“Farewell! I hope you are in health and gay; For me, I never felt so well and merry-- As for the bran-new idol of the day, Monkey or man, I am indifferent--very! Nor e’en will ask who is the Happy Jerry; My jealousy is dead, or gone to sleep, But let me hint that you will want a wherry, Three weeks’ spring-tide, and not a chance of neap, Your parlours will be flooded six feet deep!” [Illustration: POND’S ASTRONOMY.] “Oh Ellen! how delicious was that light Wherein our plighted shadows used to blend, Meanwhile the melancholy bird of night-- No more of that----the lover’s at an end. Yet if I may advise you, as a friend, Before you next pen sentiments so fond, Study your cycles--I would recommend Our Airy--and let South be duly conn’d, And take a dip, I beg, in the great Pond. “Farewell again! it is farewell for ever! Before your lamp of night be lit up thrice, I shall be sailing, haply, for Swan River, Jamaica, or the Indian land of rice, Or Boothia Felix--happy clime of ice! For Trebizond, or distant Scanderoon, Ceylon, or Java redolent of spice, Or settling, neighbour of the Cape baboon, Or roaming o’er--The Mountains of the Moon! “What matters where? my world no longer owns That dear meridian spot from which I dated Degrees of distance, hemispheres, and zones, A globe all blank and barren and belated. What matters where my future life be fated? With Lapland hordes, or Koords or Afric peasant, A squatter in the western woods located, What matters where? My bias, at the present, Leans to the country that reveres the Crescent! “Farewell! and if for ever, fare thee well! As wrote another of my fellow-martyrs: I ask no sexton for his passing-bell, I do not ask your tear-drops to be starters, However I may die, transfix’d by Tartars, By Cobras poisoned, by Constrictors strangled, By shark or cayman snapt above the garters, By royal tiger or Cape lion mangled, Or starved to death in the wild woods entangled, “Or tortured slowly at an Indian stake, Or smother’d in the sandy hot simoom, Or crush’d in Chili by earth’s awful quake, Or baked in lava, a Vesuvian tomb, Or dirged by syrens and the billows’ boom Or stiffen’d to a stock mid Alpine snows, Or stricken by the plague with sudden doom, Or suck’d by Vampyres to a last repose, Or self-destroy’d, impatient of my woes,