Chapter II: Part 2

No longer Beauty's many-colour'd robe
Adorns the autumnal scene; no longer play
The Zephyrs with her tresses; she has fled
To happier regions, and has left the year
Naked and void of charms; the leafless woods
Tremble no more with rapture at the voice
Of harmony: ah! how is Nature changed!
Silent, and sad, she anxiously awaits
Thy coming, mighty King! and, as the sun
Less bright, less ardent, more and more declines
Towards the horizon, with alarm she marks
Thy shadow lengthening in the nightly shade
And towering o'er her, prostrate as she lies,
More threatening, more gigantic; till, at length,
Boreas, thy harbinger, forth-rushing fierce,
Tears from chill'd Autumn's head the withering Crown,
And blustering loud in her affrighted ear,
O Winter! tells thy terrible approach.

Behold! in awful majesty thou comest!
On huge, black clouds, that through the encumber'd sky,
Before the northern blast, sail slowly on,
Thou ridest sublime; aloft in ether towers
Thy giant form; thy formidable frown
Blackens the night; thy threatening voice, sent forth
Upon the impetuous winds, affrights the world.
Yet dare I welcome thee, terrific Power!
Dread Winter, hail! thy terrors fill my soul
With a delightful awe; I love to trace
Thy varying scenes, the wonders of thy reign.
Thy Ministers await thy sovereign will,
And, in the secret regions of the air,
In cloudy magazines prepare thy stores
Of snow, and rain, and hail. At thy command
Frost, that invisible, mysterious Power,
Breathes upon Nature, and thou see'st her soon
An unresisting captive, bound in ice;
Vainly she mourns, till, at thy bidding, Thaw
With his damp, misty standard, from the south
Comes creeping silently, and sets her free;
She weeps for joy. Ah! now thou dost unchain
The Demon of the tempest, to exert
On tortured Nature thy tyrannic might;
Fierce on the whirlwind's wing he rushes forth
With dreadful bellowings, hurling all around
Destructive deluges of rain, snow, hail,
In wildest discord, and chaotic war
Mingling earth, sea, and sky. All-potent Lord!
Dread Winter! though Sublimity appears
Thy chief attendant, and partakes thy throne;
Yet Beauty often visits thee, and dares,
In many a scene, with the more powerful charms
Of her majestic sister to combine
Her pleasing graces: I delight to view
Thy snowy robe of purest, glowing white,
The clear, blue skies, the cheerful evergreen
Amid the wintry desert, from whose boughs
The little redbreast chirps; the trees and herbs
With snow and hoarfrost fringed, to fancy's eye
Presenting pictured shapes, and, when the sun
Sheds o'er them his effulgence, sparkling keen
With million living particles of light.

But with far nobler transport I survey
Thy nightly scene, O Winter! when by frost
Refined and clear'd, the pure transpicuous air
Through her thin, azure veil, to wondering man
Displays the unclouded heavens, myriads of stars
Shining in all their glory: at the view
Rapt Contemplation, in her car of light,
Expatiates in the interminable space,
Ranging from world to world, from sun to sun,
O'erwhelm'd with wonder and astonishment,
And sacred awe, till lifting up her eyes,
She sees Religion, from the opening gate
Of heaven itself, on her seraphic wings
Smiling descend; she feels her power divine,
And raptured hymns the great Creator's praise.

THE DESPERATION AND MADNESS OF GUILT.

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!
Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;
No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse
Through all the blackness of eternity!
Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand
Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.
I seek not mercy, no!--long sought in vain
While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,
Wasting its life in agonizing groans,
And floods of scalding tears,--but now no more;
Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!
Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;
'Twould taint creation were it not confined.
Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,
A mountain of impenetrable ice,
In whose unfathom'd centre lies my soul,
Imprison'd, numb'd, buried in conscious death.
O could I cease to think! cease quite to be!
O could I live in torments! writhe in hell!
Raptures to this! Rouse, rouse to life, my soul,
In madness of despair, O burst thy tomb;
Call God and devils to behold thy guilt,
And blast thee. (_It lightens._)
See, what sudden blaze! they come!
Welcome, O welcome! follow me, look there!
There lies my murder'd babe:--now strike!--avenge!
(_It thunders._)
Overwhelming stroke!
(_She falls upon the ground insensible:--
at length, coming to herself_)--
Ah! am I conscious still?
Not blasted then?--does this one little spark
Amidst a universe of solid gloom
Still live? I'll try to quench it with my blood.
Come, dagger, pierce, pierce deep; I feel thy point;
My blood flows fast, it animates my heart.
The gathering cloud of death grows thick and dark,
It hangs oppressive on my swimming sight:
See, see, the Spirit of my murder'd child
Comes with a troop of demons to conduct
My soul to hell;--they seize me for their prey,
They drag me down: Oh! horror! horror! oh!
(_She dies._)

ON HEARING THE NIGHTINGALE.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! thanks for thy song!
O! 'twas delightful; how have I been lost
As in a blissful dream! how has my soul
Been wafted in a sea of melody!
Scarce yet am I awake, yet scarce myself:
Still with the enchanting music's dying breath
The air is kept in motion, and conveys
Sweet whispers to the finely-listening ear;
Or is it but an echo from the cell
Of memory that deludes my doating sense?
Ah! now 'tis gone; Silence resumes her sway,
And o'er my hearing spreads her subtile web;
But she resumes it, changed, methinks, in nature,
More soft, more amiable, as if inform'd
With the departed soul of harmony.

Thanks for thy song, sweet Bird! it well deserves
All my heart's gratitude; for it has still'd
Its anxious throbbings, and removed the load
Of sadness that oppress'd the springs of life:
More lightly now it beats, and welcomes back
The glowing tide of health, and conscious feels
The blessing of existence. It imparts
To all my frame reanimating force;
My nerves partake of its elastic spring;
No longer falsely sentient, they receive
The just impression from external things,
Vibrate harmoniously to Nature's touch,
And in her general concert bear a part.

Thanks, sweetest Bird! enchanting Nightingale!
How by the magic influence of thy song,
How am I changed from what, of late, I was!
And every object, too, how seems it changed!
This wood, when first I enter'd it, appear'd
To Fancy's eye the haunt of Melancholy,
Her dreariest haunt, where, in her saddest mood,
The Goddess loved to dwell;--'twas lonesome gloom,
And awful stillness all: I felt her power;
The imaginative Spirit she o'erwhelm'd
With a mysterious load of shapeless feeling:
Her leaden hand oppress'd my labouring heart;
Upon the ground I sank,--scarce sensible,
And buried, as it were, in conscious death.

With what soft influence, what resistless power,
Did thy mellifluous strain, kind Philomel!
Insinuate itself into my ear,
Melting its dull unwillingness to listen,
And opening soon a passage to my heart!
But thou beginn'st again, be hush'd my soul!
O wondrous power of heavenly harmony!
See, Philomel! the Goddess of the night,
Charm'd with thy strains her cloudy veil withdraws,
And pays thee with a smile of gratitude;
A smile that to her beauty adds new charms,
Enchanting heaven and earth, while Melancholy,
Sighing away her sadness, lifts her head,
And, gazing on her tutelary Power
With eyes reflecting soft her dewy light,
Feels her divinest inspiration steal
Into her melting soul, absorb'd in heaven.
My sympathizing heart with bliss o'erflows.
Thanks sweetest Nightingale! thanks for thy song!
Long on this night shall grateful memory doat;
And oft to this loved wood will I return.

TO PAGANINI.

Long to the world have all the mouths of Fame,
O Paganini! thunder'd forth thy name;
Nations have vied their plausive voice to raise,
And swell the general chorus of thy praise.
Though not so loud, more dear the applause to thee
Of all the favour'd sons of harmony,
Who, with one full consent, admiring own }
Thee as their master--monarch--thee alone; }
And humbly bow before thee on thy throne. }

O'er all musicians thou stand'st far apart;
Thou hast created for thyself an art.
As, in the natural world, around the sun
The planets their career of brightness run,
Each moving in an orbit of its own,
And all obeying laws to science known.
Musicians thus, each blest with his degree
Of talent by the God of harmony,
Shine forth distinguish'd in their several ways,
While every one the rules of art obeys.
We calculate the merits of their name,
And pay them their proportion'd share of fame.
Not thus in Honour's region thou career'st;
Thou comet-like to fancy's ken appear'st,
Like comet, blazing in its bold career,
That leaves behind the planetary sphere,
And rushes towards the centre of the sun
Till with Apollo's self it seems but one.

A Genius, an Original, art thou,
Such as the astounded world ne'er heard till now.
When thou dost take thy magic bow in hand
What mortal ear the enchantment can withstand?
Transported, we admire thy peerless skill;
Thou movest our feelings, passions, at thy will;
With fear we tremble, we with anger glow,
Soft from our eyes the tears of pity flow;
Or when thou play'st a gay, fantastic strain,
From mirth and laughter who can then refrain?
Such is thy music's power to rule the heart,
Thou may'st be call'd the Shakspeare of thine art.

TO FANCY.

O! what a nameless feeling of delight
Stole o'er my wondering spirit, like a gleam
From opening heaven!--dost thou, then, Fancy, deign
Once more to visit me? thou dost! thou dost!
That breath of extacy, that heavenly light,
Flow'd from the wafture of thy angel wings,
And from thy smiling eyes: divinest Power!
Welcome, thrice welcome! O vouchsafe to make
My breast thy temple, and my heart thy shrine!
Still will I worship thee, and thou shalt keep,
In peace, thy new abode, nor fear the approach
Of aught profane or hostile, to disturb
Thy holy mysteries; for I will chase
Far from the hallow'd precincts where thou dwell'st
Each worldly passion, every grovelling thought,
And all the train of Vice; striving to make
The shrine well-worthy its celestial guest.
Still will I worship thee, and oft invoke
Thine inspirations, and with transport yield
To thy sweet, magic influence all my soul:
The slightest breath of thine inspiring voice
Shall wake my nerves, most feelingly alive,
And bid them tremble with poetic bliss.

The frown of Reason thou no more shalt fear;
Did I say Reason's frown?--no!--'twas the frown
Of false Philosophy, her foolish pride.
Reason and Thou are sisters, born to rule
Unitedly, in happiest harmony,
The mind of man; and in the heaven-sent hour
Of inspiration, from the self-same source
Ye pour the stream of mingled light and flame
That animates, illumes, and warms the soul.
How could I e'er desert thee, loveliest Nymph!
To court thy rival, false Philosophy?
How could I quit thy verdant, flowery walks,
To tread with painful toil the briary maze
Of metaphysic lore? Indulgent Power!
The offence forgive. Lured by the specious name,
Philosophy, and by her meteor rays
Misled, with fond presumptuousness I strove
To penetrate the dark, unfathom'd depth
Where Truth in awful mystery resides.
Not deigning in thy mirror to behold
Her image, though in loveliest beauty clad,
With lawless curiosity I sought
To view the Goddess in her naked form.
But heaven to man, nor angel gives to scan
Truth's very self; she lives for ever hid,
Shrined in the bosom of Divinity.
Long wandering mid the chaos, I at length
Approach'd the border of the cold, dark waste,
The bottomless abyss, the dreadful void
Of scepticism; affrighted, back I shrunk.

O Fancy! ne'er will I forsake thee more,
Nor view thee with severe, truth-searching eye,
Melting thy fairy visions into air.
Thy paradise, delighted, let me rove,
There study nature, and with grateful heart,
In thy serene, translucent stream behold
The light of truth reflected, and the smile
Of heaven's benevolence, and in that glass
The loveliness of every Virtue woo
And every Grace. There let me, too, behold
In all her beauty, bright-eyed Poesy,
That heavenly Maid who charm'd my youthful heart;
And let the love of glory fire my breast;
And let me see, to stimulate my powers,
The new-born crescent of my fame ascend,
While on its pointed horn the Fairy, Hope,
On tiptoe stands, fluttering her airy wings
To fan its beams and joyful hails the hour
When in its full-orb'd glory it shall shine.

A SUMMER-EVENING.

Come, my dear Love, and let us climb yon hill,
The prospect, from its height, will well reward
The toil of climbing; thence we shall command
The various beauties of the landscape round.--
Now we have reached the top. O! what a scene
Opens upon the sight, and swallows up
The admiring soul! She feels as if from earth
Uplifted into heaven. Scarce can she yet
Collect herself, and exercise her powers.
While o'er heaven's lofty, wide-extended arch,
And round the vast horizon, the bold eye
Shoots forth her view, with what sublime delight
The bosom swells! See, where the God of day,
Who through the cloudless ether long has rid
On his bright, fiery car, amidst a blaze
Of dazzling glory, and in wrath shot round
His burning arrows, with tyrannic power
Oppressing Nature, now, his daily course
Well-nigh completed, toward the western goal
Declines, and with less awful majesty
Concludes his reign; his flamy chariot hid
In floods of golden light that dazzles still,
Though less intense. O! how these scenes exalt
The throbbing heart! Louisa, canst thou bear
These strong emotions? do they not o'erpower
Thy tender nerves? I fear, my Love, they do;
Those eyes that, late, with transport beam'd so bright,
Now veil their rays with the soft, dewy shade
Of tenderness. Let us repose awhile;
The roots of yonder tree, cover'd with moss,
Present a pleasing seat; there let us sit.
Hark! Zephyr wakes, and sweetly-whispering, tells
The approach of Eve; already Nature feels
Her soothing influence, her refreshing breath;
The fields, the trees, imbibe the cool, moist air,
Their feverish thirst allay, and smile revived.
The Soul, too, feels her influence, sweetly soothed
Into a tender calm. O! let us now,
My loved Louisa! let us now enjoy
The landscape's charms, and all the nameless sweets
Of this, our favourite hour, for ever dear
To Fancy and to Love. Cast round thy sight
Upon the altered scene, nor longer fear
The dazzling sun; his latest, lingering beams
Where are they? can'st thou find them?--see! they gild
The glittering top of yonder village-spire;
Upon that distant hill they faintly shine;
And look! the topmost boughs of this tall oak
Majestic, which o'ercanopies our heads,
Yet catch their tremulous glimmerings:--now they fade,
Fade and expire; and, as they fade, the Moon,
The full-orb'd Moon, that seem'd, erewhile, to melt
In the bright azure, from the darkening sky
Emerging slow, and silent, sheds around
Her snowy light, that with the day's last, dim
Reflection, from the broad, translucid lake,
Insensibly commingles, and unites
In sweetest harmony, o'er all the scene
Diffusing magic tints, enchanting power.
How lovely every object now appears!
Each in itself, and how they all combine
In one delightful whole! What eye, what heart,
O Nature! can resist thy potent charms
When thus in soft, transparent shade half-veil'd?
Now Beauty and Sublimity, methinks,
Upon the lap of Eve, embracing sleep.
Mark the tree-tops, my Love, of yonder wood,
Whose moonlight foliage fluctuates in the breeze,
Say, do they not, in figure, motion, hue,
Resemble the sea-waves at misty dawn?
What shadowy shape along the troubled lake
Comes this way moving? how mysteriously
It glides along! how indistinct its form!
Imagination views with sweet surprise
The unknown appearance--breathless in suspense.
The Spirit of the waters can it be,
On his aerial car? some fairy Power?
Pants not thy heart, Louisa, half-alarm'd?
It grows upon the sight,--strange, watery sounds
Attend its course;--hark! was not that a voice?
O! 'tis a fishing-boat!--its sails and oars
I now discern. The church-clock strikes! how loud
Burst forth its sound into the startled air,
That feels it still, and trembles far around!
My dearest Love! it summons us away;
The dew begins to fall; let us depart:
How sweetly have we spent this evening-hour!

PROLOGUE.

The piece, to-night, is of peculiar kind,
For which the appropriate name is hard to find;
No Comedy, 'tis clear; nor can it be,
With strictest truth, pronounced a Tragedy;
Since, though predominant the tragic tone,
It reigns not uniformly and alone;
Then, that its character be best proclaim'd,
A Tragic-drama let the piece be named.

But do not, Critics! rashly hence conclude,
'Tis a mere Farce, incongruous and rude,
Where incidents in strange confusion blend,
Without connexion, interest, or end:
Not so;--far different was the bard's design;
For though, at times, he ventures to combine
With grave Melpomene's impassion'd strain
The gay Thalia's more enlivening vein;
(As all mankind with one consent agree
How strong the charms of sweet variety,)
Yet Reason's path he still with care observes,
And ne'er from Taste with wilful blindness swerves,
His plot conducting by the rules of art:
And, above all, he strives to touch the heart;
Knowing that, void of pathos and of fire,
Art, Reason, Taste, are vain, and quickly tire.

Be mindful then, ye Critics! of the intent;
The poet means not here to represent
The tragic Muse in all her terrors drest,
With might tempestuous to convulse the breast;
Nor in her statelier, unrelaxing mien,
To stalk, in buskin'd pomp, through every scene;
But with an air more mild and versatile, }
Where fear and grief, sometimes, admit a smile, }
Now loftier, humbler now, the changing style, }
Resembling in effect an April-night
When from the clouds, by fits, the moon throws forth her light;
And louder winds, by turns, their rage appease,
Succeeded by the simply-whispering breeze.

But, in few words our author ends his plea,
Already tending to prolixity,
To paint from Nature was his leading aim;
Let then, the play your candid hearing claim:
Judge it, impartial, by dramatic laws;
If good, reward it with deserved applause;
If bad, condemn; yet be it still exempt
From your severer blame, for 'tis a first attempt.

PROLOGUE.

Lo! Time, at last, has brought, with tardy flight,
The long-anticipated, wish'd-for night;
How on this blissful night, while yet remote,
Did Hope and Fancy with fond rapture doat!
Like eagles, oft, in glory's dazzling sky,
With full-stretch'd pinions have they soar'd on high,
To greet the appearance of the poet's name,
Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame.

Alas! they soar not now;--the demon, Fear,
Has hurl'd the cherubs from their heavenly sphere:
Fancy, o'erwhelm'd with terror, grovelling lies;--
The world of torment opens on her eyes,
Darkness and hissing all she sees and hears;--
(_The speaker pauses--the audience are
supposed to clap, when he continues,_)
But Hope, returning to dispel her fears,
Claps her bright wings; the magic sound and light
At once have forced their dreaded foe to flight,
Silenced the hissing, chased the darkness round,
And charm'd up marvelling Fancy from the ground.

Say, shall the cherubs dare once more to fly?
Not, as of late, in glory's dazzling sky,
To greet the appearance of the poet's name,
Dawning conspicuous mid the stars of fame;
Presumptuous flight! but let them dare to rise,
Cheer'd by the light of your propitious eyes,
Within this roof, glory's contracted sphere,
On fluttering pinions, unsubdued by Fear;
O! let them dare, ere yet the curtain draws,
Fondly anticipate your kind applause.

EPILOGUE.

Perplexing case!--your pardon, Friends, I pray,--
My head so turns, I know not what to say;--
However, since I've dared to come before ye,
I'll stop the whirligig,--
(_Clapping his hand to his forehead_,)
and tell my story:
Though 'tis so strange, that I've a pre-conviction
It may by some, perhaps, be judged a fiction.

Learn, gentle Audience, then, with just surprise,
That, when, to-night, you saw the curtain rise,
Our poet's epilogue was still unwrit:
The devil take him for neglecting it!
Nay though,--'twas not neglected; 'twas deferr'd
From certain motives--which were most absurd;
For, trusting blindly to his rhyming vein,
And still-prepared inventiveness of brain,
He'd form'd the whimsical, foolhardy plan,
To set about it when the play began;
Thus purposing the drama's fate to know,
Then write his epilogue quite à propos.

The time at last arrives--the signal rings,
Sir Bard, alarm'd, to pen and paper springs,
And, snug in listening-corner, near the scene,
With open'd ears, eyes, mouth-suspended mien,--
Watches opinion's breezes as they blow,
To kindle fancy's fire, and bid his verses flow.

Now I, kind Auditors! by fortune's spite
Was doom'd, alack! to speak what he should write,
And therefore, as you'll naturally suppose,
Could not forbear, at times, to cock my nose
Over his shoulder, curiously to trace
His progress;--zounds! how snail-like was his pace!
Feeling, at length, my sore-tried patience sicken,
Good Sir, I cried, your tardy motions quicken:
'Tis the fourth act, high time, Sir, to have done!
As if his ear had been the touch-hole of a gun,
My tongue a match, the Bard, on fire, exploded;
He was--excuse the pun--with grape high-loaded.
Hence, prating fool! return'd he, in a roar,
Push'd me out, neck and heels, and bang'd the door.

But lest, here too, like hazard I should run; }
I'll end my story. When the play was done, }
The epilogue was--look! 'tis here--begun: }
Such as it is, however, if you will,
I'll read it; shall I, Friends? (_They clap._)
Your orders I fulfil.

(_He reads._)

'Tis come! the fateful hour! list! list! the bell
Summons me--Duncan-like, to heaven or hell;
See, see, the curtain draws;--it now commences;
Fear and suspense have frozen up my senses:
But let me to my task:--what noise is this?
They're clapping, clapping, O ye gods, what bliss!
Now then, to work, my pen:--descend, O Muse!
Thine inspiration through my soul infuse;
Prompt such an epilogue as ne'er before
Has been imagined,--never will be more.

What subject? hark! new louder plaudits rise,
I'm fired, and, like a rocket, to the skies
Dart up triumphantly in flames of light:--
They hiss, I'm quench'd, and sink in shades of night.
Again they clap, O extacy!--
Having thus far indulged his rhyming vein,
He halts,--reads,--curses,--and begins again;
But not a single couplet could he muster;
How should he, with his soul in such a fluster,
All rapture, gratitude, for your applause?
Be then, the effect excused in favour of the cause!

LINES

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. B.
(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY MISS B***, HIS SISTER.)

At God's command the vital spirit fled,
And thou, my Brother! slumber'st with the dead.
Alas! how art thou changed! I scarcely dare
To gaze on thee;--dread sight! death, death is there.
How does thy loss o'erwhelm my heart with grief!
But tears, kind nature's tears afford relief.
Reluctant, sad, I take my last farewell:--
Thy virtues in my mind shall ever dwell;
Thy tender friendship felt so long for me,
Thy frankness, truth, thy generosity,
Thy tuneful tongue's persuasive eloquence,
Thy science, learning, taste, wit, common sense,
Thy patriot love of genuine liberty,
Thy heart o'erflowing with philanthropy;
And chiefly will I strive henceforth to feel
Thy firm religious faith and pious zeal,
Enlighten'd, liberal, free from bigotry,
And, that prime excellence, thy charity.
Farewell!--for ever?--no! forbid it, Heaven!
A glorious promise is to Christians given;
Though parted in this world of sin and pain,
On high, my Brother! we shall meet again.

LINES TO AN INFIDEL,
AFTER HAVING READ HIS BOOK AGAINST CHRISTIANITY.

Your book I've read: I would that I had not!
For what instruction, pleasure, have I got?
Amid that artful labyrinth of doubt
Long, long I wander'd, striving to get out;
Your thread of sophistry, my only clue,
I fondly hoped would guide me rightly through:
That spider's web entangled me the more:
With desperate courage onward still I went,
Until my head was turn'd, my patience spent:
Now, now, at last, thank God! the task is o'er.
I've been a child, who whirls himself about,
Fancying he sees both earth and heaven turn round;
Till giddy, panting, sick, and wearied out,
He falls, and rues his folly on the ground.

LINES

ON HEARING A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, WHO IS BOTH LAME
AND BLIND, BUT IN OTHER RESPECTS VERY HANDSOME,
SING AND PLAY ON HIS VIOLIN FOR THE FIRST TIME.

Crippled his limbs, and sightless are his eyes;
I view the youth, and feel compassion rise.
He sings! how sweet the notes! in pleased amaze
I listen,--listen, and admiring gaze.
Still, as he catches inspiration's fire,
Sweeping with bolder hands the obedient strings,
That mix, harmonious, with the strains he sings,
He pours into the music all his soul,
And governs mine with strong, but soft controul:
Raptured I glow, and more and more admire.
His mortal ailments I no longer see;
But, of divinities my fancy dreams;
Blind was the enchanting God of soft desire;
And lame the powerful Deity of fire;
His bow the magic rod of Hermes seems;
And in his voice I hear the God of harmony.

LINES TO A PEDANTIC CRITIC.

Critic! should I vouchsafe to learn of thee,
Correct, no doubt, but cold my strains would be:
Now, cold correctness!--I despise the name;
Is that a passport through the gates of fame?
Thy pedant rules with care I studied once;
Was I made wiser, or a greater dunce?
Hence, Critic, hence! I'll study them no more;
My eyes are open'd, and the folly's o'er.
When Genius opes the floodgates of the soul,
Fancy's outbursting tides impetuous roll,
Onward they rush with unresisted sway, }
Sweeping fools, pedants, critics, all away }
Who would with obstacles their progress stay. }
As mighty Ocean bids his waves comply
With the great luminaries of the sky,
So Genius, to direct his course aright,
Owns but one guide, the inspiring God of light.

LINES ON SHAKSPEARE.

(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)

Behold! this marble tablet bears inscribed
The name of Shakspeare!--
What a glorious theme
For never-ending praise! His drama's page,
Like a clear mirror, to our wondering view
Displays the living image of the world,
And all the different characters of men:
Still, in the varying scenes, or sad, or gay,
We take a part; we weep; we laugh; we feel
All the strong sympathies of real life.
To him alone, of mortals, Fancy lent
Her magic wand, potent to conjure up
Ideal Forms, distinctly character'd,
Exciting fear, or wonder, or delight.

The works of Shakspeare! are they not a fane,
Majestic as the canopy of heaven,
Embracing all created things, a fane
His superhuman genius has upraised,
To Nature consecrate? The Goddess there
For ever dwells, and from her sanctuary,
By Shakspeare's voice, her poet and high-priest,
Reveals her awful mysteries to man,
And with her power divine rules every heart.
At Shakspeare's name, then, bow down all ye sons
Of learning, and of art! ye men, endow'd
With talent, taste! ye nobler few who feel
The genuine glow of genius! bow down all
In admiration! with deep feeling own
Your littleness, your insignificance;
And with one general voice due homage pay
To Nature's Poet, Fancy's best-loved Child!

LINES ON MILTON.

(SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN NEAR HIS TOMB.)

Milton!--
the name of that divinest Bard
Acts on Imagination like a charm
Of holiest power;--with deep, religious awe
She hails the sacred spot where sleep entomb'd
The relics that enshrined his godlike soul.

O! with what heartfelt interest and delight,
With what astonishment, will all the sons
Of Adam, till the end of time, peruse
His lofty, wondrous page! with what just pride
Will England ever boast her Milton's name,
The Poet matchless in sublimity!
E'en now in Memory's raptured ear resound
The deep-toned strains of the Miltonic lyre;
Inspiring virtuous, heart-ennobling thought,
They breathe of heaven; the imaginative Power
No longer treads the guilt-polluted world,
But soars aloft, and draws empyreal air:
Rapt Faith anticipates the judgment-hour,
When, at the Archangel's call, the dead shall wake
With frames resuscitated, glorified:
Then, then! in strains like these, the sainted Bard,
Conspicuous mid salvation's earth-born heirs,
Shall join harmoniously the heavenly choir,
And sing the Saviour's praise in endless bliss.

ANACREONTIC.

Still, as the fleeting seasons change,
From joy to joy poor mortals range,
And as the year pursues its round,
One pleasure's lost, another found;
Time, urging on his envious course,
Still drives them from their last resource.
So butterflies, when children chase
The gaudy prize with eager pace,
On each fresh flower but just alight,
And, ere they taste, renew their flight.

Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess
A constant source of happiness,
And am not poorly forced to live
On what the seasons please to give.
Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,
What care I, while I quaff the bowl?
In that secure, I can defy
The changeful temper of the sky.
No weatherglass, or if I be,
Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.

ANACREONTIC.

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:--
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:

'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'

Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
Since mortals must die,
Since life's but a span,
'Tis wisdom, say I,
To live while we can,
And fill up with pleasure
The poor little measure.
Of fate to complain
How simple and vain!
Long faces I hate;
They shorten the date.
My Friends! while ye may,
Be jovial to-day;
The things that will be
Ne'er wish to foresee;
Or, should ye employ
Your thoughts on to-morrow,
Let Hope sing of joy,
Not Fear croak of sorrow.
But see! the Sage flies, so no more.
Now, Friends! drink and sing, as before.

ANACREONTIC.

Why must Poets, when they sing,
Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
Witness many a modern strain:
Poets! would ye sing with fire,
Wine, not water, must inspire.
Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
How within thy crystal frame
Does the rosy nectar flame!
Not so beauteous on the vine
Did the clustering rubies shine,
When the potent God of day
Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
When with proudness and delight
Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
Still the vintage-God admires.
Hail sweet antidote of wo!
Chiefest blessing mortals know!
Nay, the mighty powers divine
Own the magic force of wine.
Wearied with the world's affairs,
Jove himself, to drown his cares,
Bids the nectar'd goblet bear:
Lo! the youthful Hebe fair
Pours the living draught around;--
Hark! with mirth the skies resound.
'Tis to wine, for aught I know,
Deities their godship owe;
Don't we mortals owe to wine
Manhood, and each spark divine?
Say, thou life-inspiring Bowl,
Who thy heavenly treasure stole?
Not the hand that stole Jove's fire
Did so happily aspire;
Tell the lucky spoiler's name,
Worthy never-dying fame.
Since it must a secret be,
Him I'll praise, in praising thee.
Glory of the social treat!
Source of friendly converse sweet!
Source of cheerfulness and sense,
Humour, wit, and eloquence,
Courage and sincerity,
Candour and philanthropy!
Source of--O thou bounteous wine!
What the good that is not thine?
Were my nerves relax'd and low?
Did my chill blood toil on slow?
When thy spirit through me flows,
How each vital function glows!
Tuned, my nerves, no longer coy,
Answer to the touch of joy:
On the steams, that from thee rise,
Time on swifter pinions flies;
Fancy gilds them with her rays;
Hope amid the rainbow plays.
But behold! what Image bright
Rises heavenly to my sight!
Could such wondrous charms adorn
Venus, when from ocean born?
Say, my Julia, is it thou,
Ever lovely, loveliest now?
Yet, methinks, the Cyprian Queen
Comes herself, but takes thy mien.
Goddess! I confess thy power,
And to love devote the hour,
Let me but, with grateful soul,
Greet once more the bounteous Bowl.

SONG.

Ere Reason rose within my breast,
To enforce her sacred law,
Still would some charm, in every maid,
My veering passions draw.

But now, to calm those gales of night,
The morn her light displays;
The twinkling stars no more I view,
For only Venus sways:

The spotless heaven of genuine love
Unveil'd I wondering see,
And all that heaven, transported, claim
For Julia and for me.

SONG.

Yes, I could love, could softly yield
To passion all my willing breast,
And fondly listen to the voice
That oft invites me to be blest;

That still, when Fancy, lost in bliss,
Stands gazing on the form divine,
So sweetly whispers to my soul,
O make the heavenly Julia thine!

But hush, thou fascinating voice!
Hence visionary extacy!
Yes, I could love, but ah! I fear
She would not deign to smile on me.

SONG TO BACCHUS.

Come along, jolly Bacchus! no longer delay;
See'st thou not how the table with bottles is crown'd?
See'st thou not how thy votaries, impatient to pay
Their devotion to thee, are all waiting around?
O come then, propitious to our invocation,
To preside of thy rites at the solemnization.

Hark! the voice of Champagne, from its prison set free,
And the music of glasses that merrily ring,
Thy arrival announce, and invite us to glee;
With what gladness we welcome thee, vine-crowned King!
To honour thee, Bacchus! we pour a libation,
And the lofty roof echoes our loud salutation.

On that wine-loaded altar, erected to thee,
Sherry, burgundy, claret, invitingly shine;
While all thy rich gifts thus collected we see,
We greet thy munificence boundless, divine.
From these we already inhale animation,
Our hearts and heads warmth, and our souls elevation.

As thy nectar, kind Bacchus! more copiously flows,
We purge off the cold dregs that are earthy, profane;
Each breast with thy own godlike character glows;
There truth, generosity, happiness reign.
Hail Bacchus! we hail thee in high exultation;
Thou hast blest us, kind God! with thy full inspiration.

ON SEEING THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

What majesty! what elegance and grace!
The form how perfect! how divine the face!
In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:--
Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;
I feel the presence of the Deity.

INSCRIPTION FOR THE APOLLO BELVIDERE.

O all ye Sons of Taste! with raptured sight
Behold this image of the God of light;
Admire its whole, admire its every part;
'Tis sculpture's master-work, the boast of Art.
Not with more glory in his heavenly sphere
The God appears, than in his Image here.

EPITAPH ON NELSON.

Lo! here are Nelson's honour'd relics laid;--
Britons! your Country's Genius calls you here,
And bids you pay to your lost Hero's shade
The noble homage of a patriot tear.

Against the fleets of Gallia, Denmark, Spain,
Full oft Britannia's war-bolts he has hurl'd;
Stretch'd forth her sceptre o'er the vanquish'd main,
And with her glory fill'd the astonish'd world.

His matchless triumphs shall the voice of Fame,
With loud applause, to latest ages tell;
Still uttering with a sigh Trafalgar's name,
Where last he conquer'd, where--alas! he fell.

EPITAPH ON HOWARD.

Ye! who this hallow'd ground with reverence tread,
Where sleep in honour'd urns the illustrious dead,
To trace the achievements of the Sons of Fame,
And pay just worship to each godlike name;
(If, blest with hearts that melt at human wo,
And feel philanthropy's celestial glow,)
Midst all the monuments that court your view,
And claim the debt to buried merit due,
Mark chiefly this;--on this with tearful eyes
More fondly gaze;--beneath it Howard lies!

O'er other urns mere mortals only mourn;
Celestial Beings honour Howard's urn;
Benevolence sits weeping on his stone;
Heaven's Angel still, though on her earthly throne.

EPITAPH ON VOLTAIRE.

Here lies interr'd Voltaire; no letter'd name
Can boast more brilliant, more extensive fame.
On him what various gifts did heaven confer!--
Poet, historian, wit, philosopher;
But ah!--peruse it, Christian, with a tear--
The chief of infidels lies buried here:
Lament the abuse of such rare talents given;
Lament such dire ingratitude to heaven.

EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON.

Lo! here, on this lone isle amid the deeps,
From his proud height of conquest, greatness hurl'd,
Buried in silent night, Napoleon sleeps!
Long Gallia's boast, the wonder of the world!

Though humbly born, Ambition claim'd her child;
Fate urged him on, his great career to fill;
On him, in war, in dangers, Fortune smiled;
And on his eagles Victory waited still.

By battles won, by policy profound,
Kings he dethroned, fill'd Europe with dismay:
England alone, of all the nations round,
His power opposed, disdaining to obey.

Forced by the flames of Moscow to retreat,
Half his vast host by cold, by famine, dies.
Famed Waterloo beheld his last defeat;--
There sunk his glory's sun;--ne'er more to rise.

Briton! from this sad spot ere thou depart,
Pause!--while his shade complains in Fancy's ear;--
'Had generous feeling warm'd thy Sovereign's heart,
Though Briton's foe, I had not perish'd here.'

EPITAPH ON LORD BYRON.

Lo! Byron's tomb!--
Here, deeply pensive, scan
The greatness,--and the littleness of man.
In timeless death here Freedom's Martyr sleeps,
Whom, her lost Champion, Greece, desponding, weeps.
The impassion'd Bard, whose Genius, wing'd with flame,
Swept, like a comet, through the sphere of fame,
Dazzling the astonish'd world, lies buried here.
Thus human Glory ends its bright career.
To Byron what high gifts did heaven impart!
An intellect sublime, a feeling heart;
But ah! his wild desires, his passions strong,
Hurried him irresistibly along
Wherever Pleasure call'd, through good, or ill;
No law could bridle his own proud self-will.
O! had but Virtue ruled his mighty mind,
Byron had been--the first of human kind!

EPITAPH ON SIR SAMUEL ROMILLY.

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.

Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!--
His frantic hand--O horror!--doom'd to bleed?--
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes--
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'

His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;--
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.

EPITAPH ON WILBERFORCE.

Champion of justice and humanity,
He toil'd, through life, to set the Negro free:
At length, Britannia spoke the godlike word--
Burst were the bonds, the shouts of Freedom heard!
Thy life-bonds, too, O Wilberforce! were riven,
Thy task was done,--it was thy call to heaven!

EPITAPH.

Mortal! whoe'er thou art, that passest by,
Stop, and behold this stone with heedful eye!
Here lies a Youth, whom Death's resistless power,
In health's full vigour, at the festal hour,
All unprepared, alas! to meet his doom,
Snatch'd suddenly to an untimely tomb.

Mortal take heed!--in awful silence think,
Thou stand'st upon Eternity's dread brink;
O listen to Religion's warning cry!--
'Man, know thy nature, and prepare to die!'

TRANSLATED FROM ANACREON.

Though thou hast seen my locks are gray,
Ah! do not, Julia, turn away;
Nor, though the bloom of Spring is thine,
Disdainfully my love decline.
Behold yon wreath!--how lovely shows
The snowy lily with the blushing rose!

EPIGRAMS.

ON HEARING OF THE BURNING OF MOSCOW.

May European Liberty
In Moscow's flames her torch relume!
And Gallic Tyranny
In Moscow's ruins find a tomb!

* * * * *

Locke says--the soul may slumber;--
Lavater says--the soul is seen
Reflected in the mien;--
The last assertion true,
Proofs of the first we view
In faces without number.

TO A HYPOCRITICAL CALVINIST.

By faith alone, you say, not works,
Man must obtain salvation;--
If you are saved, the doctrine needs
No better confirmation.

* * * * *

My Lady Sceptical, for want of proof,
What all believe, denies;
Yet she believes what all, with proof, deny,
That she is wondrous wise.

* * * * *

'The dullest ass may write
In verse, that jingling stuff!'
Indeed, Sir? have you tried?
'I have.' That's proof enough.

Yon fop has strangely got it in his noddle
That he excels in tragic declamation;
Kemble's the favourite, and the model,
That claims his praise, and prompts his imitation;
Now, that the praise is just, none can deny;
But the imitation gives that praise the lie:
Decide, ye Critics! for 'tis hard to know,--
Is he to Kemble's fame a friend or foe?

TO JULIA.

Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,
Averts her blushing face;
Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns
To meet his warm embrace:
Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,
Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.

The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.
This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;
But there's a deep-laid policy in it;
For, did the Chancellor not--that conscience keep,
It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;
Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.

* * * * *

Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.
'Pat!'--cries an Englishman--''tis clear to me,
More grateful for the union you should be;
Think what an honour is to Ireland done:
Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'
"Murther!"--cries Pat--"he wedded her by force,
And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."

ON THE NEW EXPERIMENT OF LIGHTING THE HOUSE
OF COMMONS BY MEANS OF GAS-PIPES PLACED
BETWEEN THE TWO CEILINGS.

Too long within the House has darkness dwelt,
Egyptian darkness, by the nation felt;
Therefore, though demagogues, whose deeds are ill,
For blind debate might love that darkness still,
'Tis well the new experiment to try:
A stronger, purer light--none can deny--
Will then illume the House--light coming from on high.

* * * * *

'Not one of all my actors, rot 'em!'
Cried Hal,--'can play the part of Bottom.'
"Play it yourself;"--retorted Ned,--
"You'll look quite natural with an ass's head."

ON SEEING MR. NUTES,
A SENSELESS, UNFEELING FELLOW, WEEP AT THE
REPRESENTATION OF KING LEAR.

Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,
Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!

* * * * *

A quack, a mere anatomy,
Wanting to buy a nag,
Questions his friend, a wag,
What colour it shall be:--
'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,
For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'

ON THE
LATE REFORM AND THE WHIG ADMINISTRATION.

Reform! reform! cries out the longing nation;--
The people hail their own-elected House;
On tiptoe stands the general expectation:--
What the grand doings of the Administration?
Lo! from the labouring mountain creeps a mouse!

* * * * *

Metaphysical Sages
Have writ many pages,
To decide if the Mind
Be Spirit or Matter:--
How strange! that in the pages
Of these metaphysical sages
We so seldom can find
Mind, Spirit, or Matter!

TO A
CONCEITED & AFFECTED, BUT HANDSOME WOMAN.

Why, when I praise you, Ma'am, why tell me flat,
All flattery you despise?--
Self-love, the greatest flatterer, tells you that,
And I am sure he lies.

* * * * *

What a strong contrast to most modern sages
Were some philosophers of ancient ages!
E'en Socrates, so wise, yet modest too,
Own'd he knew only that he nothing knew.
Now! vain pretenders such presumption show,
They seem to fancy that they all things know.
Ye moderns, thus puff'd up with vanity,
Would that ye knew but half as much as he!

ON TWO SISTERS WHO ARE ALWAYS QUARRELLING.

Pale is Amelia's face,
And red Lavinia's nose is;
The sisters ever jar:
'Tis like the civil war
Between the rival roses.

* * * * *

On that dark theme, man's genealogy,
How strangely people's notions disagree!--
Sir Snub-nose, growling, swears that he can trace
Strong kindred likeness to the monkey-race:--
My Lady Graceful smiles, well-pleased, to find
Far more resemblance to the Angelic-kind:--
Sure the reflection from their looking-glasses
Into their minds,--to prompt opinion--passes.
Would-be philosophers have tried to scan
The pedigree of that odd creature, man.
'We are of monkey-race!' Sir Snub-nose cries.
Your strange assertion strikes me with surprise;
(I, for my part, the compliment decline)--
But do you, Sir, sincerely thus opine?
'I do indeed: nay more, I'm sure 'tis true!'
Is't possible?--Yet, when I look on you,--
I, verily, begin to think so too.

* * * * *

'Oh! Doctor! I've had such a headache--so bad!
I was fearful I should have gone out of my senses.'
"I should not have wonder'd, dear Ma'am, if you had,
You'd not have to go far to leap over those fences."

ON THE CONDUCT OF SOME FEW CLERGYMEN,
WHO ARE A DISGRACE TO THEIR SACRED PROFESSION.

Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,
Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
To guard his flock against the tempter's power.--
Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em:
To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em:
Like a devouring lion is the priest;
Or--give the devil his due--you'll own, at least,
He has the marks about him of the beast.

* * * * *

Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.?
'It means I'm member of the Faculty.'
Hum!--from your practice else one might infer
It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.

ON THE MARCH OF INTELLECT.

'March on! march swiftly on!' the people cry,
Let us pursue Truth, Knowledge, Liberty!
March not so fast, my friends! or you will find,
That, in your haste, you've left them all behind.

* * * * *

One day Maria, that keen-witted Belle,
Challenged her Beau to play at Bagatelle.
'What shall we play for?'--Edwin quickly cried;
"Whate'er you please;" the smiling girl replied.
'Then for a kiss, fair lady, we will play.'
He wins the game, and straight demands his pay.
"No"--'Yes'--"I wont"--'You shall'--"I wont be kiss'd:
I'll pay you with a check--if you persist."

ON HEARING MR. **** BOAST THAT HE COULD
TRANSLATE VIRGIL.

Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!
Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?
To a far higher intellectual state,
Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.

* * * * *

A lady had a sickly son;
A skeleton but for his skin:--
Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;--
The mother chid him for his sin.--
'Her charms were not to be withstood,
Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!
As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'
"That's no excuse for skin and bone."

ON DR. ****,
A MERE PRETENDER TO MEDICAL SCIENCE,
OFFICIOUSLY OFFERING ME HIS SERVICES.

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'--
Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;
I'd accept--but for something--the vast obligation.
'But for what, pray?'--The instinct of self-preservation.

* * * * *

If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mind
Nastiest ideas we are sure to find,
Then--equal to his humour and his wit
Swift's delicacy we must all admit.

ON HEARING A PARSON READ VERY BADLY
A SERMON HE HAD BOUGHT.

That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,
To save your idle brain the toil of thought,
You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,
It seems almost as stupid as your own.

* * * * *

Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:--
To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.

* * * * *

Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.--
What moralist can gratitude condemn?
They, formerly, have done so much for him;
Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?

TO MR. BURY, AN EMINENT SURGEON IN COVENTRY,

ON HIS HAVING PERFORMED A SUCCESSFUL OPERATION, IN A
CASE OF DEEPLY-SEATED INFLAMMATION IN THE NECK,
WHEN THE PATIENT WAS IN EXTREME DANGER OF
IMMEDIATE SUFFOCATION.

Bury, for practice bold and skill
Deserves to be of note;
He cures by means that well might kill,--
He cuts his patient's throat!

* * * * *

When Satan tempts a priest to rise,
'It is the call of heaven!' he cries,
And mount's ambition's ladder:--
To heaven's own call that bids him be,
Like Christ, full of humility,
He's deafer than an adder.

AFTER HAVING SEEN SEVERAL BAD PAINTINGS
OF THE DEATH OF SIR JOHN MOORE.

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!

* * * * *

Man's owl-eyed reason--Popish Priests assert--
Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light;
Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their best
To keep their flocks in unillumined night.

* * * * *

'The brokers of the Stock-Exchange
Are nicknamed bears and bulls;--how strange!
What reason, Sir, to call them so?'
Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.

ON HEARING A LADY TALK VERY FAST
AND UNINTELLIGIBLY.

Words upon words impetuous rush along,
And tread each other's brains out as they throng.

* * * * *

'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'--
Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries--
'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?
And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?
Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:
Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.

* * * * *

I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me;--what then?
Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?
'I cannot say your poem I admire;
It wants originality and fire;
Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;
You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'
"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"
'I shall think so if you so loudly bray.'

* * * * *

A worthy man of rags
Intreats for charity
A rogue of money-bags.
'Pshaw! it at home begins.'
Then serve thyself and me;
For it will be no less
A cover to thy sins,
Than to my nakedness.

The Fair-one, at her toilet, thus exprest
The ambitious aims that swell'd her panting breast:
'Pull, Fanny, pull again, with all your might;
I must, to-day, be laced up very tight;
For, to a glorious conquest I aspire:--
Know, that two Noblemen my charms admire!
Pull, then, good girl! I'll be so tightly laced,
That half-a-yard will measure round my waist.'
'Hold!' Cupid cries, 'for Love's, for Pity's sake;
You'll strangle Beauty, and my bowstring break.'

* * * * *

In altering thus and shortening his oration,
Sure the Reporters do Lord Flimsy wrong;
It well may fill his Lordship with vexation,
When he has toil'd so hard to make it long.
'I've writ an epigram;--here, read it, do.--
The critics praise it highly:--what think you?'
"I don't much like it." 'No! 'tis very fine.'
"It may be to your taste--'tis not to mine."
'I say 'tis finely pointed.' "Well! so be it!--
The point may be too fine for me to see it."
'Then, let me tell you, Sir, you must be blind.'
"Many more like me I'm afraid you'll find."

* * * * *

Wise radicals! to make it bear more fruit,
They fain would tear the tree up by the root.
Young trees, we know, may sometimes thrive transplanted,
But old ones can't;--'tis by all gardeners granted.
'Twill die;--and when the good old tree is dead,
What sort of tree, pray, will they plant instead?

The Squire has long imagined that his son
Is deeply studying Coke and Lyttelton.
They meet.--'Dear Tom! to see you gives me joy.--
How get you on in Law? my clever boy!
In practice too?--But Tom, what bills you draw!
Expensive work this studying of the law!'
The sly young Templar gulls his easy Sire:--
"O! I get on, Sir, to my heart's desire;
In chamber-practice I have much to do."--
His answer--in a certain sense--is true.

* * * * *

To move her lover, a coquetish Miss
Began to sob, pretending she should faint;--
Her maid restored her straight by whispering this:
'I fear, my lady, you forget your paint.'

ON THE MANY VIOLENT DISPUTES AMONG
THE PREACHERS OF THE GOSPEL.

The labourers in the vineyard toil
(So numerous are their creeds)
Far less to cultivate the soil,
Than break each others' heads.

* * * * *

'Write epigrams! why, Sir, there's nothing in it.
I would be bound--the merest scribbler could--
To write one in a minute.'
No doubt you could--but then there would
Indeed, be nothing in it.

* * * * *

The ambitious rage of Russia nought controls,
With her vast empire she'd unite the Poles.

ON HEARING A CLERGYMAN PREACH A DULL
SERMON IN A LOUD, SHRILL VOICE.