PERILS OF THE FINE ARTS.

OOD gracious, Julia! wretched girl,

What horror do I see?

What frantic fiend has done the

deed

That rends your charms from

me?

Those matchless charms which like

the sun

Lit up Belinda Place—

What fiend, I ask, in human mask

Has dared to black your face?

Your cheeks that once out-bloom'd the rose

Are both of ebon hue;

Your chin is green—your lips are brown—

Your nose is prussian blue!

This mom the very driven snow

Was not so stainless pure,—

And now, alack! you're more a black,

Than any black-a-more.

Some wretch has painted you! Oh, Jove,

That I could clutch his throat!—

That I could give his ears a cuff,

Who gave your face a coat:

If there is justice in the land—

But no:—the law is bosh:

Altho' it's tme you're black and blue

That remedy "won't wash."

Revenge, I say!—yet hold, no rage—

I will be calm, sweet wife—

Calm—icy calm——————Speak, woman, speak,

That I may have his life!!

Who did the deed?—

"Oh! Charles,'twas you!

"Nay, dearest, do not shrink—

"This face and chin!—I've wash'd it in

"Your Photographic Ink!"