Thus may you question with that friendly tone,
Speaking my credit dear as is your own; —
And not less tuned to friendship's harmony
Might you, if near me, catch my tongue's reply :-
But now, since distant means can be no better,
My words must take their shape, and be a letter,
Which, while it chiefly tells by what obstruction
My muse foregoes her more severe production,
Will show how love of print, which nothing stifles,
Like mine, takes refuge in a heap of trifles.

Aonian billets (as I've said before,

About two dozen lines behind, or more)—
Aonian billets-doux I seldom write,

Save in the witching, silent hours of night;
For while the glorious sun rides in the sky,
I've other larger-fish, you know, to fry;

But when those hours that wearied hearts love best
“Throw their dark mantle o'er”—(you know the rest)—
I "take my rouse," and may at times be caught
Indulging in that art which one is taught

Next to one's A B C-out-pouring from

Some sober and sedate, and some more gay,
According to my mood:-(the latter may

Haply at times drive bitterer thoughts away.)
Yet many a tempting hour, when one would rather
The simplest flow'ret of Parnassus gather,
Than swill the quintessence of such delights.
As tyrant Fashion makes her own o' nights,
The sundry calls of what we misname Pleasure
Will still be interrupting sweeter leisure.—
Sometimes, nay often, for a long long week
Together, one's forbade so much as speak
A single word to any friendly muse :
-Invited here to-day-to-morrow there,
Where it perhaps might look particular,
Or, what is worse, be crabbed, to refuse ;
Nights roll away-away-and leave no sign
That they have been.-'Tis often so with mine :—
-I speak not now of that Society,

To none more pleasant than it is to me,

Where hearty fellowship and happy ease

With frank and friendly talk conspire to please,

In which the mind, quitting its lonely mood,
Rubs off the rust that grows on solitude.
No; never let me dub, in prose or rhyme,
Life's friendly intercourse a waste of time:
Though even this, when added to the mass
Of heartless visitings, becomes, alas!
(Friendship's Penates, pardon me !)—a bore:
For, when a tasteless cup's brimful before,

One added drop, though sweet, will make that cup run o'er.

Still with the stream one goes, leaving the ample
Sources of self-enjoyment just to be

Parts of the world we live in. For example:
Suppose I give a night-or two or three-
As from a journal kept some weeks ago
For wholesome after-reference, and to show
To you, my friend, who kindly wish to know,
How my desires to court a nobler muse

Were thwarted nightly. I leave you to choose
Which of the sundry sorts of obstacles

Only that "such things were" (and are!) the reins
By which life's varied intercourse restrains

A hand, which else, in silent hours, like mine,
Might lay some offerings to the tuneful Nine,
Upon a loftier altar in their shrine.

-Now" gather and surmise," while I rehearse
Some scenes (I've turn'd my Journal into verse)
Which you may relish not the less for giving
Some of my goings-on and ways of living.

Last night, the sixth-at which a present chance
Of leisure serves me for a Parthian glance-
Last night was at a lady's where I spend,
At tea and small-talk well-nigh without end,
My early evenings sometimes with a friend.
-She's one who'll manage cleverly to bring

A bit of something about every thing:

A chronicle she is of Magazines,

And, for ought I know, known behind their scenes; For by some sign, to her infallible,

Month after month, and year by year, she'll tell

Who writes in this-who edites that Review

Calls Mr. Campbell Tom-and thinks 'twas too-
Too bad the spiteful Quarterly should choose
To heap my Lady Morgan with abuse :—
She thinks she's fully up to all their tricks,
Who cry down worth because of politics.
-In early life she wrote a so-so book,
And scorns to marvel that it never took-

Giving this reason why it did not sell,
""Twas caviare, Sir, to the general."

-She travelled once, and held it right to keep
An Album, into which she 'll often peep;
And when her memory has done its part,
To get a sentiment or so by heart,

Of Naples, Milan, Florence, or the Pope,
She 'll venture to express her ardent hope
-I don't remember what-but something witty :--
Then peeps again; and vows 'tis monstrous pretty
That Byron names Venice-that watery city-
Rome of the ocean!-yet, she's vastly sorry
His lordship was so naughty as to worry