WHAT YOU WILL. NO. I. EDITED BY VYVYAN JOYEUSE. To all whom it may concern : 66 I, Vyvyan Joyeuse, give notice that all "Songs," "Lines," "Epigrams," "" -S, in this our realm of literature, have been made over to my sovereign rule and governance, and that I have been installed Generalissimo of Jeux d'Esprit, and Archbishop of Bagatelle. Trinity College, Cambridge, April 1, 1823, May 1.-I have a friend who writes more verses than any man under the sun. I will engage that he shall spill more ink in an hour than a County Member shall swallow claret, and dispose of a quire in less time than an Alderman shall raze a haunch. Lopez de Vega was nothing to him! When he dies he will die for want of a new rhyme; he has loose MSS. enough to make a myriad of winding sheets, and an album thick enough for a pyre. But may the muses avert such a consummation; particularly as he contributes. Only listen! POEMS TO ZOE. I. One after one the joys of youth Had died away; And visions of unfading truth, Then came a dark and dreary chill, The very pang that bade me feel, I saw thee smile ;-the icy chain I heard thee speak;-and once again I lived-I felt! Thy gentle care once more for me And all my soul's dark apathy It vanish'd, like the languid mist By morning's summer radiance kist, Melts in bright dew. And thou hast given me light and life, The varying passion's pleasing strife, II. When o'er my brow steals sorrow's deep'ning shroud, Not for the wealth of worlds would I o'ercloud It is not meet thine early years should share No! be thou still the light of this fond soul, I still may hope-I yet may smile-in thee! Not all forlorn the wither'd tree is seen, Ah, if thy light of gladness should depart, If Hope no more in those dear eyes should shine, Bears its own sorrows-but must break with thine. May 2.-Pray, reader, did you ever write a sonnet? My friend Spatter showed me one the other day, containing somewhat more than the common professions of passion, wrapt up in somewhat more than the common ruggedness of measure and melody. Poor fellow! he has about as much passion as a poker, and rather more sentiment than a wheelbarrow. And he has indited a thing of forty falsehoods and of fourteen rhymes.Alas! "He never wrote but one, and here he lies!" As for myself, I have done a thousand. Beautiful Myou at least have not forgotten the pangs I endured and the paper I wasted; you, at least, can remember how often I bit my lips, and how often I bit my nails. I have not written a couplet since we parted; I will not write another till we meet: Io vivrò sempre in pene, Io non avro piu bene, Ti sovererai di me? But this, by the way, is idle, melancholy, and a lie. I will step out of the way, and introduce my reader to better company :-Gerard Montgomery, come into court. SONNETS, BY G. M. I. TO POESY. Wonderful Spirit, whose eternal shrine In lowly hearts, and dream sweet hours away, Now, like a shooting star, thy bark doth fle Thee and thy warrior-husband far away From England's shores. Soon, soon on the wide sea, And absent far is Friendship's cheering ray, Shall ye two know how mighty is the sway Of wedded love, how dear those fetters be Which the free heart doth wear. Oh! we who doze In tranquil homes, and with domestic mirth Can know but little of the love of those Who, in the lonely waste of sea and skies, Find home and comfort in each other's eyes. III. The gorgeous ranks of flaming cherubim, I cannot long for unimagined joys; My trust is that hereafter I shall see Forms dear to me on Earth-that many a voice May 5.-My dear Nicholas, your verses about the tomb of Napoleon will never do. Do you seriously believe that the Emperor had a file of grenadier's daily at the Thuileries, to be shot, at halfafter-twelve, for his imperial entertainment? Is it an article of your creed that he commonly dined upon stewed bombs and pickled musket-balls? And have you any authority for asserting that he amused himself in his captivity by applying thumbscrews to Marshal Bertrand, and pulling Madame Montholon's hair? And why do you exult so vehemently because such a man has nothing over his dust but a shrub and a flat stone? Are you really so anxious upon the subject of posthumous accommodation, that you would give half-a-crown for a bust, or five shillings for a pyramid? As an admirer of mine said but indifferently in Greek, and as I say very prettily in English, Give me a low and humble mound; In some sequestered dell; And while one natural rivulet Shall wander on its way, and sing And memory shall scatter there And she I loved shall often glide, To whisper near that tomb and tide And shed one tear in that still grove,- Build not for me a pyramid, Carve not a stone for me; The tear that gleams in that fair lid And in thy breast, thy tender breast, My shade shall find a home of rest! May 7.-Tristram Merton, I have a strong curiosity to know who Rosamond is. But you will not tell me; and, after all, as far as your verses are concerned, the surname is nowise german to the matter. As poor Sheridan said, it is too formal to be registered in Love's Calendar. Oh Rosamond! how sweet it were, on some fine summer dawn, When flowers and heaps of new-mown grass perfume the morning breeze, And look along the spreading vale to the ocean far away; And oh! how passing sweet it were, through the long sunny day, And when the winds, on winter nights, in fitful cadence blow, Tristram, I hope "Rosamond" and your "Fair Girl of France" will not pull caps,-but I cannot forbear the temptation of introducing your Roxana and Statira to an admiring public : By thy love, fair girl of France, And the kiss which sealed it |