l,
Hath stamp'd sad dates--he can't recall.

And error gilding worst designs--
Like speckled snake that strays and shines--
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And vice hath left his ugly blot--
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began--but finish'd not.

And fruitless late remorse doth trace--
Like Hebrew lore, a backward pace--
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers--sense unknit--
Huge reams of folly--shreds of wit--
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook,
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look,
Go--shut the leaves--and clasp the book!--

* * * * *

THE LITERARY POCKET-BOOK.

Is this year resumed, but we think it is not so successful as, were its
previous _fasciculi_. The "_literary_" is a good epithet for its sale
among would-be authors, like the "_Gentleman's_" Magazine among a certain
class of worthies. But of what use are such articles as the following
to literary men:--_The Seasons_, by a Man of _Taste_, (like the _carte_
of a restaurateur;) _Sayings of a Man about Town; Remonstrance with J.F.
Newton; Lines on Crockford's &c._--all amusing enough in their way, but,
in a literary pocket-book, out of place, and not in good taste. The
"lists," too, the only useful portion of the volume, are, in many
instances, very incorrect. Apropos, how long has Morris Birbeck been dead?
Our Illinois friend might be alive when the editor published his last
pocket-book; but if he stands still, time does not. There is, too, an
affectation of fashion about the work which does not suit our sober taste;
but as a seasonable Christmas extract, we are induced to quote _Winter_
from the _Seasons_:--

Now is the high season of beef; beef, which Prometheus killed for us at
first, ere he filched the fire from heaven, with which to constitute it a
beef-steak--that foundation of the most delightful of clubs, and origin
of the most delightful of all memoirs of them. Nor be the sirloin, boast
of Englishmen, forgot! nor its vaunted origin; which proves that the age
of chivalry, despite of Burke, is not yet gone! Stewed beef too, and ample
round, and _filet de boeuf saute dans sa glace_, and stewed rump-steaks,
and ox-tail soup.

"Spirits of beef, where are ye? are ye all fled?"
_Henry the Eighth_.

No--when beef flies the English shores, then you may, as the immortal bard
exquisitely expresses it, "make a silken purse out of