Thrice welcome, then, for this peculiar use, Thy pens so innocent of goose! For this shall dramatists, when they make merry, Discarding port and sherry, Drink--"Perry!" Perry, whose fame, pennated, is let loose To distant lands, Perry, admitted on all hands, Text, running, German, Roman, For Patent Perryans approached by no man! And when, ah me! far distant be the hour! Pluto shall call thee to his gloomy bower, Many shall be thy pensive mourners, many! And Penury itself shall club its penny To raise thy monument in lofty place, Higher than York's or any son of War; While time all meaner effigies shall bury, On due pentagonal base Shall stand the Parian, Perryan, periwigged Perry, Perched on the proudest peak of Penman Mawr! A THEATRICAL CURIOSITY. CRUIKSHANK'S OMNIBUS. Once in a barn theatric, deep in Kent, A famed tragedian--one of tuneful tongue-- Appeared for that night only--'t was Charles Young. As Rolla he. And as that Innocent, The Child of hapless Cora, on there went A smiling, fair-hair'd girl. She scarcely flung A shadow, as she walk'd the lamps among-- So light she seem'd, and so intelligent! That child would Rolla bear to Cora's lap: Snatching the creature by her tiny gown, He plants her on his shoulder,--All, all clap! While all with praise the Infant Wonder crown, She lisps in Rolla's ear,--"LOOK OUT, OLD CHAP, OR ELSE I'M BLOW'D IF YOU DON'T HAVE ME DOWN!" SIDDONS AND HER MAID. W. S. LANDOR SIDDONS. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast; The herb of China is its crown at last. Maiden! hast thou a thimble in thy gear? MAID. Yes, missus, yes. SIDDONS. Then, maiden, place it here, With penetrated, penetrating eyes. MAID. Mine? missus! are they? SIDDONS. Child! thou art unwise, Of needles', not of woman's eyes, I spake. MAID. O dear me! missus, what a sad mistake! SIDDONS. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread? MAID. He never told me: I can't say, not I, Unless, mayhap, 't was curiosity. SIDDENS. Fond maiden! MAID. No, upon my conscience, madam! If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em. SIDDENS. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain That Shakspeare's language germinates again. THE SECRET SORROW. PUNCH Oh! let me from the festive board To thee, my mother, flee; And be my secret sorrow shared By thee--by only thee! In vain they spread the glitt'ring store, The rich repast, in vain; Let others seek enjoyment there, To me 'tis only pain. There WAS a word of kind advice-- A whisper soft and low, But oh! that ONE resistless smile! Alas! why was it so? No blame, no blame, my mother dear. Do I impute to YOU, But since I ate that currant tart I don't know what to do!