h as I,
Six times a-week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine,
Will damp the genius, curb the spirit:
These wants I'll own are often mine;--But
can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks
At poet's pond, nicknamed divine;
Say what he will, I know he thinks
That all he writes is wondrous fine!

THE STEAM-BOAT.

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine
_Stalk'st_ proudly--heeding not what wind may blow,
What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine,
Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?

Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea?
Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire?
Were I a Savage I must bend to thee,
A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."

The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout,
Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din,
Blackness and darkness track thy course without,
And fire and groans and vapours strive within.

And they who cling about thee--who are they?
And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits
On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say!
Let me not burst in ignorance--thy freight.

Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore,
Straining my very eye-balls from my _Cab;_
First came two "ten-horse" laughs--and then a roar,
"Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"

Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud,
While from my bosom this reflection broke;
Although I think the steam-boat something proud,
Such _lofty_ questions often end in _smoke_.
To all Grandiloquents a hint _I_ deem it,
And whilst I live, I'll ever such _esteem_ it.

SONNET.

TO LYDIA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth,
The day be sacred 'mid each varying year;
How oft the name recals thy spotless worth,
And joys departed, still to memory dear!
If matchless friendship, constancy, and love,
Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile,
'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove,
And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile.
May every after-season to thee bring
New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way,
Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing,
And angels waft thee to eternal day!
Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill,
Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!

TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING.

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot,
Sacred to friendship, indu