The angel of the moon, in her little bark of
crescent pearl, looks down smiling on the old
Dominion as it sleeps.

        GUESTS AT THE GREAT INN.

    BEAT the gong, and ring the bell!
      Gently open half the gate,—
    Comes a Lady, young, alone,
    Torn by stock, and bruised by stone,
       Hunted here by jealous hate.
    "Give me shelter, silence, rest,—
    If, by coarse pursuer pressed,
       You are questioned, nothing tell."
    Ah! poor heart, in anguish lost!—
    Welcome from protecting host,—
       Hath the host not grieved as well?

    Ring the bell, and beat the gong!
       Comes an Earl with gold to waste,
       "Old wine in thy cellar is,
    And the oldest I will kiss.
        As my mistress I would taste."
    Riot in my chamber best,
    Some one to his bosom pressed
        Who departs and wails no wrong;
    Ducats on my staircase shed—
    (I have followed there, the dead),
        'Tis a jolly even-song!

    Beat the gong, and ring the bell!
       Here is Poet, come to see
    What our city hath to show,—
    Minster windows, all a-glow
       With the rainbow's pageantry.
    Eldern saints the whom to carve.
    Sculptor of his faith, would starve
       Strong in worship of the spell.
    Cheer his heart with yellow wine.
    Boy! thy dream long since was mine,
       How it vanished, who can tell?

    Ring the bell, and beat the gong!
       Let him in—a Merchant next,
    Hard in voice and bold in face,
    Only by a damaged place
       In his market to be vexed.
    Hear him talk, as part of trade,
    Of the bargains he has made
       Here and there, his walk along:
    "Anne was sprightly, Mary, neared
   Timidly, my night-black beard!"—
       Cheap hath grown the price of wrong.

    Beat the gong, and ring the bell!
       What? for Priest with nought to spend—
    Creeping in, who maketh gloom
    Even in my lighted room,
       By his feigning to be friend
    Of dumb things, that understand
    And evade his satin hand—
       Of my child, who shrinks as well,—
    Of the Pedlar, who is here,—
    Dusty, for his flask of beer,—
       Let him out—and no farewell!

    Ring the bell, and beat the gong!
       Loud!—The Prince!—on humble knees
    Light him upward to his bed,
    Proud that on God's earth do tread
       Still such royal prodigies!
    What has mighty Prince to do,
    With a vassal small as you,
       Save to pay for feast and song?
       "Ah! your Highness, pardon, pray,
    If my wife deceased to-day;
       She was loving, fair, and young!"

    Some must keep an open door—
       Corpses heed no revel-din;
   Who inquires if in the cup
    Funeral wine be offered up?
       Death goes out, and Life comes in!
    Call for joyaunce, revel, toast,—
    Who respects convenient Host.
       When his nimbleness is o'er?
    Who hath dreamed, that to his part,
     He, too, brought a human heart?—
       Close the Inn for evermore!

     THE QUEEN OF THE BLUE
               STOCKINGS.

WHEN Mrs. Montague and Mrs. Thrale, and
sundry other ladies, well-to-do, good-looking, and
learned, gathered polite society in their drawing-
rooms, and talked for applause, the name of Blue
Stocking arose out of a chance observation on
the stockings of a visitor to one of Mrs.
Montague's assemblies. Mrs. Montague and Mrs.
Thrale, and all their race, came then to be known
by that name, and the title descends to the
children's children of the sisterhood by whom
Latin and Greek are quoted and display is made
of learning before company.

Tastes differ, we know, and the tastes of
generations differ as much as the tastes of single
men. In Doctor Johnson's day there was a
run on clever women; they were talked about,
rhymed, and reasoned about in the daily
newspaper, had all their private affairs cut into by the
scissors of the sub-editor, and were, in fact, the
public property. Then, instead of writing to
the Times about unequal rating, or railway
mismanagement, Paterfamilias took up his pen to
address the Morning Herald, and wrote:

        Herald! haste, with me proclaim
        Those of literary fame.
        Hannah More's pathetic pen,
        Painting high th' impassioned scene;
        Carter's piety and learning,
        Little Burney's quick discerning;
        Cowley's neatly pointed wit,
        Healing those her satires hit;
        Smiling Streatfield's w'ry neck,
        Nose, and notions—à la Grecque!
        Let Chapone retain a place,
        And the mother of her Grace,
        Each art of conversation knowing,
        High-bred, elegant Boscawen;
        Thrale, in whose expressive eyes
        Sits a soul above disguise,
        Skill'd with wit, and sense t' impart
        Feelings of a generous heart.
        Lucan, Leveson, Greville, Crewe,
        Fertile-minded Montague.

Now nobody sends to the press these delicate
invitations. We should as soon expect to see a
lady in Rotten-row riding a Megalosaurus, as a
lot of ladies trotted down a column of newspaper
by such a Pegasus:

        Daily News awake and sing
        On the nose of Laura Pring;
        Nose and notions brightly shine,
        She herself's a flame of mine.