Few, few shall gain where many pay;
The people must the cost defray,
And give their guineas too to-day

For seats to see the pageantry.

THE ANCIENT MARINER.

[The author of "The Ancient Mariner," which of course means "an illustrious personage," (to use a phrase of the last reign) should be delineated after the poet's definition of him, as 66 a noticeable man with small grey eyes." A crowd of listeners should be around him, catching up with eagerness and ecstasy every syllable as it falls from his lips; and in a corner of the room there might be one or two persons reading his works, apparently puzzled at times to make out his meaning. On the walls should be representations of a giant devoting his life to catching flies; of a philosopher straying on the seashore to pick up shells, while the sails of the vessel that was to waft him to his home are scarcely to be descried in the distance. An eagle flapping its wings against the wires of a cage, and an astronomer putting on his spectacles to look at the stars, might also be given among the decorations of his study. The notice of the discontinuance of the royal subscription to the Society of Literature should be before him, with a Sonnet to Independence written beneath it.] The sun it shone on spire and wall,

And loud rang every bell;

Wild music, like a waterfall,

Upon my spirit fell;

But the old grey Abbey was brighter than all,
Each spire was like a spell.

I breathed within that Abbey's bound,

It was a hallowed spot;

The walls they seemed alive with sound,

And hues the sky hath not.

Good lord, my brain was spinning round,
And methought, I knew not what.

Eleven o'clock, eleven o'clock !

My spirit feels a passing shock;

Eleven o'clock-you heard the chime;

Oh! many shall see the King this time.
My very heart it seems to sing,

And it leapeth up to see the King.

What flattering music meets his ear,
What loving voices greet!

He sitteth now in presence here,

With a nation at his feet.

And (joy for him!) he's not alone;

Yon lady, look-she shares his throne.

The bishops a right reverend race,
Bring first, then take away,

Rare things of gold that through the place
Dispense a brighter day.

They robe him next with a robe of grace,
The supertunica.

And many a ring, and staff, and sword,

He takes from many a mumbling lord,

Enwrapt in richest silk and fur;
On head and hand the oil is poured,
And now they touch his foot with a spur,
And crown that Ancyente Marynere!
Soon about the Queen they'll stir,
Crowning William, crowning her.

To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek
Now on their knees the bishops fall;
Oh! every peer must kiss the cheek,
But great Lord Brougham the last of all.
Oh! yes, Lord Harry he came the last,
But the roof it rang as on he passed;

The people laugh, and the peers they stare

For they never had thought to have seen him there.
I guess 'twas curious there to see

A baron so oddly clad as he,

Ludicrous exceedingly.

SONNETS ON THE CORONATION.

BY A LYRIST FROM THE LAKES.

[Our Lyrist of the Lakes must be figured as an "old man eloquent" in all that can interest and elevate our nature. He should be somewhat tall, and somewhat drooping, with a head that scarcely seems to know that there is a halo round it, an expression of quiet dignity and simplicity of character, an unaffected familiarity of demeanour, and a suit of brown, properly fitted for one whose studies are sometimes of the same complexion. The white doe, the "solitary doe" of Rylstone, might be playing in the back-ground, and it would not be amiss to have a glimpse of the other " solitary" and immortal quadruped, that Peter Bell encountered in the forest.]

NATIONAL HAPPINESS.

Oh! ardent gazers! happy, happy herd

Of creatures, who your parlours, back or front,
Have left in litters; and in scorn of Hunt
And all who once your darker feelings stirred,
Have risen this morning with the earliest bird-
Breakfastless haply, or with some such thing
As a dry biscuit satisfied; your King
May justly prize the crown this day conferred
Upon him, and for you his power employ.
Was ever love like this! That maiden pale
Was there at seven this morn; of cap and veil
Despoiled, yon matron laughs. Behold that boy
Loyally standing on a spiked rail.

Oh! what can damp a nation's natural joy!

EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION.

What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun,
Now as the pageant gorgeous back returns,

Down, down it comes! Each honied aspect learns

The sour vexation; all delight is done.

The King is now forgotten. Many run

For shelter, where strange phrases (strange to me)
Of" perkins," meux," and " barclay," seem to be
Signs of glad welcome and of social fun.

Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars;
Those, envied, on the roofs, slide down again
Now envying those below. Rheumatic men,
With ague in perspective, curse their stars.
Wives, with their dresses dabbled, mourn the sum
Thus washed away, and wish they had not come.

THE SUBJECT CONTINUED.

The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes
Depending, the whole staff, at furious pace,
Retreats, most tender of its limbs and lace.
On tiptoe creep the carriage-seeking grooms
Of many who, among the Abbey-tombs,

Had prayed for " a long reign "--but not for showers
Like this that seems disposed to last for hours!
Oh! happy they who, shut within their rooms,
Were disappointed of their seats to-day!
'Tis wisely ordered that-

*

I have forgot what I was going to say.

THE LITTLE ABSENTEE.

[The only illustration to this contribution should be three elegantly ornamented letters (Harvey designs such things inimitably), presenting an appropriate obscurity of outline, to show the difficulty of representing the grace and genius of the original. The design, however, when traced, should form the letters "L. E. L." Through the clouds in the background might be dimly discerned a face, whose expression seems to hover between Romance and Realitythat indicates a spirit bound by every natural tie to the altar of song, yet stealing a side-long look at the shrine of prose, as if inclined to offer up half its worship there. A number of poems, equal in value (if poetry were paid for as it ought to be) to the National Debt, are heaped around; and at the top lie three new volumes of prose, which a thousand hands, some of them very inky and critic-looking, are eagerly endeavouring to seize.]

I see the bright procession wind

"Like a golden snake" along;
And I gaze around the Abbey, lined
With a proud and jewelled throng.
I see fair Lady Harrington;

And rich St. Albans, clad

In gems that drive, though ill put on,
The peeresses half mad.

The little princes too are there,

Those pure and pretty peers;
But oh! the scene, to others fair,
To me is dimmed with tears.
One speck upon this earthly sun,
That soon, alas! must fade,
One little spot, and only one,
Throws on my heart a shade.
Of all the myriads met to-day,
Oh! tell me which is she,
The gentle child I saw at play

By Kensington's green tree.

My eye it rests on every spot,
Ladye and cavalier;

But that fair child, I see her not
Of all the thousands here.

She is not here-the reason why
Is neither there nor here;

At home she heaves the infant sigh,
And dries the childish tear.

The humblest maid will murmur when
Refused its cup of bliss;
How must a princess suffer then,

To lose a sight like this!

Thus, mid the rich magnificence,
A vision sad and wild
Presents unto my inmost sense
An image of that child.

A REFLECTION.

[The author of this " Reflection," who would have given a "Tale of the Hall," but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things" too curiously"-as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the ArmyList turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.]

[A very

Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore
Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor.
Just think what hungry families might dine
On that laced jacket, framed of superfine.

How large a nation may a little net

Confine what traps are in those trappings set!
Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown,

To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown?
All penceless pockets theirs-the man with cakes
For them stands still, or eats the tart he makes.
Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least
Circle her arms, and might an army feast.
That zone for which a princess might have pined,
Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned.
On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view;
Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two,
It leaves you five, and five we know would do.
These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat,
Provide a dinner, and a tea to that.

A MELODY. (MOORISH.)

"The Moor, I know his trumpet!"—OTHELLO.

small space will suffice for the present illustration. The poet must be figured at his desk inditing an epistle, commencing

with "My dear Lord." Volumes of poetry that exhibit signs of having been read over and over again are thrown in profusion about him, mingled with which are some biographies that seem to have been cast aside with many of the leaves uncut. Invitations to dinner are piled before him, with some resolutions proposing him as President of the Silver Fork Club.]

There's a beauty as bright as the sunshine of youth,
Or the halo that beams round the temples of truth;
An odour like that from the spring-lily thrown
When a breathing from Araby blends with its own.
But the lustre is not on that Peeress's hair,
Though gems and a circlet of gold glisten there;
And the odour is not by that Exquisite cast,
Though his robe left a scent on the air as he pass'd.
This odour, 'tis not from the Abbey at all,

But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall;
This light, that outsparkles the courtliest class,
Is the dazzling of dishes, the glitter of glass.

Let, let but that lustre encircle me still!

'Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will.
Oh! give me a breath of that odour sublime,
It is worth all the flowers perfuming my rhyme.

No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day!
You cannot mean that !—I'll appeal then to Grey.
My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new,
Of the rainbow that rises round Althorpe and you.
Your music should mix with the drawing of corks,
Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks.
Economy charms me-but first I must dine;
You may tamper with all constitutions-but mine.
Let Lord What's-his-title exult in his curls,
Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls ;
What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore

'Till the Dinnerless Administration be o'er!

No dinner!-not even a sandwich

[The poet was here overcome by his feelings. He was carried off in a carriage decorated with a coronet, and was shortly afterwards set down at a very satisfactory side-table.]

A GLANCE FROM A HOOD.

[Represent a grave and rather anti-pun-like looking person, turning over the leaves of a pronouncing dictionary, and endeavouring to extract a pun from some obstinate and intractable word, that every body else had discovered and abandoned years ago. Now and then he finds something that repays him, not because it is good but because it is new. If unsuccessful, he puts the first word he comes to in italics, and leaves the reader to fasten any joke upon it he pleases.] He comes, he comes! the news afar

Is spread by gun and steeple;
He seems (what many princes are)
The Father of his People.
That echoing cheer-it rises higher
And seems to reach the stars;
No Life-Guard escort he requires
Who meets with such Huzzas!