Few, few shall gain where many pay; 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, 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, 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. And it leapeth up to see the King. What flattering music meets his ear, 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, Rare things of gold that through the place They robe him next with a robe of grace, And many a ring, and staff, and sword, He takes from many a mumbling lord, Enwrapt in richest silk and fur; To kiss the cheek, with aspects meek The people laugh, and the peers they stare For they never had thought to have seen him there. 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, Oh! what can damp a nation's natural joy! EFFECTS OF RAIN AT A CORONATION. What, what but RAIN! When brightest shines the sun, 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) Meanwhile each cloud some cherished comfort mars; THE SUBJECT CONTINUED. The very soldiers fly: with dripping plumes Had prayed for " a long reign "--but not for showers * 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 rich St. Albans, clad In gems that drive, though ill put on, The little princes too are there, Those pure and pretty peers; By Kensington's green tree. My eye it rests on every spot, But that fair child, I see her not She is not here-the reason why At home she heaves the infant sigh, The humblest maid will murmur when To lose a sight like this! Thus, mid the rich magnificence, 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 How large a nation may a little net Confine what traps are in those trappings set! To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown? 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, But breathes round the banquet in Westminster Hall; Let, let but that lustre encircle me still! 'Tis the true light of love, we may say what we will. No banquet, dear Lansdowne? no banquet to-day! '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; |