« ForrigeFortsæt »
« Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
But, ah, in luckless hour, this last December,
To what wilt thou exalt even kitchen-stuff!
To be, each night, the waiter's perquisites;
With such ingredients, served up oft before,
I managed, for some weeks, to dose the town,
Till fresh reserves of nonsense ran me down,
Exchanged for Coming down, Sir,' here am 1!»
Scarce had the Spectre's lips these words let drop,
When, lo! a breeze---such as, from ---'s shop,
Blows in the vernal hour, when puffs prevail,
And speeds the sheets and swells the lagging sale-
Took the poor waiter rudely in the роор,
Ind, whirling him and all his grisly group
Of literary ghosts, - Miss X. Y. Z., -
The nameless author, better known than read
Sir Jo.- the Honourable Mr Lister,
And sins about them, far into those climes
Whether Old Nick or -- puffs the best.
LAMENT FOR THE LOSS OF LORD BATHURST'S
All in again-unlook'd for bliss!
Yet, alı, one adjunct still we miss-
One tender tie, attach'd so long
To the saine bead, through right and wrong.
Why, Bathurst, why didst thou cut off
That memorable tail of thine ?
Why-as if one was not enough
Thy pig-lic with thy place resign,
And thus, at once, both cut and run ?
Alas, my Lord, 't was not well done,
'T was not, indeed—though sad at heart,
From office and its sweets 10 part,
Yet hopes of coming in again,
Sweet Tory hopes! beguiled our pain;
But thus to miss that tail of thine, « And thou, thyself»- here, anxious, I exclaim'd,
Through long, long years our rallying sign,« Tell us, good fhost, how thou, thyself, art named.»
As if the State and all its powers
To see it thus by scissors fall,
This was « th' unkindest cut of all !»
Of Toryism had pass d away,
And proving Sampson's story true,
She lost her vigour with her queue.
1. History of the Clubs of London,. announced as by « a Member
bere Peter pitched bis waistcoat.. * Nor the charming L, E. L., and still lesz Mrs F. 1., whose poetry The Noble Lord, it is well known, cut off tbis much-respected is among the inost beautiful of be present day.
appendage, on his retirement from office some months since.
Parties are much like lish, 't is said, -
E'er sheil such guiding glories from it,
Blazed from our old Colonial comet! If you, my Lord, a Bashaw were,
(as Wellington will be anou)
But no, alas! thou Jiadst but one,
A tale of other times-- is gone!
Fate bas not yet of all bereft us;
We've Ellenboroughi's curls still left us;-
And oft in thundering talk comes near him ;Except that, there the speaker nodded,
And, here, 't is only those who hicar him. Long, lonc, ye ringlets, on the soil
Of that fai cranium may ye tlourish, With plenty of Macassar oil,
Through many a year your growth to nourish! And, ah, should Time too soon unsheath
His barbarous shears such locks to sever,
A hair-loom to our sons for ever.
Here, sly Arians flock unnumber'd,
And Socinians, slim and spare, Who, with small belief encumber'd,
Slip in easy any where :Methodists, of birds the aptest,
Where there's pecking going on;
All would share our fruits anon :
with ceaseless din, Iath reversed the starling's diny, Singing out « I can't get
in. « God forbid'» old Testy snivels;
« God forbid !» 1 echo too; Rather may ten thousand devils
Seize the whole voracious crew! If less costly fruit won't suit'cm,
Hips and haws and such like berries, Curse the cormirants ! stone 'em, shoot 'em,
Any thing-to save our cherries.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN ANTICIPATION OF
1 Go, seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we must run the gauntlet through blood and er
Jf Truth by the bow-string must vield up her breath, Let Mutes do the office,- and spare her the pain
Of an Juglis or Tindal to talk hier to death. Chain, persecute, plunder, -do all that you will,
But save us, at least, the old womanly lore Of a Gloucester, wlio, dully prophetic of ill,
Is, at once, the two instruments, ACGUR2 and DORE. Bring legions of Squires—if they 'll only be mute
And array their thick heads against reason and right, Like the Roman of old, of historic repute, 3
Who with droves of dumb animals carried the fight. Pour out, from each corner and hole of the Court,
Your Bedchamber lordlings, your salaried slaves, Who, ripe for all job-work, no matter wbat sort, llave their consciences tach'd to their patents and
staves. Cuch all the small fry who, as Juvenal sings,
Are the Treasury's creatures, wherever they swim, With all the base, time-serving toadies of kings, Who, if Punch were the monarch, would worship
ev'n him : And while, on the one side, each name of renown,
That illumines and blesses our age is combined; While the Foxes, the Pills, and the Canpings look down, i
And drop o'er the cause their rich manties of Mind; Let bold Paddy Holmes show his troops on the other, And, counting of noses the quantum desired,
During the discussion of the Catbolic Question in the House of (onimons last session.
? This is more for the car than the eye, as the carpenter's tool is spelt auger.
s Fabíus, who sent droves of bullocks against the enemy. • Res lisci est, ubicumque natat, --- Juvenal.
See those cherries, low they cover
Yonder sunny garden-wall; -Had they not that net-work over,
Thieving birds would cat them all. So, lo guard our posts and pensions,
Ancient sages wove a net, Through whose holes, of smali dimensions,
Only certain knaves can get. Shall we then this net-work widen?
Shall we stretch these sacred boles, Through which, ev'n already, slide in
Lots of small dissenting souls ? « God forbid!» old Testy crieth;
« God forbid!» so echo I; Every ravenous bird that licih
Then would at our cherries fly. Ope but half an inch or so,
And, bebold, what bevies break in ;Here, some curst old Popislı crow
Pops his long and lickerishi beak in :
1. Shakes his ambrosial curls, and gives the nod..
Pore'. Homer, » Written during the late discussion on the Test and Corporation
For, lo, what a service we Irish have done thee:
Thou now art a sheet of blank paper no more; By St Patrick, we've scrawld such a lesson upon thee
As never was scrawld upon foolscap before. Come, -on with your spectacles, noble Lord Duke, (Or O'Connell has green ones he haply would lend
you,) Read Vescy all o'er-as you can't read a bookAnd improve by the lesson we bog-trotters send
you; A lesson, in large Roman characters traced,
Whose awful impressions from you and your kin Of blank-sliected statesmen will ne'er be effaced,
Unless, 'stead of paper, you 're sheer asses' skin. Shall I help you to construe it? ay, by the Gods,
Could I risk a translation, you should have a rare
ODE TO THE WOODS AND FORESTS.
BY ONE OF THE BOARD.
But pen against sabre is desperate odds,
you, my Lord Dukc (as you hinted once), wear
Let other bards to groves repair,
Where linnets struin their tuneful throats, Mine be the Woods and Forests, where
The Treasury pours ils sweeter notes. No whispering winds have charms for me,
Nor zephyr's balmy siglis I ask;
Be all our sylvan zeplıyr's task !
And all such vulgar irrigation,
Divert ils « course of liquid-ation.»
What Woods and Forests ought to be, Wben, sly, he introduced in tell
Dis guinea-plant, bis bullion-iree.' Nor see I wliy, some future day,
When short of cash, we should not sead Our Herries down-he knows the way
To see if Woods in bell will lend. Long may ye tlourish, sylvan haunts,
Beneath whose « branches of expense >> Our gracious King gets all he wants, –
Except a little taste and sense. Long, in your golden shade reclined,
Like him of fair Armida's bowers, May Wellington some wood-nymph fiud,
To cheer his dozenth lustrum's hours : To rest from toil the Great Untaught,
And soothe the panys his warlike brain Must suffer, when, unused to thought,
It tries to think, and-tries in vain. Oh long may Woods and Forests be
Preserved, in all their teeming graces, To shelter Tory Bards, like me,
Who take delight in Sylvan places ! »
Again and again I say, read Vesey o'cr;
You will find him worth all the old scrolls of papyrus, That Egypt e'er fill'd with nonsensical lore,
Or the learned Champollion e'er wrote of, to tire us. All blank as he was, we've return'd him on hand,
Scribbled o'er with a warning to Princes and Dukes, Whose plain, simple drift if they won't understand, Though caress'd at St James's, they 're fit for St
Luke's. Talk of leaves of the Sibyls !--more meaning con
vey'd is In one single leaf snch as pow we have spelld on, Than e'er bath been utter'd by all the old ladies
Thatever yet spoke, from the Sibyls to Eldon.
« IF » AND « PERHAPS.»
Ou tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope !
Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea, And refresh with their sounds every son of the Pope,
From Dingle-a-cooch to far Donaghadee. « If mutely the slave will endure and obey,
Nor clanking his felters, nor breathing his pains, His masters, perhaps, at some far distant day,
May think (tender tyrants!) of loosening his chains.» Wise «if» and « perhaps!»--precious salve for our
wounds, If he, who would rule thus o'er manacled mutes, Could check the free spring-tide of Mind, that re
sounds, Even now, at his feel, like the sea at Canute's.But, no, 't is in vain-the grand impulse is given,Man knows his high Charter, and knowing will
clair: ; And if rnin must follow where fetters are riven, Be theirs, who have forged them, the guilt and the
STANZAS FROM THE BANKS OF THE
Take back the virgin page.
Joore's Irish Mel dies.
No longer, dear Vesey, feel hurt and uneasy
At hearing it said by thy Treasury brother, That thou art a sheet of blank paper, iny Vesey, And he, the dear innocent placeman, another. 'Called by Virgil, Fotanically, species auri frondentis.» : Tu facis, ut silras, ot amem loci
"Written after hearing a celebrated speech in the House of Lords, June 10, 1828.
Ev’n now I feel the coming light,
Ev'n pow, could Folly Jure
Emancipation 's sure.
Old Rome was saved from ill;
Write on, write on, etc. Write, write, ye Peers, nor stoop to style,
Nor beat for sense about, -
You 're better far without.
Such miracles were done;
And Freedom's cause is won!
« If the slave will be silent!»--vain Soldier, beware
There is a dead silence the wrong'd may assume, When the feeling, sent back from the lips in despair,
But clings round the heart with a deadlier gloom;When the blush, that long burnd on the suppliant's
cheek, Gives place to thi' avenger's pale, resolute hue; And the tongue, that once threaten'd, disdaining to
speaki, Consigns to the arm the high office-10 do. If men, in that silence, should think of the hour,
When proudly their fathers in panoply stood, Presenting, alike, a hold front-work of
power To the despot on land and the foe on the flood ;That bionr, when a Voice had come forth from the west,
To the slave bringing hopes, to the tyrant alarms; And a lesson, long look'd for, was taught the opprest,
That kings are as dust before freemen in arms! If, awfuller still, the mute slave should recall That dream of his boyhood, when Freedom's sweet
day At length seem'd to break through a long night of
thrall, And Union and Hope went abroad in its ray;-If Fancy should tell him, that Day-spring of Good,
Though swiftly its light died away from his chain, Though darkly it set in a nation's best blood,
Now wants but invoking to shine out again ;If-if, I say-breathings like these should come o'er
The chords of remembrance, and thrill as they come, Then, perhaps, -ay, perhaps--but I dare not say
more; Thou hast will'd that thy slaves should be mute-I
WRITE ON, WRITE ON.
A RECENT DIALOGUE.
Both beroes in their way,
Unto each other say :« Dear Bishop!» quoth the brave Hussar,
« As nobody denies That you a wise logician are,
And I am-otherwise ; « 'T is fit that, on this question, we
Stick each to his own artThat yours
should be the sophistry, And mine the fighting part. · My crecd, I need not tell you,
is Like that of Wellington, To whom po harlot comes 3 miss,
Save Her of Babylon;' « And when we're at a loss for words,
If laughing reasoners tlout us, For lack of seuse we ll draw our swords
The sole things sharp about us,» « Dear bold Dragoou!» the Bishop said,
«T is true for var thou art meant; And reasoning (bless that dandy head!)
Is not in thy department. « So leave the argument to me
And, when my holy labour Hath lie the fires of bigotry,
Thou 'li poke them with thy sabre. « From pulpit and from sentry-box
We'll make our joint attacks, 1, at the head of my cassocks,
And you, of your cossacks. « So here's your health, my brave Hussar!
My exquisite old fighter-
The musket and the initre.)
While York, just entering then,
llis nose the cue) « Amen!» Cui nulla meretrix displicuit, præter Babylonicam.
A18--Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear,
Salvete, fratres Asini.-ST FRANCIS
WRITE on, write on, ye Barons dear,
Ye Dukes, write bard and fast;
Your quills will bring at last.
To watch Lord Kenyon's two,
Sure, never, since the precious use
Of pen and ink began,
Such signal good to man.
Is marching on, they say,
Write on, write on, etc.
Look on it now! deserted, bleachd, and grim,
Is this, thou feverish man, thy festal bowl ?
Each brighter chalice to thy lip denies ?
The worm that will not sleep, and never dies ? Woe to the lip to which this cup is held !
The lip that's pall'd with every purer draught ; For which alone the rifled grave can yield
A goblet worthy to be deeply quaff d.
Restore the relic to its tomb again,
The blessed bowl that never flow'd in vain!
THE DAY-DREAM.' They both were hush'd, the voice, the chords ;
I heard but once that witching lay; And few the notes, and few the words,
My spell-bound memory brought away; Traces, remember'd here and there,
Like echoes of some broken strain;Links of a sweetness lost in air,
That nothing now could join again. Evin these, too, ere the morning, fled ;
And, though the charm still linger'd on
The song itself was faded, gone ;-
On summer days, ere youth had set; Thoughts bright, we know, as summer flowers,
Though what they were, we now forget. In vain, with hints from other strains,
I wood this truant air to come, As birds are taught, on eastern plains,
To lure their wilder kindred home. In vain :—the song that Sappho gave,
In dying, to the mournful sea, Not muter slept beneath the wave
Than this within my memory. At length, one morning, as I Jay
In that half-waking mood, when dreams Unwillingly at last give way
To the full truth of day-light's beams, A face, the very face, methought,
From which had breathed, as from a shrine Of song and soul, the notes I sought,
Came with its music close to mine; And sung the long-lost measure o'er,
Each note and word, with every tone
All perfect, all again my own.
They meet again, each widow'd sound Through Memory's realm had wing'd in quest
Of its sweet mate, till all were found. Nor ev'n in waking, did the clue,
Thus strangely caught, escape again;
So well as now I know this strain.
Is talk'd of in our tranquil bower,
The vision of that morning hour.
ALARMING INTELLIGENCE-REVOLUTION IN
THE DICTIONARY-ONE GALT AT THE HEAD
OF IT. God preserve us! there's nothing now safe from assault, Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the
bammer; And accounts have just reach'd us that one Mr Galt
Has declared open war against English and grammar! fle had long been suspected of some such design
And, the better his wicked intents to arrive at, Had lately 'mong C-Ib-rn's troops of the line
(The penny-a-line men) enlisted as private. There schooľd, with a rabble of words at command,
Scotch, English, and slang, in promiscuous alliance, lle at length against Syntax has taken his stand,
And sets all the nine parts of speech at defiance. Next advices, no doubt, further facts will afford ;
In the mean time the danger most imminent grows, He has taken the Life of one eminent Lord, And who he 'll next murder the Lord only knows!
Wednesday Evening. Since our last, matters, luckily, look more serene
Though the rebel, 't is stated, to aid his defection, Has seized a great Powder-no-Puff Magazine,
And th' explosions are dreadful in every direction. What his meaning exactly is, nobody knows,
As he talks (in a strain of intense botheration) Of lyrical « ichor,»' « gelatinous » prose,?
And a mixture called « amber immortalization.»3 Now he raves of a bard, he once happen'd to meet, Seated high « among rattlings » and « churming » a
sonnel, Now talks of a Mystery, wrapp'd in a sheet,
With a halo (by way of a night-cap) upon it! We shudder in tracing these terrible lines Something bad they must mean, though we can't
make it out; For whate'er may be guess’d of Galt's secret designs,
That they're all anti-English no Christian can doubt,
'. That dark diseased icbor, which coloured his effusions.,Gali's Life of Byron.
; . That gelatinous character of their effusions..-I. 1. The poetical embalmment, or rather amber immortalization..
. . Sitting amidst tbe shrouds and rattlings, churming an inarticulate melody..-12.
5. He was a mystery in a winding-sheet, crowded with a balo..