sonnet.

the sky is glowing in one ruddy sheet;—

a cry of fire! resounds from door to door;

and westward still the thronging people pour;—

the turncock hastens to f. p. 6 feet,

[pg 229]

and quick unlocks the fountains of the street;

while rumbling engines, with increasing roar,

thunder along to luckless number four,

where mr. dough makes bread for folks to eat.

and now through blazing frames, and fiery beams,

the globe, the sun, the phœnix, and what not,

with gushing pipes throw up abundant streams,

on burning bricks, and twists, on rolls—too hot—

and scorching loaves,—as if there were no shorter

and cheaper way of making toast-and-water!

rondeau.

[extracted from a well-known annual.]

o curious reader, didst thou ne’er

behold a worshipful lord may’r

seated in his great civic chair

 so dear?

then cast thy longing eyes this way,

it is the ninth november day,

and in his new-born state survey

one here!

to rise from little into great

is pleasant; but to sink in state

from high to lowly is a fate

severe.

too soon his shine is overcast,

chill’d by the next november blast;

his blushing honours only last

one year!

[pg 230]

he casts his fur and sheds his chains,

and moults till not a plume remains—

the next impending may’r distrains

his gear.

he slips like water through a sieve—

ah, could his little splendour live

another twelvemonth—he would give

one ear!