--The clock strikes one--I can't delay,
For dinner comes but once a day,
At present, worthy friend, farewell;
But by to-morrow's post I'll tell,
How, during these half dozen moons,
I cheat the lazy afternoons.

EPISTLE II.

In this sweet place, where freedom reigns, Secured by bolts and snug in chains; Where innocence and guilt together Roost like two turtles of a feather; Where debtors safe at anchor lie, From saucy duns and bailiffs sly; Where highwaymen and robbers stout, Would, rather than break in, break out: Where all's so guarded and recluse,

That none his liberty can lose;

Here each may, as lus means afford,

Dine like a pauper or a lord,

And those who can't the cost defray,
May live to dine another day.

Now let us ramble o'er the green,
To see and hear what's heard and seen;
To breathe the air, enjoy the liht,
And hail yon sun, who shines as brigh♥
Upon the dungeon and the gallows,
As on York minster or Kew palace.
And here let us the scene review:
That's the old castle, this the new;
Yonder the felons walk, and there
The lady-prisoners take the air;
Behind are solitary cells,

Where hermits live like snails in shells;
There stands the chapel for good people;

That black balcony is the steeple;
How gaily spins the weather-cock!
How proudly shines the crazy clock!
A clock, whose wheels eccentric run,
More like my head than like the sun;
And yet it shows us, right or wrong,
The days are only twelve hours long;
Though captives often reckon here,
Each day a month, each month a year.

There honest William stands in state,

The porter, at the horrid gate; Yet no ill-natured soul is he, Entrance to all the world is free; One thing indeed is rather hard, Egress is frequently debarred; Of all the joys within that reign, There's none like-getting out again! Across the green, behold the court, Where jargon reigns and wigs resort; Where bloody tongues fight bloodless battles, For life and death, for straws and rattles; Where juries yawn their patience out, And judges dream in spite of gout. There, on the outside of the door, (As sang a wicked wag of yore) Stands Mother Justice, tall and thin, Who never yet hath ventured in. The cause, my friend, may soon be shown The lady was a stepping stone, Till--though the metamorphose odd is-A chissel made the block a goddess: "Odd!" did I say?--I'm wrong this time; But I was hampered for a rhyme: Justice at-1 could tell you where-Is just the same as justice there.

But, lo! my frisking dog attends,
The kindest of four-footed friends;
Brimfull of giddiness and mirth,
He is the prettiest fool on earth:

The rogue is twice a squirrel's size,
With short snub nose and big black eyes;

A cloud of brown adorns his tail,

That curls and serves him for a sail;
The same deep auburn dyes his ears,
That never were abridged by shears;
While white, around, as Lapland snows,
His hair, in soft profusion, flows;
Waves on his breast and plumes his feet,
With glossy fringe, like feathers fleet,
A thousand antic tricks he plays,
And looks, at once, a thousand ways;

His wit, if he has any, lies

Somewhere between his tail and eyes;
Sooner the light those eyes will fail,
Than Billy cease to wag that tail.

And yet the fellow ne'er is safe
From the tremendous beak of Ralph:
A raven grim, in black and blue,
As arch a knave as e'er you knew;
Who hops about with broken pinions,
And thinks these walls his own diminions!
This wag a mortal foe to Bill is,
They fight like Hector and Achilles;
Bold Billy runs with all his might,
And conquers, Parthian-like, in flight;
While Ralph his own importance feels,
And wages endless war with heels:
Horses and dogs, and geese and deer,
He slily pinches in the rear:

They start, surprised with sudden pain,
While honest Ralph sheers off again.

A melancholy stag appears, With rueful look and flagging ears; A feeble, lean, consumptive elf,

The very picture of myself!

My ghost-like form, and new-moon phiz,

Are just the counter parts of his:

Blasted like me by Fortune's frown;

Like me TWICE hunted, TWICE run down!

Like me pursued, almost to death,

He's come to jail to save his breath!

Still, on his painful limbs, are seen

The scars where worrying dogs have been; Still, in his wo-imprinted face,

I weep a broken heart to trace.

Daily the mournful wretch I feed,

With crumbs of comfort and of bread;

But man, false man! so well he knows,

He deems the spec.es all his foes:
In vain I smile to sooth his fear,
He will not, dare not, come too near;
He lingers-looks-and fain he would---
Then strains his neck to reach the food,

Oft as his plaintive looks I see,
A brother's bowels yearn in me.
What rocks and tempests yet await
Both him and me, we leave to fate:
We know, by past experience taught,
That innocence availeth naught:
I feel, and 'tis my proudest boast,
That conscience is itself an host;
While this inspires my swelling breast,
Let all forsake me-I'm at rest;
Ten thousand deaths, in every nerve,
I'd rather SUFFER than DESERVE.

But yonder comes the victim's wife,
A dappled doe, all fire and life;
She trips along with gallant pace,
Her limbs alert, her motion grace;
Soft as the moonlight fairies bound,
Her footsteps scarcely kiss the ground;
Gently she lifts her fair brown head,
And licks my hand, and begs for bread:
I pat her forehead, stroke her neck,
She starts and gives a timid squeak.

Then, while her eye with brilliance burns,
The fawning animal returns,

Pricks her bobtail, and waves her ears,

And happier than a queen appears:
-Poor beas! from feil ambition free;

And all the wOES of LIBERTY;
Born in a jail, a prisoner bred,

No dreams of hunting rack thine head;
Ah! mayst thou never pass these bounds,
To see the world-and feel the hounds!-

Still all her beauty, all her art,

Have failed to win her husband's heart;

Her lambent eyes, and lovely chest;

Her swan-white neck, and ermine breast;

Her taper legs, and spotty hide,

So softly, delicately pied,

In vain their fond aliurements spread,
To love and joy her spouse is dead.

But, lo! the evening shadows full
Broader and browner from the wall;

A warning voice, like curfew bell,
Commands each captive to his cell;
My faithful dog and I retire,

To play and chatter by the fire:

Soon comes a turnkey with "good night, sir!”
And bolts the door with all his might, sir:
Then leisurely to bed I creep,

And sometimes wake-and sometimes sleep.
These are the joys that reign in prison,
And if I'm happy 'tis with reason.
Yet still this prospect o'er the rest
Makes every blessing doubly blest;

That soon these pleasures will be vanished
And I, from all these comforts, banished?

FOR THE PORT FOLIO.-WALPOLE'S RICHARD THE THIRD.

THE superiority of poetry over history, in producing permanent and general impressions, is in no instance more strikingly illustrated than with regard to Richard the third.. His contemporaries, and the early historians of his reign, seem disposed to regard him as a prince of equivocal and mingled qualities, which was, probably, his true character; or to misrepresent him as the factious passions of the times dictated their applause or resentment. But when Shakspeare, in order to give a more dramatic effect to his immortal scenes, and not, perhaps, without some view of gratifying the enmity of Elizabeth towards the family of Richard, chose to portray only the darker shades of his character, all the kindly doubts and the apologies for his vices, which the spirit of his age afforded, disappeared at once; and Richard the third now recalls to popular imagination no image but of the "crooked back tyrant;" the monster, "bloody, bold, and resolute;" who waded to the throne through the blood of his nearest kinsmen. The harshness of this indiscriminate condemnation, has at last excited the zeal of a generous defender, Horace Walpole, whose "historic doubts" are intended as a vindication of Richard's character. As is usual and natural on such occasions, the love of sustaining a kind of paradox has, perhaps, ied the champion of Richard too far; but his defence is al