which proclaimed Georgiana; Our heart's empress then; see, 'tis grown all askew; And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a Conviction, it now looks much more like a Q. This should be the great D too, that once stood for Dobbin, Her lov'd patronymic--ah! can it be so? Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been robbing; A D?--we'll be DEED if it isn't an O! Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes, That thus on our labors stern CHRONOS should frown Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, And turn true-love's alphabet all upside down! SPRING. A NEW VERSION. THOMAS HOOD. "HAM. The air bites shrewdly--it is very cold. HOR. It is a nipping and eager air."--HAMLET. Come, GENTLE Spring! ethereal MILDNESS, come! O! Thomson, void of rhyme as well as reason, How couldst thou thus poor human nature hum? There's no such season. The Spring! I shrink and shudder at her name! For why, I find her breath a bitter blighter! And suffer from her BLOWS as if they came From Spring the Fighter. Her praises, then, let hardy poets sing, And be her tuneful laureates and upholders, Who do not feel as if they had a SPRING Poured down their shoulders! Let others eulogize her floral shows; From me they can not win a single stanza. I know her blooms are in full blow--and so's The Influenza. Her cowslips, stocks, and lilies of the vale, Her honey-blossoms that you hear the bees at, Her pansies, daffodils, and primrose pale, Are things I sneeze at! Fair is the vernal quarter of the year! And fair its early buddings and its blowings-- But just suppose Consumption's seeds appear With other sowings! For me, I find, when eastern winds are high, A frigid, not a genial inspiration; Nor can, like Iron-Chested Chubb, defy An inflammation.