This was a puzzling disagreeing question,
Grating like arsenic on his host's digestion;
A kind of question to the Man of Cask
That even Solomon himself would ask.
Now majesty, alive to knowledge, took
A very pretty memorandum book,
With gilded leaves of asses'-skin so white,
And in it legibly began to write-

Memorandum.

A charming place beneath the grates For roasting chestnuts or potates.

Mem.

'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer,

Hops grow in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere.

Qucere.

Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell? Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?

Mem.

To try it soon on our small beer-
"Twill save us several pounds a-year.
Mem.

To remember to forget to ask

Old Whitbread to my house one day.
Mem.

Not to forget to take of beer the cask,
The brewer offered me, away.

Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point indeed of a new pin,
His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his asses'-skin.

To Whitbread now deigned majesty to say,
Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?'
Yes, please your majesty,' in humble notes
The brewer answered-' Also, sire, of oats;
Another thing my horses, too, maintains,
And that, an't please your majesty, are grains.'
'Grains, grains!' said majesty,' to fill their crops?
Grains, grains!-that comes from hops-yes, hops,
hops, hops?'

Here was the king, like hounds sometimes, at fault—
'Sire,' cried the humble brewer, 'give me leave
Your sacred majesty to undeceive;

Grains, sire, are never made from hops, but malt.'

'True,' said the cautious monarch with a smile,
From malt, malt, malt-I meant malt all the while.'
'Yes,' with the sweetest bow, rejoined the brewer,
An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.'
Yes,' answered majesty, with quick reply,
'I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I.'

Now did the king admire the bell so fine,
That daily asks the draymen all to dine;
On which the bell rung out (how very proper!)
To show it was a bell, and had a clapper.
And now before their sovereign's curious eye-
Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs,
All snuffling, squinting, grunting in their stye-
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs;
On which the observant man who fills a throne,
Declared the pigs were vastly like his own;
On which the brewer, swallowed up in joys,
Fear and astonishment in both his eyes,
His soul brimful of sentiments so loyal,
Exclaimed, 'O heavens! and can my swine
Be deemed by majesty so fine?

Heavens ! can my pigs compare, sire, with pigs royal?'
To which the king assented with a nod;

On which the brewer bowed, and said, 'Good God!' Then winked significant on Miss,

Significant of wonder and of bliss,

Who, bridling in her chin divine,

Crossed her fair hands, a dear old maid,
And then her lowest curtsy made

For such high honour done her father's swine.
Now did his majesty, so gracious, say

To Mister Whitbread in his flying way,

'Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then? Hae? what? Miss Whitbread's still a maid, a maid? What, what's the matter with the men!

D'ye hunt?-hae, hunt? No no, you are too old;
You'll be lord-mayor-lord-mayor one day;
Yes, yes, I've heard so; yes, yes, so I'm told;
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay;

I'll prick you every year, man, I declare;
Yes, Whitbread, yes, yes, you shall be lord-mayor.
Whitbread, d'ye keep a coach, or job one, pray?

Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.

You put your liveries on the draymen-hae?

Hae, Whitbread! you have feathered well your nest.
What, what's the price now, hae, of all your stock!
But, Whitbread, what's o'clock, pray, what's o'clock?'
Now Whitbread inward said, 'May I be curst
If I know what to answer first.'

Then searched his brains with ruminating eye;
But e'er the man of malt an answer found,
Quick on his heel, lo, majesty turned round,
Skipped off, and balked the honour of reply.

Lord Gregory.

[Burns admired this ballad of Wolcot's, and wrote another on the same subject.]

'Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door,
A midnight wanderer sighs;
Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar,
And lightnings cleave the skies.'
'Who comes with wo at this drear night,
A pilgrim of the gloom?

If she whose love did once delight,
My cot shall yield her room.'
'Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn
That once was prized by thee:
Think of the ring by yonder burn
Thou gav'st to love and me.

But should'st thou not poor Marion know,
I'll turn my feet and part;
And think the storms that round me blow,
Far kinder than thy heart.'

May Day.

The daisies peep from every field,
And violets sweet their odour yield;
The purple blossom paints the thorn,
And streams reflect the blush of morn.
Then lads and lasses all, be gay,
For this is nature's holiday.

Let lusty Labour drop his flail,
Nor woodman's hook a tree assail;
The ox shall cease his neck to bow,
And Clodden yield to rest the plough.
Then lads, &c.

Behold the lark in ether float,

While rapture swells the liquid note! What warbles he, with merry cheer! 'Let Love and Pleasure rule the year!'

Then lads, &c.

The insect tribes in myriads pour, And kiss with zephyr every flower; Shall these our icy hearts reprove, And tell us we are foes to Love! Then lads, &c.

Epigram on Sleep.

[Thomas Warton wrote the following Latin epigram to be

placed under the statue of Somnus, in the garden of Harris,

the philologist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original.]

Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago Consortem cupio te tamen esse tori;

Alma quies, optata, veni, nam sic sine vitâ Vivere quam suave est; sic sine morte mori. Come, gentle sleep! attend thy votary's prayer, And, though death's image, to my couch repair; How sweet, though lifeless, yet with life to lie, And, without dying, O how sweet to die!

To my Canille.

Thou lone companion of the spectred night!
I wake amid thy friendly watchful light,

To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep.
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,

And swells the thundering horrors of the deep. From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies, Now blackened, and now flashing through the skies; But all is silence here beneath thy beam.

I own I labour for the voice of praise

For who would sink in dull oblivion's stream? Who would not live in songs of distant days?

Thus while I wondering pause o'er Shakspeare's page, I mark in visions of delight the sage,

High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime;

A column in the melancholy waste
(Its cities humbled and its glories past),

Majestic 'mid the solitude of time.

Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour-
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship shower!

I view, alas! what ne'er should die-
A form that wakes my deepest sigh-

A form that feels of death the leaden sleep-
Descending to the realms of shade,

I view a pale-eyed panting maid;

I see the Virtues o'er their favourite weep.

Ah! could the Muse's simple prayer
Command the envied trump of fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare-

A world should echo with her name.
Art thou departing, too, my trembling friend?
Ah, draws thy little lustre to its end?

Yes, on thy frame Fate too shall fix her seal-
O let me pensive watch thy pale decay;
How fast that frame, so tender, wears away,

How fast thy life the restless minutes steal!
How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah! falling-falling-ready to expire!

In vain thy struggles, all will soon be o'er.
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap;
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, lessening, quivering, glimmering, now
no more!

Thus shall the sons of science sink away,

And thus of beauty fade the fairest flowerFor where's the giant who to Time shall say 'Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy power!

Birthplace of H. K. White, Nottingham.

Henry was a rhymer and a student from his earliest years. He assisted at his father's business for some time, but in his fourteenth year was put apprentice to a stocking-weaver. Disliking, as he said, the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stockings, he wanted something to occupy his brain, and he felt that he should be wretched if he continued longer at this trade, or indeed in anything except one of the learned professions.' He was at length placed in an attorney's office, and applying his leisure hours to the study of languages, he was able, in the course of ten months, to read Horace with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in Greek. At the same time he acquired a knowledge of Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, and even applied himself to the acquisition of some of the sciences. His habits of study and application were unremitting. A London magazine, called the Monthly Preceptor, having proposed prize themes for the youth of both sexes, Henry became a candidate, and while only in his fifteenth year, obtained a silver medal for a translation from¦ Horace; and the following year a pair of twelveinch globes for an imaginary tour from London to Edinburgh. He next became a correspondent in the Monthly Mirror, and was introduced to the acquaintance of Mr Capel Lofft and of Mr Hill, the proprietor of the above periodical. Their encouragement induced him to prepare a volume of poems for the press, which appeared in 1803. The longest piece in the collection is a descriptive poem in the style of Goldsmith, entitled Clifton Grove, which shows a remarkable proficiency in smooth and elegant versification and language. In his preface to the volume. Henry

A Hymn for Family Worship.

O Lord! another day is flown,
And we, a lonely band,

Are met once more before thy throne,
To bless thy fostering hand.

And wilt thou bend a listening ear
To praises low as ours?
Thou wilt! for thou dost love to hear
The song which meekness pours.

And, Jesus, thou thy smiles wilt deign,
As we before thee pray;

For thou didst bless the infant train,
And we are less than they.

O let thy grace perform its part,
And let contention cease;
And shed abroad in every heart
Thine everlasting peace!

Thus chastened, cleansed, entirely thine,
A flock by Jesus led;

The Sun of Holiness shall shine
In glory on our head.

And thou wilt turn our wandering feet,
And thou wilt bless our way;
Till worlds shall fade, and faith shall greet
The dawn of lasting day.

The Christiad.

[Concluding stanzas, written shortly before his death.]

Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme,

With self-rewarding toil; thus far have sung Of godlike deeds, far loftier than beseem

The lyre which I in early days have strung; And now my spirits faint, and I have hung The shell, that solaced me in saddest hour,

On the dark cypress; and the strings which rung With Jesus' praise, their harpings now are o'er, Or, when the breeze comes by, moan, and are heard

no more.

And must the harp of Judah sleep again?
Shall I no more reanimate the lay?
Oh! Thou who visitest the sons of men,

Thou who dost listen when the humble pray,
One little space prolong my mournful day;
One little lapse suspend thy last decree!

I am a youthful traveller in the way, And this slight boon would consecrate to thee, Ere I with Death shake hands, and smile that I am free.

The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song.-To the Night.
Thou, spirit of the spangled night!
I woo thee from the watch-tower high,
Where thou dost sit to guide the bark
Of lonely mariner.

The winds are whistling o'er the wolds,
The distant main is moaning low;
Come, let us sit and weave a song-
A melancholy song!

Sweet is the scented gale of morn,
And sweet the noontide's fervid beam,
But sweeter far the solemn calm

That marks thy mournful reign.

I've passed here many a lonely year,
And never human voice have heard;
I've passed here many a lonely year
A solitary man.

And I have lingered in the shade,
From sultry noon's hot beam; and I
Have knelt before my wicker door,

To sing my evening song.

And I have hailed the gray morn high
On the blue mountain's misty brow,
And tried to tune my little reed
To hymns of harmony.

But never could I tune my reed,
At morn, or noon, or eve, so sweet
As when upon the ocean shore

I hailed thy star-beam mild.

The day-spring brings not joy to me,
The moon it whispers not of peace!
But oh! when darkness robes the heavens,
My woes are mixed with joy.

And then I talk, and often think
Aërial voices answer me;

And oh! I am not then alone

A solitary man.

And when the blustering winter winds Howl in the woods that clothe my cave,

I lay me on my lonely mat,

And pleasant are my dreams.

And Fancy gives me back my wife;
And Fancy gives me back my child;
She gives me back my little home,
And all its placid joys.

Then hateful is the morning hour
That calls me from the dream of bliss,
To find myself still lone, and hear
The same dull sounds again.

JAMES GRAHAME.

The REV. JAMES GRAHAME was born in Glasgow in the year 1765. He studied the law, and practised at the Scottish bar for several years, but afterwards took orders in the Church of England, and was successively curate of Shipton, in Gloucestershire, and of Sedgefield, in the county of Durham. Ill health compelled him to abandon his curacy when his virtues and talents had attracted notice and rendered him a popular and useful preacher; and on revisiting Scotland, he died on the 14th of September 1811. The works of Grahame consist of Mary Queen of Scotland, a dramatic poem published in 1801; The Sabbath, Sabbath Walks, Biblical Pictures, The Birds