A lake and a fairy boat To sail in the moonlight clear, And merrily we would float From the dragons that watch us here! Thy gown should be snow-white silk, And strings of orient pearls, Like gossamers dipp'd in milk, Should twine with thy raven curls. Red rubies should deck thy hands, And diamonds should be thy dower— But fairies have broke their wands, And wishing has lost its power!

The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies and other Poems.

THE ARRIVAL OF A TRANSPORT

Numbers of boats soon surround the ship, filled with people anxious to hear news, and traffickers with fruit and other refreshments, besides watermen to land passengers; a regular establishment of the latter description has long existed here, many of whose members formerly plied that vocation on the Thames, and among whom were a few years back numbered that famous personage once known by all from Westminster stairs to Greenwich, by the shouts which assailed him as he rowed along, of "Overboard he vent, overboard he vent!" King Boongarre, too, with a boat-load of his dingy retainers, may possibly honour you with a visit, bedizened in his varnished cocked-hat of "formal cut," his gold-laced blue coat (flanked on the shoulders by a pair of massy epaulettes) buttoned closely up, to evade the extravagance of including a shirt in the catalogue of his wardrobe; and his bare and broad platter feet, of dull cinder hue, spreading out like a pair of sprawling toads, upon the deck before you. First, he makes one solemn measured stride from the gangway; then turning round to the quarter-deck, lifts up his beaver with the right hand a full foot from his head, (with all the grace and ease of a court exquisite,) and carrying it slowly and solemnly forwards to a a full arm's-length, lowers it in a gentle and most dignified manner down to the very deck, following up this motion by an inflection of the body almost equally profound. Advancing slowly in this way, his hat gracefully poised in his hand, and his phiz wreathed with many a fantastic smile, he bids massa welcome to his country. On finding he has fairly grinned himself into your good graces, he formally prepares to take leave, endeavouring at the same time to take likewise what you are probably less willing to part withal—namely, a portion of your cash. Let it not be supposed, however, that his majesty condescends to thieve; he only solicits the loan of a dump, on pretence of treating his sick gin [wife] to a cup of tea, but in reality with a view of treating himself to a porringer of "Cooper's best," to which his majesty is most royally devoted. You land at the government wharf on the right, where carts and porters are generally on the look-out for jobs; and on passing about fifty yards along the avenue, you enter George-street, which stretches on both hands, and up which, towards the left, you now turn, to reach the heart of the town.

Although all you see are English faces, and you hear no other language but English spoken, yet you soon become aware that you are in a country very different from England, by the number of parrots and other birds of strange notes and plumage which you observe hanging at so many doors, and cagesful of which you will soon see exposed for sale as you proceed. The government gangs of convicts, also, marching backwards and forwards from their work in single military file, and the solitary ones straggling here and there, with their white woollen Paramatta frocks and trousers, or gray or yellow jackets with duck overalls, (the different styles of dress denoting the oldness or newness of their arrival,) all bedaubed over with broad arrows, P.B.'s, C.B.'s, and various numerals in black, white, and red, with perhaps the jail-gang straddling sulkily by in their jingling leg-chains,—tell a tale too plain to be misunderstood. At the corners of streets, and before many of the doors, fruit-stalls are to be seen, teeming, in their proper seasons, with oranges, lemons, limes, figs, grapes, peaches, nectarines, apricots, plums, apples, pears, &c. at very moderate prices.—Two Years in New South Wales.

MELANCHOLY

FROM MATTHISON

The nightingale's sad note in gloom is ringing, As wails the bride above her lover's grave; Like Grief above the tomb her tresses wringing, So gleams the star of evening o'er the wave. A melancholy haze hangs o'er the ocean; The rocky cliffs reflect a sallow light— Such as through cloister'd halls of dim devotion, The moon-beams pour upon the cloudy night. Ye rocky heights—ye violet-meads appearing Once fairer to my gaze than poet's dream— Now all your golden light to gloom is veering, And every floweret laves in Lethe's stream. Hills, valleys, meads, no changes ye are mourning; 'Tis to the hopeless every star appears Like lamps in dark sepulchral vistas burning— And every dew-tipp'd flower is gemm'd with tears!

Stray Leaves; or, Translations from the German Poets.

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 270, August 25, 1827

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THE SELECTOR; AND LITERARY NOTICES OF NEW WORKS

A SONG FOR MUSIC

BY T. HOOD, ESQ

THE ARRIVAL OF A TRANSPORT

MELANCHOLY

FROM MATTHISON

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