18^.] Vulgarisms on Gin-Punch. 511 



Unhappy man — enough ; my glass is drained, and now, good gracious ! 

 How high my wit exalts itself, how racy, how capacious ! 

 I'm Jove himself, I'm Mars to boot, I'm great Apollo ipse, 

 I'm Bacchus^too (and strongly like, because you see I'm tipsy). 



" Give me another horse," I cry, as Richard cried before me— 

 Another bowl I should have said, or sure my wits will floor me; 

 Heav'n opens now, I hear the Muses singing, as their trade is, 

 " Drink to me only with thine eyes" — with gin, I'd rather, ladies. 



Another bowl — andlo ! my brain teems high with inspiration, 

 I feel myself (and justly too) the Shakspeare of the nation ; 

 My strength of mind is wonderful ! I'm Milton, Pope, and Dante, 

 And eke Cervantes — in my purse for ail the world as scanty. 



'Twas I that writ Don Juan, Old Mortality, and Lara ; 



The minor trophies of my pen are Tales of the O'Hara- 



Family and Frankenstein ; for when I once begin, sir, 



I ne'er know when to stop, and all this comes of drinking gin, sir. 



My name is L. E. L. — I lately wrote the Ghost of Grimm, ma'am. 

 And whoso dares deny the fact, I'll make a ghost of him, ma'am ; 

 Nay, e'en as far as ten years back, by wit and want infected, 

 I paid my" Addresses ' to the world, but oh ! they were " llejected." 



'Twas I who proved, an age ago, by genius rare and mighty, 

 Gin, philosophic gin, to be the grand Elixir Vit^e; 

 'Twas I who found out vaccination (sure you need not grin, sir). 

 And first invented steam-boats, all which comes of drinking gin, sir. 



If I were King of England, I'd drain each lake as is, sir, 

 And dry up bog and fen where'er it dared to show its phiz, sir ; 

 I'd qualify their streams with gin, and in another year, ma'am. 

 Believe me, not one thimbleful of water should appear, ma'am. 



But hark ! methinks my kettle cries in monitory chorus. 

 While we sit singing here, old boy, the punch grows cold before us; 

 'Tis well ! I take your hint, and toast aloud with brisk hurray, sir, 

 God bless the King and this here Gin I — so ends my roundelay, sir. 



MILMAN's ANNE BOLEYN. 



Mr. Milman has already exerted himself in the composition of a series 

 of poems in the dramatic form, on subjects of a mixed kind, half religious and 

 half historical. They have exhibited occasional power, but their popu- 

 larity has not been extensive ; considerably praised, and deserving of praise, 

 they have not been embodied into the permanent poetry of Ensland. 



This may result equally from the peculiar rank of the poet's ability, and from 

 the choice of the subject. 



We are not now about to discuss Mr. Milman's poetic faculties. They have 

 been already sufficiently defined by criticism. The nature of his favourite sub- 

 jects is more to our purpose. The author of a poem founded on history lays 

 himself under the same difficulties as the author of a historic romance. His fact 

 embarrasses his fiction, and his fiction embarrasses his fact. If he adhere to 

 the authorities, he tells us nothing but what we knew before ; if he wander 

 from them, he offends our knowle<lge. The difficulty deepens where the sub- 

 ject is religious. The solemnity of religious things still more forbids the tam- 

 perlngs of the imagination. How infinitely meagre, unpoetical, and repulsive 

 is nearly all the religious poetry of England ! Force, beauty, truth, all are lost 

 the moment we attempt to clothe those lofty and impressive conceptions in 

 verse. The true language of piety is prose. 



