e,
And glowing high, with fervid name,
Would graft her honors on thy name.--

But ah! bereft of every stay,
From Hope exil'd, with Woe I keep
My vigils, each sad sorrowing day,
And wake, each dreary night, to weep!--
By Penury chill'd poetic powers,
No voice to soothe, no hand to save,
And snatch a victim from the grave,--
Around me Desolation lours,
And glaring, midst the deep'ning gloom,
Despair and Famine urge me to the tomb!

If, all unmeet, my humble strain
Is destin'd still to flow in vain;--
Shouldst thou the tribute now refuse
Essayed by Misery and the Muse;
Reject not yet the lay with scorn,
To thee by kindred feelings borne;--
For still thy tales of plaintive tone
Breathe pain and sufferings, like mine own.

~141~~ Facing the entrance to the Royal Wax Works, Sir Felix made a full
stop;--"That fellow," said he, alluding to the whole length figure of
the Centinel, "stands as motionless as a statue; by the powers, but
half-a-dozen peep-o-day boys in his rear would be after putting life and
mettle in his heels!--Shoulder and carry your arms, you spalpeen; and
is this the way that you show the position of a soldier?" at same time
enforcing his admonition with a smart stroke of his cane over the arm
of the inanimated military representative. The attendant, a young man
in the costume of the Yeomen of the Guards, remonstrated; Dashall and
Tallyho laughed most immoderately; and the baronet, equally enjoying the
joke, persisted in affecting to believe, that he was addressing himself
to a living object, greatly to the amusement of the now congregating
street passengers.

"Begging your pardon, ray jewel," continued Sir Felix, "long life and
good luck to you, in your stationary quarters, and may His Majesty never
find a more active enemy than yourself!--By the soul of my grandmother,
it would be well for poor Ireland, who has taken leave of her senses, if
her bog-trotting marauders were as peaceably inclined as you are.--Fait
and troth, but you're a fine looking lad after all, and with the
assistance of your master, and a touch of Prometheus, we might raise
a regiment of braver fellows than the King's Guards, without bounty or
beat of drum, in the twinkling of an eye, honey; but with your leave,
and saving yourself