Where we will sit upon the rocks, And I will make thee beds of roses, A belt of straw, and ivy-buds, Thy silver dishes for thy meat, Prepar'd each day for thee and me. The Shepherd-Swains shall dance and For thy delight each May-morning : "VEN. Trust me, Master, it is a choice Song, and sweetly sung by honest Maudlin. I now see it was not without cause, that our good Queen Elizabeth did so often wish herself a Milk-maid all the month of May, because they are not troubled with fears and cares, but sing sweetly all the day, and sleep securely all the night: and, without doubt, honest, innocent, pretty Maudlin does so. I'll bestow Sir Thomas Overbury's Milk-maid's wish upon her, That she may die in the Spring, and, being dead, may have good store of flowers stuck round about her windingsheet.' THE MILK-MAID'S MOTHER'S ANSWER. What should we talk of dainties then, But could youth last, and love still breed, “MOTHER. Well, I have done my song; but stay, honest Anglers, for I will make Maudlin to sing you one short song more. Maudlin, sing that song that you sung last night, when young Coridon the Shepherd played so purely on his oaten pipe to you and your cousin Betty. "MAUD. I will, Mother. "I married a Wife of late, But oh! the green-sickness With those that go, a time removed from the murmurs of that little fountain-well. The Cigarium is smokeless now and desolate, and the beautiful leopard curtains shade windows now that look not out upon the woods of Fleurs. Yet we do not despair, before our locks are thin, to see our good friends seated there I SAT last Sunday evening, From sun-set even till night, At the open casement, watching The day's departing light. Such hours to me are holy, Holier than tongue can tellThey fall on my heart like dew once more, when, to the tones of that matchless violin, (matchless in the hands of our dear S. B.) we shall sing together, as of yore, "Then gie's your hand, my trusty fier, And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet SUNDAY EVENING. On the drooping heather bell. With holy-day folks in their best; And to me the sight was sweet. In a Sabbath eve like this. The steer and the steed, in their pastures, As if they knew 'twas commanded, That this day their labours should cease. The lark's vesper song is more thrilling, As he mounts to bid Heaven good night; The brook" sings" a quieter "tune;" The sun sets in lovelier light. The grass, the green leaves, and the flowers, I watch'd the departing glory Till its last red streak grew pale, And Earth and Heaven were woven In Twilight's dusky veil. Then the lark dropt down to his mate, Died away to a distant sound. Became shapeless, confused things, And, at last, all was dark-Then I felt A cold sadness steal over my heart, And I said to myself, "Such is life So its hopes and its pleasures depart." And when night comes, the dark night of age, What remaineth beneath the sun, Of all that was lovely and loved, Of all we have learnt and done? When the eye waxeth dim, and the ear To sweet music grows dull and cold, And the fancy burns low, and the heartOh, Heaven! can the heart grow old? Then, what remaineth of life, But the lees with bitterness fraught? In the depths of the dark blue sky. Till the evil thoughts fled afar. And the lesser lights of Heaven And there came up a sweet perfume Like the mem'ry of well-spent time, Noctes Ambrosianae. No. XII. ΧΡΗ ΔΕΝ ΣΥΜΠΟΣΙΩ ΚΥΛΙΚΩΝ ΠΕΡΙΝΙΣΣΟΜΕΝΑΩΝ [This is a distich by wise old Phocylides, PHOC. ap. Ath. An ancient who wrote crabbed Greek in no silly days; Meaning, ""TIS RIGHT FOR GOOD WINEBIBBING PEOPLE, "NOT TO LET THE JUG PACE ROUND THE BOARD LIKE A CRIPPLE; "BUT GAILY TO CHAT WHILE DISCUSSING THEIR TIPPLE.' An excellent rule of the hearty old cock 'tis— And a very fit motto to put to our Noctes.] C. N. ap. Ambr. SCENE I.-The Chaldee Closet. Enter NORTH and Mr AMBROSE. MR AMBROSE. I hope, my dear sir, you will not be offended; but I cannot conceal my delight in seeing you lighten my door again, after two months' absence. God bless you, sir, it does my heart good to see you so strong, so fresh, so ruddy. I feared this wet autumn might have been too much for you in the country. But Heaven be praised-Heaven be praised-here you are again, my gracious sir! What can I do for you ?-What will you eat?-What will you drink ?—Oh dear; let me stir the fire; the poker is too heavy for you. NORTH. Too heavy!-Devil a bit. Why, Ambrose, I have been in training, out at Mr Hogg's, you know. Zounds, I could fell a buffalo. Well, Ambrose, how goes the world? MR AMBROSE. No reason to complain, sir. Oysters never were better; and the tap runs clear as amber. Let me hang up your crutch, my dear sir. There now, I am happy. The house looks like itself, now. Goodness me, the padding has had a new cover! But the wood-work has seen service. NORTH. That it has, Ambrose. Why, you rogue, I got a three-pronged fork fastened to the end on't, and I used it as a lister. MR AMBROSE. A lister, sir?-I ask your pardon. NORTH. Ay, a lister. I smacked it more than once into the side of a salmon; but the water has been so drumly, that Sandy Ballantyne himself could do little or nothing. MR AMBROSE. Nothing surprises me now, sir, that you do. We have a pretty pheasant in the larder. Shall I venture to roast him for your honour? NORTH. At nine o'clock I expect a few friends; so add a stubble-goose, some kidneys, and hodge-podge; for the night is chilly; and a delicate stomach like mine, Ambrose, requires coaxing. Glenlivet. MR AMBROSE. Here, sir, is your accustomed caulker. (NORTH drinks, while MR AMBROSE keeps looking upon him with a smile of delighted deference, and exit.) NORTH, (sohus.) What paper have we here?-Morning Chronicle. Copyright sold for L.40,000. A lie.-Let me see; any little traitorous copy of bad verses? Not one. Tommy Moore and Jack Bowring are busy otherwise. Poor occupation for gentlemen, sneering at Church and King. "That wretched creature, Ballasteros!" Nay, nay; this wont do; I am getting drowsy.-(Snores.) Enter Mr AMBROSE. A sound of feet in the lobby. MR AMBROSE. Mr Tickler, sir-Mr Mullion-and a strange gentleman. Beg your pardon, gentlemen; tread softly. HE SLEEPS. Bonus dormitat Homerus. STRANGE GENTLEMAN. Wonderful city. Modern Athens indeed. Never heard a more apt quota tion. TICKLER, (slap-bang on NORTH's shoulder.) Awake, arise, or be for ever fallen! Mullion, shake him by the collar; or a slight kick on the shins. Awake, Samson; the Philistines are upon thee! (NORTH yawns; stretches himself; sits erect; stares about him; rises and bows.) MULLION. Capital subject, faith, for Wilkie. A choice bit. Odds safe us, what a head! Gie's your haun, my man. Hooly, hooly; your nieve's like a vice. You deevil, you hae jirted the bluid frae my finger-ends. NORTH. Mr Tickler, you have not introduced me to the young gentleman. Mr Vivian Joyeuse. TICKLER. NORTH. Young gentleman-happy to take you by the hand. I hope you have no objection to smoking. JOYEUSE. I have no objections to anything; but I shall hardly be on an equal footing with you Sons of the Mist. NORTH, (to TICKLER.) Gentlemanly lad.-(Re-enter AMBROSE.)-Hollo! Ambrose? What now? Have you seen a ghost? or has the cat run off with the pheasant? If so, I trust he has insured his lives. MR AMBROSE. Here is a gentleman in the lobby, inquiring for Mr Tickler. TICKLER. Shew him in. Hope it is not that cursed consignment of cotton from Manchester-raw-twist, and-THE ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER!-Huzza! huzza! (Three hearty cheers.) Enter THE ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER and THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. THE SHEPHERD. Thank ye, lads; that's me your cheering. Haud your hauns, ye hallanshakers, or my drums will split. Sit down, sit down; my kite's as toom as the Cornal's head. I've had nae four-hours, and only a chack wi' Tam Grieve, as I came through Peebles. You'll hae ordered supper, Mr North ? NORTH. My dear late English Opium-Eater, this is an unexpected, unhoped for happiness. I thought you had been in Constantinople. THE OPIUM-EATER. You had no reason whatever for any such thought. No doubt I might have been at Constantinople-and I wish that I had been-but I have not been; and I am of opinion that you have not been there since we last parted, any more than myself. Have you, sir? THE SHEPHERD. I dinna ken, sir, where you hae been; but, hech, sirs, yon bit Opium Tract's a desperate interesting confession. It's perfectly dreadfu', yon pouring in upon you o' oriental imagery. But nae wunner. Sax thousand draps o' lowdnam ! It's as muckle, I fancy, as a bottle o' whusky. I tried the experiment mysel, after reading the wee wud wicked wark, wi' five hunner draps, and I couped ower, and continued in ae snore frae Monday night till Friday morning. But I had naething to confess; naething at least that wad gang into words; for it was a week-lang, dull, dim dwawm o' the mind, with a kind o' soun' bumming in my lugs; and clouds, clouds, clouds hovering round and round; and things o' sight, no made for the sight; and an awfu' smell, like the rotten sea; and a confusion between the right hand and the left; and events o' auld lang syne, like the torments o' the present hour, wi' naething to mark onything by; and doubts o' being quick or dead; and something rouch, rouch, like the fleece o' a ram, and motion as of an everlasting earthquake; and nae remembrance o' my ain christian name; and a dismal thought that I was converted into a quadruped cretur, wi' four feet; and a sair drowth, ay sook, sooking awa' at empty win'; and the lift doukin' down to smoor me; and the moon within half a yard o' my nose; but no just like the moon either. O Lord safe us! I'm a' grewing to think o't; but how could I CONFESS? for the sounds and the sights were baith shadows; and whare are the words for expressing the distractions o' the immaterial sowl drowning in matter, and warstling wi' unknown power to get ance mair a steady footing on the greensward o' the waking world? MULLION. Hear till him-hear till him. Ma faith, that's equal to the best bit in a' the Confessions. THE SHEPHERD. Haud your tongue, you sumph; it's nae sic things. Mr Opium-Eater, I used ay to admire you, years sin' syne; and never doubted you wad come out wi' some wark, ae day or ither, that wad gar the Gawpus glower. THE OPIUM-EATER. Gar the Gapus glower!-Pray, who is the Gapus? THE SHEPHERD. The public, sir; the public is the Gawpus. But what for are you sae metapheesical, man? There's just nae sense ava in metapheesics; they're a' clean nonsense. But how's Wudsworth? THE OPIUM-EATER. I have not seen him since half past two o'clock on the 17th of September. As far as I could judge from a transitory interview, he was in good health and spirits ; and, I think, fatter than he has been for some years. Though that's not much." THE SHEPHERD. You lakers are clever chields; I'll never deny that; but you are a conceited, upsetting set, ane and a' o' you. Great yegotists; and Wudsworth the warst o' ye a'; for he'll alloo nae merit to ony leevin cretur but himsel. He's a triflin' cretur in yon Excursion; there's some bonny spats here and there; but nae reader can thole aboon a dozen pages o't at a screed, without whumling ower on his seat. Wudsworth will never be popular. Naebody can get his blank poems aff by heart; they're ower wordy and ower windy, tak my word for't. Shackspear will sae as muckle in four lines, as Wudsworth will say in forty. THE OPIUM-EATER. It is a pity that our great living poets cannot be more lavish of their praise to each other. THE SHEPHERD. Me no lavish o' praise? I think your friend a great man-but NORTH. I wish, my dear Shepherd, that you would follow Mr Wordsworth's example, and confine yourself to poetry. Oh! for another Queen's Wake. THE SHEPHERD. I'll no confine myself to poetry for ony man. Neither does he. It's only the other day that he published" a Guide to the Lakes," and he might as well have called it a Treatise on Church Music. And then his prose work about Spain is no half as gude as a leading paragraph in Jamie Ballantyne's Journal. The sense is waur, and sae is the wording-and yet sae proud and sae pompous, as gin nane kent about peace and war but himsel, as gin he could fecht a campaign better than Wellington, and negotiate wi' foreign |