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THE CHAMELEON.

As the Chameleon, who is known
To have no colours of his own;

But borrows from his neighbour's hue,
His white or black, his green or blue;
And struts as much in ready light,
Which credit gives him upon sight,
As if the rainbow were in tail

Settled on him and his heirs-male;

So the young squire, when first he comes
From country school to Will's or Tom's,
And equally, in truth, is fit

To be a statesman, or a wit;
Without one notion of his own,
He saunters wildly up and down,
Till some acquaintance, good or bad,
Takes notice of a staring lad,
Admits him in among the gang;
They jest, reply, dispute, harangue;
He acts and talks, as they befriend him,
Smeared with the colours which they lend him.
Thus, merely as his fortune chances,
His merit or his vice advances.

If haply he the sect pursues,
That read and comment upon news;
He takes up their mysterious face;
He drinks his coffee without lace;
This week his mimic tongue runs o'er
What they have said the week before;
His wisdom sets all Europe right,
And teaches Marlborough when to fight.
Or if it be his fate to meet

With folks who have more wealth than wit,
He loves cheap port, and double bub,
And settles in the Humdrum Club;
He learns how stocks will fall or rise;
Holds poverty the greatest vice;
Thinks wit the bane of conversation;
And says that learning spoils a nation.
But if, at first, he minds his hits,
And drinks champagne among the wits;

Five deep he toasts the towering lasses;
Repeats you verses wrote on glasses;
Is in the chair; prescribes the law;
And's loved by those he never saw.

POETASTERS.

DEAR Thomas, did'st thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, did'st thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)

A squirrel spend his little rage,
In jumping round a rolling cage;
The cage, as either side turned up,
Striking a ring of bells at top ?-

Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But, here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.

So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades,
In noble song and lofty odes,

They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,

Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.

Jonathan Swift.

Born 1667.

Died 1745.

THIS extraordinary man, more famous as a political writer than a poet, was born in Dublin in 1667. He was at first a candidate for court patronage; but being somewhat unsuccessful, he took orders in the Irish Church, where he rose to be Dean of St Patrick's, Dublin. To give even a sketch of his stirring life would exceed the limits of a simple notice. He was the idol of the Irish people, whose cause he advocated; and was a very scourge to his political adversaries, his pen being equally irresistible and unscrupulous. His "Tale of a Tub," published in 1704, created an immense sensation, and will ever be connected with his name. As a poet he never rose beyond the commonplace, his mind having little of the ideal; but he depicts the absurdities of his times with graphic power. As the author of "Gulliver's Travels," he will ever be remembered with interest. For about three years before his death his mind began to give way. He died on 17th October 1745, and was buried in St Patrick's Cathedral, amid the universal lamentations of his countrymen.

A CITY SHOWER.

MEANWHILE the south, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings,

Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Not yet the dust had shunned the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat, where dust cemented by the rain
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain !
Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fly,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout's a-broach,
Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tucked-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oiled umbrella's sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs,
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Boxed in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits;
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed--
Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, run them through—
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprisoned hero quaked for fear.

A MODERN LADY.

THE modern dame is waked by noon
(Some authors say not quite so soon),
Because, though sore against her will,
She sate all night up at quadrille.

She stretches, gapes, unglues her eyes,
And asks if it be time to rise:

Of headache and the spleen complains;
And then, to cool her heated brains,
Her night-gown and her slippers brought her,
Takes a large dram of citron-water.
Then to her glass; and, "Betty, pray
Don't I look frightfully to-day?
But was it not confounded hard?
Well, if I ever touch a card!
Four mattadores, and lose codille!
Depend upon't, I never will.
But run to Tom, and bid him fix
The ladies here to-night by six."
"Madam, the goldsmith waits below;
He says, 'His business is to know
If you'll redeem the silver cup

He keeps in pawn?"""First, show him up."
"Your dressing-plate he'll be content
To take, for interest cent. per cent.
And, madam, there's my Lady Spade,
Hath sent this letter by her maid."
"Well, I remember what she won;
And hath she sent so soon to dun?
Here, carry down those ten pistoles
My husband left to pay for coals:
I thank my stars, they all are light;
And I may have revenge to-night."
Now, loitering o'er her tea and cream,
She enters on her usual theme;
Her last night's ill success repeats,
Calls Lady Spade a hundred cheats:
"She slipped spadillo in her breast,
Then thought to turn it to a jest:
There's Mrs Cut and she combine,
And to each other give the sign."
Through every game pursues her tale,
Like hunters o'er their evening ale.

LINES ON HIS OWN DEATH.

The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die;
When, I foresee, my special friends

Will try to find their private ends:
And, though 'tis hardly understood,
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak:
"See, how the dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman! he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him, till he's dead.
Besides, his memory decays:
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he dined;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er;
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

"For poetry, he's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme:
His fire is out, his wit decayed,
His fancy sunk, his muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen-
But there's no talking to some men."
And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years:
"He's older than he would be reckoned,
And well remembers Charles the Second.

He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach, too, begins to fail;

Last year we thought him strong and hale;
But now he's quite another thing;
I wish he may hold out till spring."
They hug themselves and reason thus:
It is not yet so bad with us.

In such a case they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.

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