“Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,

Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail.”— ROGERS.

Come, my Crony, let’s think upon far-away days,

And lift up a little Oblivion’s veil;

Let’s consider the past with a lingering gaze,

Like a peacock whose eyes are inclined to his tail.

Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind,

Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear,

That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,

And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.

Looking over Time’s crupper and over his tail,

Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise!

And as farther our back-searching glances prevail,

Like the emmets, “how little we are in our eyes!”

What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long,

On a dimity lap of true nursery make!

I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song

That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.

Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes,

When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin —

Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes,

Oh! how little they dreamt they were driving them in!

Infant sorrows are strong — infant pleasures as weak —

But no grief was allow’d to indulge in its note;

Did you ever attempt a small “bubble and squeak,”

Through the Dalby’s Carminative down in your throat?

Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce?

Did you ever come down to the floor with the same?

Oh! I can’t but agree with bath ends, and pronounce

“Heads or tails,&rdqu............