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To all whom it may concern : 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.
One after one the joys of youth
Had died away ;
As false as they.
Then came a dark and dreary chill,
More sad than grief;
Had seem'd relief.
I saw thee smile ;—the icy chain
Began to melt;
I lived I felt!
Thy gentle care once more for me
Hope's garland wove,
Fled from thy love.
It yanislı'd, like the languid wist
Whose sullen hue,
Melts in bright dew.
And thou hast given me light and life,
Fond hopes, sweet fears ;
And smiles, and tears.
It is not meet thine early years should share
No! be thou still the light of this fond soul,
Not all forlorn the wither'd tree is seen,
Ab, if thy light of gladness should depart,
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,
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.
Wonderful Spirit, whose eternal shrine
ON HER VOYAGE TO INDIA.
Now, like a shooting star, thy bark doth filee
The gorgeous ranks of flaming cherubim,
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 grenadiers 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 ? - Ăs 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;
My buried dust shall dwell;
Shall wander on its way, and sing
Beneath the twilight beam,
Beside its lonely stream;
When tolls the evening bell,
One" echoless farewell,
Build not for me a pyramid,
Carve not a stone for me;
Shall be mine elegy;
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
Sheridan said, it is too formal to be registered in Love's Calendar.
Oh Rosamond! how sweet it were, on some fine summer dawn,
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,
Which so well revealed it;
And the kiss wbich sealed it