Billeder på siden

Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stain'd, What! choose a heroine from that Gothic time,
And waved it round her beauteous brow. When no one waltz'd, and none but monks could

rhyme; And Fancy bid me mark where, o'er

When lovely woman, all unschool'd and wild,
Her altar as its flame ascended,

Blush'd without art, and without culture smiled-
Fair laurell'd spirits seem'd to soar,

Simple as flowers, while yet unclass'd they shone,
Who thus in song their voices blended :- Ere Science call'd their brilliant world her own,

Ranged the wild rosy things in learned orders, « Shine, shine for ever, glorious flame,

And fillid with Greek the garden's blushing bor
Divinest gift of God to men!

ders ?-From Greece thy earliest splendour came,

No, no—your gentle Inas will not dom
To Greece thy ray returns again

To-morrow evening, when the lights burn blue,

I'll come—(pointing downwards)-you understand “Take, Freedom ! take thy radiant round

till then adieu !"
When dimm'd, revive-when lost, return;
Till not a shrine through earth be found, And has the sprite been here ? No—jests apart-
On which thy glories shall not burn! Howe'er man rules in science and in art,

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,
Sudden I saw-as in some witching dream-

Dire as they are, of Critics and Blue Devils.
A bright-blue glory round my book-case beam,
From whose quick-opening folds of azure light,
Out flew a tiny form, as small and bright

As Puck the Fairy, when he pops

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
A bookish sprite, much given to routs and reading: Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,
'T is I who teach your spinsters of good breeding 'Twas his who, mourn'd by many, sleeps below.
The reigning taste in chemistry and caps,
The last new bounds of tuckers and of maps, The sunny temper, bright were all its strife,
And, when the waltz has twirl'd her giddy brain, The simple heart that mocks at worldly wiles,
With metaphysics twirl it back again!

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,
And tinsell'd gaily o'er, for evening wear,

Felt in the bloom it leaves among the meads ;
Till the next quarter brings a new-fledged pair.
"Inspired by me-(pursued this waggish Fairy)- The happy grateful spirit, that improves
That best of wives and Sapphos, Lady Mary,

And brightens every gift by fortune given,
Votary alike of Crispin and the Muse,

That, wander where it will with those it loves,
Makes her own splay-foot epigrams and shoes. Makes every place a home, and home a heaven:
For me the eyes of young Camilla shine,
And mingle Love's blue brilliances with mine;

All these were his.-Oh! thou who read'st this ston
For me she sits apart, from coxcombs shrinking,

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,
Here, curtseying low, I ask'd the blue-legg'd sprite, Bob went without a hitch or fall,
What share he had in this our play to-night.

Through Epic, Sapphic, Alexandrine, “Nav, there--(he cried)--there I am guiltleas quite- To verse that was no verse at all;


[ocr errors]

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.
Death, weary of so dull a writer,

Put to his works a finis thus.
Oh! may the earth on him lie lighter

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.
The annals of the oldest witch

A pair so sorted could not show-
But how refuse?—the Gnome was rich,

The Rothschild of the world below;
And Sylphs, like other pretty creatures,

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-
And, proud as Lady Gnome to shine,

Sent out her tickets for a ball.
The lower world, of course, was there,

And all the best ; but of the upper
The sprinkling was but shy and rare-

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,
Whose wares at night like wild-fire run,

Cork'd up in crystal carefully;
Glow-worms, that round the tiny dishes,

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.
However, there he was—and dancing

With the fair Sylph, light as a feather:
They look'd like two young sunbeams, glancing,

At daybreak, down to earth together.
And all had gone off safe and well,

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.'
At first the torch look'd rather bluely-

A sign, they say, that no good boded-
Then quick the gas became unruly,

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 !

[ocr errors]
[blocks in formation]

“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 JR-, 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;
Far otherwise-of time it tells

Lavish'd unwisely, carelessly-
Of counsel mock'd-of talents, made

Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israei's incense, laid

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,
With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All—but that freedom of the mind

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-
But 't is the mental medium it shines through,
That lends to beauty all its charm and hue;
As the same light, that o'er the level lake

One dull monotony of lustre flings,
Will, entering in the rounded rain-drop, make

Colours as gay as those on angels' wings !


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!


Or all speculations the market holds forth,

The best that I know for a lover of pelf
Is, to buy ****** up, at the price he is worth,

And then sell him at that which he sets on himself

SWEET Sirmio! thou, the very eye

Of all peninsulas and isles
That in our lakes of silver lie,

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?

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed

Immortal life into her soul,
Some evil spirit pour'd, 'tis said,

One drop of doubt into the bowlWhich, mingling darkly with the stream,

To Psyche's lips—she knew not why

[blocks in formation]

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.

I JAVE a story of two lovers, fill'd

With all the pure romance, the blissful sadness
And the sad doubtful bliss, that ever thrill'd
Two young and longing hearts in that sweet mad-

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,

1 Psalmanazar.

« ForrigeFortsæt »