And oft at night, when the tempest rolled, He sung as he paced the dark deck over"Blow, wind, blow! thou art not so cold
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
Yet he lived with the happy, and seemed to be gay,
Though the wound but sunk more deep for concealing;
And fortune threw many a thorn in his way,
Which, true to one anguish, he trod without feeling! And still, by the frowning of fate unsubdued,
He sung, as if sorrow had placed him above her
"Frown, fate, frown! thou art not so rude
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
At length his career found a close in death,
The close he long wished to his cheerless roving, For victory shone on his latest breath,
And he died in a cause of his heart's approving. But still he remembered his sorrow,-and still
He sung till the vision of life was over"Come, death, come! thou art not so chill
As the heart of a maid that deceives her lover."
WHEN life looks lone and dreary,
What light can expel the gloom?
When Time's swift wing grows weary,
What charm can refresh his plume?
'Tis woman, whose sweetness beameth
O'er all that we feel or see;
And if man of heaven e'er dreameth,
'Tis when he thinks purely of thee,
O woman!
Let conquerors fight for glory,
Too dearly the mead they gain;
Let patriots live in glory—
Too often they die in vain ;
Give kingdoms to those who choose 'em,
This world can offer to me
No throne like beauty's bosom,
No freedom like serving thee,
O woman!
MR. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice,
The one squeaking thus, and the other down so!
In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice,
For one was B alt, and the rest G below.
Oh! oh! Orator Puff!
One voice for one orator's surely enough.
But he still talked away spite of coughs and of frowns,
So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs
That a wag once, on hearing the orator say,
My voice is for war, asked him, Which of them, pray?
Oh! oh! &c.
Reeling homewards one evening, top-heavy with gin,
And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown,
He tripped near a sawpit, and tumbled right in,
'Sinking Fund," the last words as his noddle came down. Oh! oh! &c.
"Help! help!" he exclaimed, in his he and she tones,
'Help me out! help me out-I have broken my bones!" "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, what a bother! Why, there's two of you there, can't you help one another?" Oh! oh! &c.
DEAR aunt, in the olden time of love,
When women like slaves were spurned,
A maid gave her heart, as she would her glove,
To be teazed by a fop, and returned !
But women grow wiser as men improve,
And, though beaux, like monkeys, amuse us,
Oh! think not we'd give such a delicate gem
As the heart, to be played with or sullied by them;
No, dearest aunt, excuse us.
We may know by the head on Cupid's seal
What impression the heart will take;
If shallow the head, oh! soon we feel
What a poor impression 'twill make!
Though plagued, heaven knows! by the foolish zeal
Of the fondling fop who pursues me,
Oh think not I'd follow their desperate rule
Who get rid of the folly by wedding the fool :
No, dearest aunt! excuse me.
'Tis sweet to behold, when the billows are sleeping,
Some gay-coloured bark moving gracefully by;
No damp on her deck but the even-tides weeping,
No breath in her sails but the summer-wind's sigh.
Yet who would not turn with a fonder emotion,
To gaze on the life-boat, though rugged and worn,
Which often hath wafted o'er hills of the ocean,
The lost light of hope to the seaman forlorn!
Oh! grant that of those who in life's sunny slumber
Around us like summer-barks idly have played,
When storms are abroad we may find in the number
One friend, like the life-boat, to fly to our aid.
"It would be impossible for his Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it."-Lord Castlereagh's Speech upon Colonel M'Mahon's Appointment.
LAST night I tossed and turned in bed,
But could not sleep-at length I said,
"I'll think of Viscount Castlereagh,
And of his speeches-that's the way."
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could be.
And then I dreamed-O frightful dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;
never wrote or borrowed
Any horror half so horrid !
Methought the Prince, in whiskered state,
Before me at his breakfast sate;
On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians-
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours-
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning Post.
When lo! the papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced, O jacobinic papers!
As though they said, "Our sole design is
To suffocate his Royal Highness!"
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition,
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threatened worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the Regent's well-dressed head,
As if determined to be read!
Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly,
And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount high;
Nay, e'en Death-Warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too, and join the rest.
But oh the basest of defections!
His Letter about "predilections"-
His own dear Letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shocked with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur "et tu Brute?"
Then sunk, subdued upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!
I waked-and prayed with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this dream prove true;
Though Paper overwhelms the land,
Let it not crush the Sovereign too!"
PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.
At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh,
When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;
And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do,
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided
That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion-
For, though Hertford House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two other Houses should settle it too.
I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking when Father went mad ;
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To choose my own Minister-just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster,
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching;
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce,
Would lose all their beauty if purified once;
And think-only think-if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,
That improvement had spoiled any favourite adviser-
That Rose was grown honest, or Westmoreland wiser-
That R-d-r was, e'en by one twinkle, the brighter-
Or Liverpool's speeches but half a pound lighter-
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No! far were such dreams of improvement from me:
And it pleased me to find, at the house, where, you know,
There's such good mutton cutlets and strong curaçoa, †
That the Marchioness called me a duteous old boy,
And my Yarmouth's red whiskers grew redder for joy!
You know, my dear Freddy, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope—but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes-but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the King ever will die!
A new era's arrived-though you'd hardly believe it—
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it. -
New villas, new fêtes (which e'en Waithman attends)—
New saddles, new helmets, and-why not new friends?
I repeat it, "New Friends"-for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this Perceval tribe.
Such capering!-Such vapouring!—Such rigour!— Such
vigour !
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends-but Old Nick and Algiers.
The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.
†The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.
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