IMPROMPTU. UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN. BETWEEN Adam and me the great difference is, 1810. That he never wore breeches till turn'd out of his. LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS. So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, 1813. While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, O Wellington! long as such Ministers wield Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do; which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on Pair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if Rosa munda' mean 'a Rose with clean hands,' it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the Rosa aurea,' which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmo sphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the 'old Rose,' he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the poet, consenuisse Rosas.' The whole note, indeed, shows a knowledge of Roses that is quite edifying. SACRED SONGS. 1816. THOU ART, O GOD! AIR-Unknown.▲ The day is thine, the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.-Psalm liv. 16, 17. THOU art, O God! the life and light Of all this wondrous world we see ; Its glow by day, its smile by night, Are but reflections caught from Thee. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine. When day, with farewell beam, delays Among the opening clouds of even, And we can almost think we gaze Through golden vistas into heaven; Those hues, that make the sun's decline So soft, so radiant, Lord! are thine. When night, with wings of starry gloom, Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes;- Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh; And every flower the summer wreathes Is born beneath that kindling eye. Where'er we turn thy glories shine, And all things fair and bright are thine THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. THIS world is all a fleeting show For man's illusion given; There's nothing true but Heaven! And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom, Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb.- Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we're driven, And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way.There's nothing calm but Heaven! I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair.' FALL'N IS THY THRONE. AIR-Martini, FALL'N is thy throne, O Israel! Thy children weep in chains. Her power thy glory's throne,2 Till evil came, and blighted Thy long-loved olive-tree ;3And Salem's shrines were lighted For other gods than Thee! Then sunk the star of Solyma ;— Where Baal reign'd as God! 'Go,' said the Lord, 'ye conquerors ! O'er kindred bones shall tread, WHO IS THE MAID!? AIR-Beethoven. WHO is the maid my spirit seeks, Through cold reproof and slander's blight, Has she Love's roses on her cheeks? Is hers an eye of this world's light? No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love; Or if, at times, a light be there, Its beam is kindled from above. I chose not her, my soul's elect, From those who seek their Maker's shrine In gems and garlands proudly deck'd, As if themselves were things divine! 'I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies.'-Jer. xii. 7. 2'Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.'Jer. xiv. 21. 3 The Lord called thy name, A green olivetree, fair, and of goodly fruit,' &c.-Jer. xi. 16. For he shall be like the heath in the desert.' -Jer. xvii. 6. 5 Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's. Jer. v. 10. Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the valley of the son of Hinnom, but the Valley No-Heaven but faintly warms the breast, That beats beneath a broider'd veil ; And she, who comes in glittering vest To mourn her frailty, still is frail. Not so the faded form I prize And love, because its bloom is gone; The glory in those sainted eyes Is all the grace her brow puts on. And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright, So touching as that form's decay, Which, like the altar's trembling light, In holy lustre wastes away! of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet, til) there be no place.'-Jer. vii. 32. 7 These lines were suggested by a passage in St. Jerome's reply to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated upon his intimacy with the Matron Paula:-Numquid me vestes serica nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio ? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronaruia, quæ meam possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata.'-Epist. 'Si tibi putem.' 8 Ου γαρ χρυσοφορείν την δακρύουσαν δει.-Chrysost. Homil. 8, in Epist. ad Tim. 20 THE BIRD LET LOOSE. THE bird, let loose in Eastern skies,1 So grant me, God, from every care, O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR. AIR-Haydn. 'He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.'-Psalm cxlvii. 3. O THOU who dry'st the mourner's tear! How dark this world would be, Must weep those tears alone. Breathes sweetness out of woe. When joy no longer soothes or cheers, Is dimm'd and vanish'd too! Our peace-branch from above? With more than rapture's ray; WEEP NOT FOR THOSE. AIR-Avison. WEEP not for those whom the veil of the tomb And but sleeps, till the sunshine of heaven has unchain'd it, Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb In life's happy morning hath hid from our eyes, The carrier pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every ob stacle between her and the place to which she is destined. Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom, Mourn not for her, the young bride of the vale,1 And the garland of love was yet fresh on her brow; From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown;→→→ Weep not for her,-in her spring-time she flew To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd, THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My choir shall be the moonlight waves, caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, Where I shall read, in words of flame, Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through! E'en more than music, breathes of There's nothing bright, above, below, Thee! I'll seek by day, some glade unknown, 1 This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne Church, October 31, 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after. The sound of her marriagebells seemed scarcely out of our ears, when we From flowers that bloom to stars that |