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Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
rhyme; And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er
When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
Blush'd without art, and without culture smiled-
Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders, « Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame,
And fillid with Greek the garden's blushing bor
ders ?-From Greece thy earliest splendour came,
No, no—your gentle Inas will not dom
To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,
I'll come—(pointing downwards)-you understand “Take, Freedom ! take thy radiant round
till then adieu !"
The sphere of woman's glories is the heart.
And, if our Muse have sketch'd with pencil true
The wife--the mother-firm, yet gentle too
Whose soul, wrapp'd up in ties itself hath spun, Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat,
Trembles, if touch'd in the remotest one; Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and—all that, Who loves-yet dares even Love himself disown, And wondering much what little knavish sprite When honour's broken shaft supports his throne: Had put it first in women's heads to write :
If such our Ina, she may scorn the evils,
Dire as they are, of Critics and Blue Devils.
TO THE MEMORY OF
his head, Some sunny morning, from a violet bed.
JOSEPH ATKINSON, ESQ. OF DUBLIN. “Bless me!" I starting cried, “what imp are you ?”
If ever life was prosperously cast, “A small he-devil, Ma'am--my name Bas Bleo
If ever life was like the lengthen'd flow
Light wit, that plays along the calm of life,
And stirs its languid surface into smiles; I view'd him, as he spoke--his hose were blue,
Pure charity, that comes not in a shower, His wings—the covers of the last Review
Sudden and loud, oppressing what it feeds, Cerulean, border'd with a jaundice hue,
But, like the dew, with gradual silent power,
Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads ;
And brightens every gift by fortune given,
That, wander where it will with those it loves,
All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this ston
When for thyself, thy children, to the sky Looks wise--the pretty soul !--and thinks she's Thou humbly prayest, ask this boon alone, thinking.
That ye like him may live, like him may die! By my advice Miss Indigo attends Lectures on Memory, and assures her friends, “Pon honour !--memucks)-nothing can surpass the EPITAPH ON A WELL-KNOWN POET plan
BENEATH these poppies buried deep, Of that professor--(tryng to recollect)--psha! that The bones of Bob the Bard lie hid; memory-man-
Peace to his manes ; and may he sleep That what's his name?-him I attended lately
As soundly as his readers did ! 'Pon honour, he improved my memory greatly.''
Through every sort of verse meandering,
Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, “Nav, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltleas quite- To verse that was no verse at all;
Till fiction having done enough,
To make a bard at least absurd, And give his readers quantum suff.
He took to praising George the Third : And now, in virtue of his crown,
Dooms us, poor whigs, at once to slaughter; Like Donellan of bad renown,
Poisoning us all with laurel-water. And yet at times some awkward qualms he
Felt about leaving honour's track; And though he's got a butt of Malmsey,
It may not save him from a sack.
Put to his works a finis thus.
Than did his quartos upon us !
THE SYLPH'S BALL. A SYLPH, as gay as ever sported
Her figure through the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted,
And, strange to say, he won the fair.
A pair so sorted could not show-
The Rothschild of the world below;
Lea from their mammas to consider Love as an auctioneer of features,
Who knocks them down to the best bidder. Home she was taken to his mine
A palace, paved with diamonds all-
Sent out her tickets for a ball.
And all the best ; but of the upper
A few old Sylphids who loved supper. As none yet knew the wondrous lamp
Of Davy, that renown'd Aladdin, And the Gnome's halls exhaled a damp,
Which accidents from fire were bad in; The chambers were supplied with light
By many strange, but safe devices :Large fire-flies, such as shine at night
Among the Orient's flowers and spices : Musical flint-inills-swiftly play'd
By elfin hands—that, flashing round, Like some bright glancing minstrel maid,
Gave out, at once, both light and sound; Bologna-stones, that drink the sun
And water from that Indian sea,
Cork'd up in crystal carefully;
Like little light-houses, were set up;
And pretty phosphorescent fishes,
That by their own gay light were eat up. 'Mong the few guests from Ether, came
That wicked Sylph, whom Love we cal.My Lady knew him but by name,
My Lord, her husband, not at all. Some prudent Gnomes, 't is said apprized
That he was coming, and, no doubt Alarm'd about his torch, advised
He should, by all means, be kept out. But others disapproved this plan,
And, by his flame though somewhat frighted, Thought Love too much a gentleman,
In such a dangerous place to light it.
With the fair Sylph, light as a feather:
At daybreak, down to earth together.
But for that plaguy torch-whose light, Though not yet kindled, who could tell
How soon, how devilishly it might ? And so it chanced—which in those dark
And fireless halls, was quite amazing, Did we not know how small a spark
Can set the torch of Love a-blazing. Whether it came, when close entangled
In the gay waltz, from her bright eyes, Or from the lucciole, that spangled
Her locks of jet-is all surmise. Certain it is, the ethereal girl
Did drop a spark, at some odd turning, Which, by the waltz's windy whirl,
Was fann'd up into actual burning. Oh for that lamp's metallic gauze
That curtain of protecting wireWhich Davy delicately draws
Around illicit, dangerous fire! The wall he sets 'twixt flame and air
(Like that which barr'd young Thisbe's bliss,) Through whose small holes this dangerous pair
May see each other but not kiss.'
A sign, they say, that no good boded-
And, crack! the ball-room all exploded. Sylphs, Gnomes, and fiddlers, mix'd together,
With all their aunts, sons, cousins, nicces, Like butterflies, in stormy weather,
Were blown--legs, wings, and tails—to pieces While, 'mid these victims of the lorch,
The Sylph, alas! too, bore her partFound lying, with a livid scorchi,
As if from lightning, o'er her heart !
“Well done!" a laughing goblin said,
Escaping from this gaseous strife ; “ 'T is not the first time Love has made
A blow-up in connubial life.”
REMONSTRANCE. After a conversation with 1-0 J—R-, in which he had intimated some idea of giving up all
political pursuits. What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy
Which for the mousing deeds, transacted
In holes and corners, is well fitted, But which, in sunshine, grows contracted,
As if 't would rather not admit it; As if, in short, a man would quite
Throw time away who tried to let in a Decent portion of God's light
On lawyers' mind or pussy's retina. Hence when he took to politics,
As a refreshing change of evil, Unfit with grand affairs to mix His little Nisi-Prius tricks,
Like imps at bo-peep, play'd the devil ; And proved that when a small law wit
Of statesmanship attempts the trial, 'Tis like a player on the kit
Put all at once to a bass viol. Nay, even when honest (which he could
Be, now and then,) still quibbling daily, He serv'd his country as he would
A client thief at the Old Bailey. But-do him justice-short and rare
His wish through honest paths to roam; Born with a taste for the unfair, Where falsehood callid, he still was there,
And when least honest, most at home. Thus, shuffling, bullying, lying, creeping,
He work'd his way up near the throne, And, long before he took the keeping
Of the king's conscience, lost his own.
Thou, born of a Russel-whose instinct to run The accustom'd career of thy sires, is the same
As the eaglet's, to soar with his eyes on the sun! Whose nobility comes to thee, stamp'd with a seal,
Far, far more ennobling than monarch e'er set; With the blood of thy race offer'd up for the weal
Of a nation that swears by that martyrdom yet! Shalt thou be faint-hearted and turn from the strife,
From the mighty arena where all that is grand, And devoted, and pure, and adorning in life, Is for high-thoughted spirits, like thine, to com
mand ? Oh no, never dream it-while good men despair
Between tyrants and traitors, and timid men bow, Never think, for an instant, thy country can spare
Such a light from her dark’ning horizon as thou ! With a spirit as meek as the gentlest of those
Who in life's sunny valley lie shelter'd and warm; Yet bold and heroic as ever yet rose To the top cliffs of Fortune, and breasted her
storm ; With an ardour for liberty, fresh as in youth,
It first kindles the bard, and gives life to his dyre; Yet mellow'd, even now, by that mildness of truth
Which tempers, but chills not, the patriot fire; With an eloquence—not like those rills from a height,
Which sparkle, and foam, and in vapour are o'er; But a current that works out its way into light
Through the filt'ring recesses of thought and of lore. Thus gifted, thou never canst sleep in the shade;
If the stirrings of genius, the music of fame, And the charms of thy cause have not power to per
suade, Yet think how to freedom thou 'rt pledged by thy
MY BIRTH-DAY. “My birth-day!"—What a different sound
That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white its mark appears! When first our scanty years are told, It seems like pastime to grow old; And, as youth counts the shining links
That time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last. Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said,' were he ordain'd to run His long career of life again,
He would do all that he had done."Ah! 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly-
Haply for high and pure designs,
Upon unholy, earthly shrinesOf nursing many a wrong desire
Of wandering after Love too far, And taking every meteor fire
That cross'd my pathway for his star!
Like the boughs of that laurel, by Delphi's decree,
Set apart for the fane and its service divine, All the branches that spring from the old Russel tree,
Are by liberty claim'd for the use of her shrine.
EPITAPH ON A LAWYER. HERE lies a lawyer-one whose mind (Like that of all the lawyer kind) Resembled, though so grave and stately, The pupil of a cat's eye greatly;
1 Fontenelle.--"Si je recommençais ma carrière, Je fe rais tout ce que j'ai fait"
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
Which hath been more than wealth to me; Those friendships in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly, And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've found, Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy round!
Oh! what is happier than to find
Our hearts at ease, our perils past; When, anxious long, the lighten'd mind
Lays down its load of care at last ?When, tired with toil on land and deep,
Again we tread the welcome floor Of our own home, and sink to sleep
On the long-wish'd-for bed once more? This, this it is that pays alone
The ills of all life's former trackShine out, my beautiful, my own
Sweet Sirmio-greet thy master back. And thou, fair lake, whose water quaffs
The light of heaven, like Lydia's sea, Rejoice, rejoice-let all that laughs
Abroad, at home, laugh out for me!
FANCY. The more I've view'd this world, the more I've found
That, fill’d as 't is with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands, within her own bright round,
A world of scenes and creatures far more fair. Nor is it that her power can call up there
A single charm that's not from Nature won, No more than rainbows, in their pride, can wear
A single tint unborrow'd from the sun-
One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Colours as gay as those on angels' wings !
TO MY MOTHER.
Written in a Pocket-Book, 1822. Tuey tell us of an Indian tree
Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky May tempt its boughs to wander free,
And shoot and blossom, wide and high, Far better loves to bend its arms
Downward again to that dear earth From which the life, that fills and warms
Its grateful being, first had birth. "T is thus, though woo'd by flattering friends,
And fed with fame (if fame it be,) This heart, my own dear mother, bends,
With love's true instinct, back to thee!
LOVE AND HYMEN. Love had a fever-ne'er could close
His little eyes till day was breaking ; And whimsical enough, Heaven knows,
The things he raved about while waking. To let him pine so were a sin
One to whom all the world's a debtorSo Doctor Ilymen was call'd in,
And Love that night slept rather better. Next day the case gave further hope yet,
Though still some ugly fever latent ;“Dose, as before"-a gentle opiate,
For which old Hymen has a patent. After a month of daily call,
So fast the dose went on restoring, That Love, who first ne'er slept at all,
Now took, the rogue! to downright snoring.
ILLUSTRATION OF A BORE. If ever you've seen a gay party,
Relieved from the pressure of NedHow instantly joyous and hearty
They've grown when the damper was fledYou may guess what a gay piece of work,
What delight to champagne it must be, To get rid of its re of a cork,
And come sparkling to you, love, and me!
The best that I know for a lover of pelf
And then sell him at that which he sets on himself
TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS.
Of all peninsulas and isles
Or sleep, enwreathed by Neptune's smiles, How gladly back to thee I fly!
Still doubting, asking can it be That I have left Bithynia's sky,
And gaze in safety upon thee?
Immortal life into her soul,
One drop of doubt into the bowlWhich, mingling darkly with the stream,
To Psyche's lips—she knew not why
And, though there ne'er was rapture given
Like Psyche's with that radiant boy, Hers is the only face in heaven
That wears a cloud amid its joy.
FROM THE FRENCH. Of all the men one meets about,
There's none like Jack-he's every where : At church-park-auction-dinner-rout
Go when and where you will, he's there. Try the West End, he's at your back
Meets you, like Eurus, in the East You 're call'd upon for “How do, Jack ?"
One hundred times a-day, at least. A friend of his one evening said,
As home he took his pensive way, " Upon my soul, I fear Jack's dead
I've seen him but three times to-day!"
Whoe'er was in, whoe'er was out
Whatever statesmen did or said If not exactly brought about,
Was all, at least, contrived by Ned. With Nap if Russia went to war,
'T was owing, under Providence, To certain hints Ned gave the Czar
(Vide his pamphlet-price six pence.) If France was beat at Waterloo
As all, but Frenchmen, think she was To Ned, as Wellington well knew,
Was owing half that day's applause. Then for his news—no envoy's bag
E’er pass'd so many secrets through itScarcely a telegraph could wag
Its wooden finger, but Ned knew it.
With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness
ness; But where to choose the locale of my vision
In this wide vulgar world—what real spot Can be found out, sufficiently elysian
For two such perfect lovers, I know not.
Such tales he had of foreign plots,
With foreign names one's ear to buzz inFrom Russia chefs and ofs in lots,
From Poland owskis by the dozen. When GEORGE, alarm'd for England's creed,
Turn'd out the last Whig ministry, And men ask'd-who advised the deed ?
Ned modestly confess'd 't was he. For though, by somo unlucky miss,
He had not downright seen the King,