Din horrible! as though the rebel train Had sprung from chaos, fought, and fall'n again, Raves the high bolt: how yon old structure fell; How every cranny trembled with the yell Of frighted owls, whose secret haunts forlorn Were from their kindred vaults and windings torn; Of bold Antiquity's rough pencil born. Thrice Fancy leads the dismal echo round, And paints the spectre gliding o'er the ground. From ev'ry turret, ev'ry vanquish'd tower, In heaps confused the broken fragments pour; And, as they plunge toward the pebbly grave, Like wizard wand, draw circles in the wave. Meand'ring stream! thy liquid jaws extend, Anoint with Lethe now thy fallen friend. Again the heralds of the thunder fly, In forky squadrons, from the trembling sky!

Again the thunder its harsh menace swells, And light-wing'd echoes hail the humbled cells! Weep, weep, ye clouds! with heav'n-bespangled tears; And, ah! if pity rules your sacred spheres, Invoke the thunder to withstay its rage, Disarm its fury, and its wrath assuage.

But now, Aurora, from the Ocean's verge, Trims her gray lamp, to light the mournful dirge. She comes, to light the ruinated heap: But lights, to wake the pensive soul to weep!



ON THE DEATH OF NELSON.

Swift through the land while Fame transported flies, And shouts triumphant shake th' illumined skies; Britannia, bending o'er her dauntless prows, With laurels thickening round her blazon'd brows, In joy dejected, sees her triumph cross'd, Exults in Victory won, but mourns the Victor lost. Immortal NELSON! still with fond amaze Thy glorious deed each British eye surveys, Beholds thee still, on conquer'd floods afar: Fate's flaming shaft! the thunderbolt of war! Hurl'd from thy hands, Britannia's vengeance roars, And bloody billows stain the hostile shores: Thy sacred ire Confed'rate Kingdoms braves, And 'whelms their Navies in Sepulchral waves! —Graced with each attribute which Heaven supplies To Godlike Chiefs: humane, intrepid, wise: His Nation's Bulwark, and all Nature's pride, The Hero lived, and as he lived—he died: Transcendant destiny! how bless'd the brave, Whose fall his Country's tears attend, shower'd on his trophied grave!



THE BLUE-EYED MAID.

Sweet are the hours when roseate spring With health and joy salutes the day. When zephyr, borne on wanton wing, Soft whispering, wakes the blushing May. Sweet are the hours, yet not so sweet As when my blue-eyed Maid I meet, And hear her soul-entrancing tale, Sequester'd in the shadowy vale.

The mellow horn's long-echoing notes Startle the morn, commingling strong; At eve, the harp's wild music floats. And ravish'd Silence drinks the song. Yet sweeter is the song of love, When EMMA'S voice enchants the grove, While listening sylphs repeat the tale, Sequester'd in the silent vale.



TAKING ORDERS.

A TALE, FOUNDED ON FACT.

A parson once—and poorer he Than ever parson ought to be; Yet not so proud as some from College, Who fancy they alone have knowledge; Who only learn to dress and drink, And, strange to say, still seem to think That no real talent's to be found Except within their classic ground; Yet prove that Cam's nor Oxon's plains Can't furnish empty skulls with brains. But for my tale—Our churchman came, And, in religion's honour'd name, Sought Cam's delightful classic borders, To be prefer'd to Holy Orders. Chance led him to the Trav'llers' Inn, Where living's cheap, and often whim Enlivens many a weary soul, And helps, in the o'erflowing bowl, In spite of fogs, and threatening weather, To drown both grief and gloom together:— (Oh, Wit! thou'rt like a little blue, Soft cloud, in summer breaking through A frowning one, and lighting it Till darkness fadeth bit by bit; And Whim to thee is near allied, And follows closely at thy side; So oft, oh, Wit! I'm told that she By some folks is mista'en for thee; Yet I may say unto my eyes, Just whereabouts the difference lies; One's diamond quite, and, to my taste, The other is but Dovey's Paste.)— He there a ready welcome found From one who travell'd England round: "Sir, your obedient—quite alone? I'm truly happy you are come: Pray, sir, be seated;—business dull;— Or else this room had now been full; Orders and cash are strangers here, And every thing looks dev'lish queer; Bad times these, sir, sad lack of wealth; Must hope for better;—Sir, your health!" Then added, with inquiring face, "Come to take Orders in this place?"

"Yes, sir, I am," replied the priest: "With that intent I came at least." "Ha! ha! I knew it very well; We business-men can others tell: Often before I've seen your face, Though memory can't recal the place— Ah! now I have it; head of mine! You travel in the button line?"

"Begging your pardon, sir, I fear Some error has arisen here; You have mista'en my trade divine, But, sir, the worldly loss is mine— I travel in a much worse line."



THE GIPSY'S HOME.

A GLEE.

Sung by Messrs. PYNE, NELSON, Miss WITHAM, and Master LONGHURST.—Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

We, who the wide world make our home; The barren heath our cheerful bed; Careless o'er mount and moor we roam, And never tears of sorrow shed. But merrily, O! Merrily, O! Through this world of care we go.

Love, that a palace left in tears, Flew to our houseless feast of mirth: For here, unfetter'd, beauty cheers, The heaven alone that's found on earth! Then merrily, O! Merrily, O! Through this world of care we go.



SONNET.

THE BEGGAR.

Of late I saw him on his staff reclined, Bow'd down beneath a weary weight of woes, Without a roof to shelter from the wind His head, all hoar with many a winter's snows. All trembling he approach'd, he strove to speak; The voice of misery scarce my ear assail'd; A flood of sorrow swept his furrow'd cheek, Remembrance check'd him, and his utt'rance fail'd. For he had known full many a better day; And when the poor man at his threshold bent, He drove him not with aching heart away, But freely shared what Providence had sent. How hard for him, the stranger's boon to crave, And live to want the mite his bounty gave!



TO ———.

Come, JENNY, let me sip the dew That on those coral lips doth play, One kiss would every care subdue, And bid my weary soul be gay.

For surely thou wert form'd by love To bless the suff'rer's parting sigh; In pity then my griefs remove, And on that bosom let me die!



SONG.

THE RECAL OF THE HERO.

When Discord blew her fell alarm On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, When Usurpation's giant arm Enslaved the nations round: The thunders of avenging Heaven To NELSON'S chosen hand were given! By NELSON'S chosen hand were hurl'd, To rescue the devoted world!

The tyrant power, his vengeance dread To Egypt's shores pursued; At Trafalgar its hydra-head For ever sunk subdued. The freedom of mankind was won! The hero's glorious task was done! When Heaven, Oppression's ensigns furl'd, Recall'd him from the rescued world.



TO ELIZA.

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM.

I dare not spoil this spotless page With any feeble verse of mine; The Poet's fire has lost its rage, Around his lyre no myrtles twine.

The voice of fame cannot recal Those fairy days of past delight, When pleasure seem'd to welcome all, And morning hail'd a welcome night.

E'en love has lost its soothing power, Its spells no more can chain my soul; I must not venture in the bower, Where Wit and Verse and Wine controul.

And yet, I fear, in thoughtless mirth I once did say, Eliza, dear! That I would tell the world thy worth, And write the living record here.

Come Love, and Truth, and Friendship, come, Enwreath'd in Virtue's snowy arms, With magic rhymes the page illume, And fancy sketch her varied charms—

Which o'er the cares of home has thrown A thousand blessings, deep engraved, For every heart she makes her own, And every friend is free-enslaved.

No Inspiration o'er my pen Glows with the lightning's vivid spell; My soul is sad—forgive me then, My heart's too full the tale to tell!

Yet, if the humblest poet's theme Be welcome in Eliza's name; Then, angel, give the cheering gleam, For thy approving smile is fame!



ELEGY

On THE DEATH OF

ABRAHAM GOLDSMID, ESQ.

When stern Misfortune, monitress severe! Dissolves Prosperity's enchanting dreams, And, chased from Man's probationary sphere, Fair Hope withdraws her vivifying beams.

If then, untaught to bend at Heaven's high will, The desp'rate mortal dares the dread unknown, To future fate appeals from present ill, And stands, uncall'd, before th' Eternal throne!

Shall justice there immutably decide? Dread thought! which Reason trembles to explore, She feels, be mercy granted or denied, 'Tis her's in dumb submission to adore.

Yet, could the self-doom'd victim be forgiven His final error, for his merits past; Could virtuous life, propitiating Heaven With former deeds, extenuate the last:

Then GOLDSMID! Mercy, to thy humble shrine, Angel of heaven beloved, should wing her flight, Should in her bosom bid thy head recline, And waft thee onward to the realms of light.

And, oh! could human intercession plead, Breathed ardent to'ards that undiscover'd shore, What hearts unnumber'd for thy fate that bleed, Would warm oblations for thy pardon pour.

Misfortune's various tribes thy worth should tell, Whose acts to no peculiar sect confined; Impartial, with expansive bounty fell, Like heaven's refreshing dews on all mankind.

Where stern Disease his rankling arrows sped, While Want, with hard inexorable band, Strew'd keener thorns on Pain's afflictive bed, And urged the flight of life's diminish'd sand.

By hostile stars oppress'd, where Talent toil'd, Encountering fate with perseverance vain; The Merchant's hopes, when War's dire arm despoil'd, Or tempests 'whelm'd in the remorseless main.

GOLDSMID! thy hand benign assuagement spread, Sustain'd pale sickness, drooping o'er the tomb; Raised modest Merit from his lowly shed, And gave Misfortune's blasted hopes to bloom.

Yet wealth, too oft perverted from its end, Suspends the noblest functions of the soul; Where, chill'd as Apathy's cold frosts, extends, Compassion's sacred stream forgets to roll.

And oft, where seeming Pity moves the mind, From self's mean source the liberal current flows; While Ostentation, insolently kind, Wounds while he soothes, insults while he bestows.

But thy free bounty, undebased by pride, Prompt to anticipate the meek request, Unask'd the wants of modest Worth supplied, And spared the pang that shook the suppliant's breast.

Yet say! on Fortune's orb, which o'er thy head Blazed forth erewhile pre-eminently bright, When dark Adversity her eclipse spread, And veil'd its splendours in petrific night!

Did those, thy benefits had placed on high, Who revell'd still in wealth's meridian ray; Did those impatient to thy succour fly, Anxious the debt of gratitude to pay?

Or, thy fall'n fortunes coldly whispering round, Scowl'd they aloof in that disastrous hour? On keen Misfortune's agonizing wound Did foul Ingratitude her poisons pour?

If thy distress such aggravation knew, Thy first reverse could such perdition wait; Well might Despair thy generous heart subdue, And Desperation close the scene of fate.

Yet while Distraction urged her purpose dire, Rose not, at Nature's interposed command, The sacred claims of Brother, Husband, Sire, To win the weapon from thy lifted hand?

Ah, yes! and ere that agony was o'er, Ere yet thy soul its last resolve embraced, What pangs could equal those thy breast that tore, Thy breast with Nature's tenderest feelings graced?

Those only which, at thy accomplish'd fate, That home display'd, thy smiles were wont to bless; That dreadful scene what language can relate, What words describe that exquisite distress.

The Muse recedes—in Grief's domestic scene Th' intrusive gaze prophanes the tears that flow: Drop, Pity! there thy hallowed veil between; Guard, Silence! there the sacredness of woe.

Nor let the sectarist, whose faith austere Pretends alone to point th' eternal road; Proud of his creed, pronounce with voice severe, All else excluded from the blest abode.

If error thine, not GOLDSMID! thine the fault, Since first thy infant years instruction drew; From youth's gradations up to manhood taught That faith to reverence which thy fathers knew.

In Retribution's last tremendous hour, When its pale captives, long in dust declined, The grave shall yield, and time shall death devour, When He who saved, shall come to judge mankind.

While Christian-infidels shall tremble round, Who call'd HIM Master! whom their acts denied: Imputed faith may in thy deeds be found, And thy eternal doom those deeds decide.



SONNET.

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Sweet songstress! whom the melancholy Muse With more than fondness loved, for thee she strung The lyre, on which herself enraptured hung, And bade thee through the world its sweets diffuse. Oft hath my childhood's tributary tear Paid homage to the sad harmonious strain, That told, alas! too true, the grief and pain Which thy afflicted mind was doom'd to bear. Rest, sainted spirit! from a life of woe, And though no friendly hand on thee bestow The stately marble, or emblazon'd name, To tell a thoughtless world who sleeps below: Yet o'er thy narrow bed a wreath shall blow. Deriving vigour from the breath of fame!



MISTER PUNCH.

A HASTY SKETCH.

Who stops the Minister of State, When hurrying to the Lords' debate? Who, spite of gravity beguiles, The solemn Bishop of his smiles? See from the window, "burly big," The Judge pops out his awful wig, Yet, seems to love a bit of gig!—While both the Sheriffs and the Mayor Forget the "Address"—and stop to stare—And who detains the Husband true, Running to Doctor Doode-Doo, To save his Wife "in greatest danger;" While e'en the Doctor keeps the stranger Another hour from life and light, To gape at the bewitching sight. The Bard, in debt, whom Bailiffs ferret, Despite his poetry and merit, Stops in his quick retreat awhile, And tries the long-forgotten smile; E'en the pursuing Bum forgets His business, and the man of Debts; The one neglecting "Caption"—"Bail"— The other "thoughts of gyves and Jail"— So wondrous are the spells that bind The noble and ignoble mind. The Paviour halts in mid-grunt—stands With rammer in his idle hands; And quite refined, and at his ease, Forgetting onions, bread, and cheese, The hungry Drayman leaves his lunch, To take a peep at Mister Punch.

Delightful thy effects to see, Thou charm of age and infancy! The old Man clears his rheumy eye, The six months' Babe forgets to cry; No passers by—all fondly gloat, So welcome is thy cheering note, Which time nor taste has ever changed; And after every clime we've ranged, Return to thee—our childhood's joy, And, spite of age, still play the boy!

Yon pious Thing who walks by rule, Unconscious laughs, and plays the fool, And by his side the prim old Maid Looks "welcome fun" and "who's afraid." Behold, that happy ruddy face, In which there seems no vacant place, That could another joy impart, For one laugh more would break his heart. And, lo, behind! his sober Brother, Striving in vain the laugh to smother. That giggling Girl must burst outright, For Punch has now possess'd her quite. While She, who ran to Chemist's shop For life or death—here finds a stop: Forgets for whom—for what—she ran, And leaves to Heaven the bleeding man! The Parish Beadle, gilded calf, Lays by his terror, joins the laugh, Permits poor souls, without offence, To sell their fruit and count their pence, And, as by humour grown insane, Allows the boys to touch his cane! Poor little Sweep true comfort quaffs, Ceases to cry—and loudly laughs. See! what a wondrous powerful spell Punch holds o'er Dustman and his bell; And scolding Wife with clapper still— The Landlord quits awhile his till, While Pot-boy, busiest of the bunch, Steals pence for self, and beer for Punch. Look at that window, you may trace At every pane a laughing face. Yon graceful Girl and her smart Lover, And in the story just above her, The Housemaid, with her hair in papers, All finding Punch a cure for vapours. E'en the pale Dandy, fresh from France, Throws on the group an eye askance; Twirls his moustache, and seems to fear That some gay friend may catch him here. The Widowed wretch, who only fed, On bitter thoughts and tear-wash'd bread, Forgets her cares, and seems to smile To see friend Punch her babe beguile. Magician of the wounded heart, Oh! there thy wonted aid impart: Long be the merryman of our Isle, And win the universal smile!



CONTENT.

In some lone hamlet it were better far To live unknown amid Contentment's isle, Than court the bauble of an air-blown star, Or barter honour for a prince's smile!

Hail! tranquil-brow'd Content, forth sylvan god, Who lov'st to sit beside some cottage fire, Where the brown presence of the blazing clod Regales the aspect of the aged sire.

There, when the Winter's children, bleak and cold, Are through December's gloomy regions led; The church-yard tale of sheeted ghost is told, While fix'd attention dares not turn its head.

Or if the tale of ghost, or pigmy sprite, Is stripp'd by theme more cheerful of its power, The song employs the early dim of night, Till village-curfew counts a later hour.

And oft the welcome neighbour loves to stop, To tell the market news, to laugh, and sing, O'er the loved circling jug, whose old brown top Is wet with kisses from the florid ring!

There, whilst the cricket chirps its chimney song, Within some crumbling chink, with moss embrown'd, The lighted stick diverts the infant throng, And fans are waved, and ribbands twirl'd around.

Entwine for me the wreath of rural mirth, And blast the murm'ring fiend, from chaos sent; Then, while the house-dog snores upon the hearth, I'll sit, and hail thy sacred name, CONTENT!



EPITAPH.

ON MATILDA.

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone, The humble tribute of a friend unknown; To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim, And add to misery's scroll another name. Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid Within the early grave thy sorrows made. Sleep on!—his heart still holds thy image dear, Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear; Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd. That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave; 'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive. When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom, That promised health and joy for years to come, Methought the lily nature proudly gave, Would never wither in th' untimely grave.

Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower! Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow; Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe; Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there. Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly? And, ah! what then was left thee—but to die! Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath, Or mingled solace with the pangs of death: No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven, Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n: But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come, And hovering angels hail'd their sister home. I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse. Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell; Accept its offering, while it heaves—farewell!



TO ———.

AN IMPROMPTU.

O Sue! you certainly have been A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen Each laughing love's bewitching feature!

For thou hast stolen many a heart; And robb'd the sweetness of the rose; Placed on that cheek, it doth impart More lovely tints—more fragrant blows!

Yes, thou art Nature's favourite child, Array'd in smiles, seducing, killing; Did Joseph live, you'd drive him wild, And set his very soul a-thrilling!

A poet, much too poor to live, Too poor in this rich world to rove; Too poor for aught but verse to give, But not, thank God, too poor to love!

Gives thee his little doggerel lay;—One truth I tell, in sorrow tell it: I'm forced to give my verse away, Because, alas! I cannot sell it.

And should you with a critic's eye Proclaim me 'gainst the Muse a sinner, Reflect, dear girl I that such as I, Six times a-week don't get a dinner.

And want of comfort, food, and wine, Will damp the genius, curb the spirit: These wants I'll own are often mine;—But can't allow a want of merit.

For every stupid dog that drinks At poet's pond, nicknamed divine; Say what he will, I know he thinks That all he writes is wondrous fine!



THE STEAM-BOAT.

Say, dark prow'd visitant! that o'er the brine Stalk'st proudly—heeding not what wind may blow, What chart, what compass, shapes that course of thine, Whence didst thou come, and whither dost thou go?

Art thou a Monster born of sky and sea? Art thou a Pagod moving in thine ire? Were I a Savage I must bend to thee, A Ghiber? I must own thee "God of fire."

The affrighted billows fly thy hissing rout, Thy wake is followed by turmoil and din, Blackness and darkness track thy course without, And fire and groans and vapours strive within.

And they who cling about thee—who are they? And canst thou be that fabled boat, that waits On the dark banks of Styx for souls? Oh, say! Let me not burst in ignorance—thy freight.

Thus spake I, wandering near the Brighton shore, Straining my very eye-balls from my Cab; First came two "ten-horse" laughs—and then a roar, "Be off, queer Chap, or I'll soon stop your gab!"

Then swept she onward, breathing mist and cloud, While from my bosom this reflection broke; Although I think the steam-boat something proud, Such lofty questions often end in smoke. To all Grandiloquents a hint I deem it, And whilst I live, I'll ever such esteem it.



SONNET.

TO LYDIA,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

Bless'd be the hour that gave my LYDIA birth, The day be sacred 'mid each varying year; How oft the name recals thy spotless worth, And joys departed, still to memory dear! If matchless friendship, constancy, and love, Have power to charm, or one sad grief beguile, 'Tis thine the gloom of sorrow to remove, And on the tearful cheek imprint a smile. May every after-season to thee bring New joys, to cheer life's dark eventful way, Till time shall close thee in his pond'rous wing, And angels waft thee to eternal day! Loved friend, farewell! thy name this heart shall fill, Till memory sinks, and all its griefs are still!



TO SARAH, WHILE SINGING.

Written at the Cottage of T. LEWIS, Esq. Woodbury Downs.

In the retirement of this lovely spot, Sacred to friendship, industry, and worth, To boundless hospitality and mirth, Be ever peace and joy—all care forgot, Save that which carest for a higher, holier, lot!

And thou, sweet girl, whose lovely modest mien, Cheers the gay banquet with unconscious wiles, Long mayest thou grace it with affection's smiles, The vocal syren of this sylvan scene. Warbling thy sweetest notes 'midst flowers and woodlands green.

Long be the social circle's grace and pride, Of parents' hopes, the dearest and the best, "The Dove of promise to this ark of rest:" Who, when around the world's fierce billows ride, Beareth the branch that speaks of the receding tide!

July, 1827



TO THADDEUS.[1]

Farewell! loved youth, for still I hold thee dear, Though thou hast left me friendless and alone; Still, still thy name recals the heartfelt tear, That hastes MATILDA to her wish'd-for home.

Why leave the wretch thy perfidy hath made, To journey cheerless through the world's wide waste? Say, why so soon does all thy kindness fade, And doom me, thus, affliction's cup to taste?

Ungen'rous deed! to fly the faithful maid Who, for thy arms, abandon'd every friend; Oh! cruel thought, that virtue, thus betray'd, Should feel a pang that death alone can end.

Yet I'll not chide thee—And when hence you roam, Should my sad fate one tear of pity move, Ah! then return! this bosom's still thy home, And all thy failings I'll repay with love.

Believe me, dear, at midnight, or at morn, In vain exhausted nature strives to rest, Thy absence plants my pillow with a thorn, And bids me hope no more, on earth, for rest.

But if unkindly you refuse to hear, And from despair thy poor MATILDA have; Ah! don't deny one tributary tear, To glisten sweetly o'er my early grave.

MATILDA.

[Footnote 1: The above lines were written at the request of a lady, and meant to describe the feelings of one "who loved not wisely, but too well."]



YOUTH AND AGE.

I love the joyous thoughtless heart, The revels of the youthful mind, 'Ere sad experience points the dart, Which wounds so surely all mankind.

It glads me when the buoyant soul, Unconscious ranges, fancy free, Draining the sweets of pleasure's bowl, And thinking all as blest as he.

Ah! me, yet sad it is to know, The many griefs the future brings, That time must change that note to woe, Which now its merry carrol sings.

This "summer of the mind," alas! Must have its autumn—leafless, bare, When all these pleasing phantoms pass, And end in winter, age, and care!

Such, such is life, the moral tells— The tempest, and its sunny smiles, A warning voice the cheerful bells, The knell of death, our youth beguiles!



SENT FOR THE ALBUM

OF THE REV. G—— C——,

With a Drawing of the Head of an Eminent Artist.

Dear Sir, you remember, when Herod of Jewry Had given a ball, how a shocking old fury Demanded, so bent was the vixen on slaughter. The head of St. John at the hand of her daughter: Now do not detest me, nor hold me in dread, Because, like King Herod, I send you a head: Not a saint's, by-the-bye, although taken from life, But a head of my friend, by the hand of my wife.



WRITTEN

UNDER AN ELEGANT DRAWING OF A DEAD CANARY BIRD,

By Miss A.M. TURNER, Daughter of the Eminent Engraver.

Death to the very life! not the closed eye, Not those small paralytic limbs alone, But every feather tells so mournfully Thy fate, and that thy little life has flown.

Manhood forbids that I should weep, and yet Sadness comes o'er my spirit, and I stand Gazing intensely, and with mute regret, Turn from the wonder of the artist's hand.

Exquisite artist! could I praise thee more Than by the silent admiration? no! And now I try to praise I must deplore How feeble is the verse that tells thee so; But thou art gaining for thyself a fame Worthy thyself, thy sex, and thy dear father's name!



LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE DEATH OF

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Genius of England! wherefore to the earth Is thy plumed helm, thy peerless sceptre cast? Thy courts of late with minstrelsy and mirth Rang jubilant, and dazzling pageants past; Kings, heroes, martial triumphs, nuptial rites—

Now, like a cypress, shiver'd by the blast, Or mountain-cedar, which the lightning smites, In dust and darkness sinks thy head declined, Thy tresses streaming wild on ocean's reckless wind.

Art thou not glorious?—In that night of storms, When He, in Power's supremacy elate, Gaul's fierce Usurper! fulminating fate, The Goth's barbaric tyranny restored, And science, art, and all life's fairer forms, Sunk to the dark dominion of the sword: Didst thou not, champion of insulted man! Confront this stern Destroyer in his pride? Didst thou not crush him in the battle shock, While recent victory shouted in his van, And shrunk the nations, shadow'd by his stride? Yea, chain him howling to yon desert rock, Where, thronging ghastly from uncounted graves, His victims murmur 'midst the groans of waves, And mock his soul's despair, his deep blaspheming ban!

Nor erst, in Liberty's avenging day, When, launching lightnings in her wrath divine, She rose, and gave to never-dying fame, Platae, Marathon, Thermopylae, Did each, did all, sublimer laurels twine Round Graecia's conquering brows, than Waterloo on thine!

Then, wherefore, Albion! terror-struck, subdued, Sitt'st thou, thy state foregone, thy banner furl'd? What dire infliction shakes that fortitude, Which propt the falling fortunes of the world?— Hush! hark! portentous, like a withering spell From lips unblest—strange sounds mine ear appal; Now the dread omens more distinctly swell— That thrilling shriek from Claremont's royal hall, The death-note peal'd from yon terrific bell, The deepening gale with lamentation swoln— These, Albion! these, too eloquently tell, That from her radiant sphere, thy brightest star has fall'n!

And art thou gone?—graced vision of an hour! Daughter of Monarchs! gem of England's crown! Thou loveliest lily! fair imperial flower! In beauty's vernal bloom to dust gone down; Gone when, dispers'd each inauspicious cloud, In blissful sunshine 'gan thy hopes to glow: From pain's fierce grasp, no refuge but the shroud, Destin'd a Mother's pangs, but not her joys, to know.

Lost excellence! what harp shall hymn thy worth, Nor wrong the theme? conspicuously in thee, Beyond the blind pre-eminence of birth, Shone Nature in her own regality! Coerced, thy Spirit smiled, sedate in pride, Fixt as the pine, while circling storms contend; But, when in Life's serener duties tried, How sweetly did its gentle essence blend, All-beauteous in the wife, the daughter, and the friend!

Not lull'd in langours, indolent and weak, Nor winged by pleasure, fled thy early hours; But ceaseless vigils blanch'd thy virgin cheek, In silent Study's dim-sequester'd bowers: Propitious there, to thy admiring mind, With brow unveil'd, consenting Science came; There Taste awoke her sympathies refined; There Genius, kindling his etherial flame, Led thy young soul the Muse's heights to dare, And mount on Milton's wing, and breathe empyreal air!

But chiefly, conscious of thy promised throne, Intent to grace that destiny sublime; Thou sought'st to make the historic page thine own, And win the treasures of recorded time; The forms of polity, the springs of power, Exploring still with inexhausted zeal; Still, the pole-star which led thy studious hour Through Thought's unfolding tracts—thy Country's weal! While Fancy, radiant with unearthly charms, Thus breathed the whisper Wisdom sanctified: "Eliza's, Anna's glories, arts, or arms, Beneath thy sway shall blaze revivified, And still prolonged, and still augmenting, shine Interminably bright in thy illustrious line!"

'Tis past—thy name, with every charm it bore, Melts on our souls, like music heard no more, The dying minstrel's last ecstatic strain, Which mortal hand shall never wake again— But, if, blest spirit! in thy shrine of light, Life's visions rise to thy celestial sight; If that bright sphere where raptured seraphs glow, Permit communion with this world of woe; And sore, if thus our fond affections deem, Hope mocks us not, for Heaven inspires the dream— Benignant shade! the beatific kiss That seal'd thy welcome to the shores of bliss, No holier joy instill'd, than then wilt feel If thine the task thy kindred's woes to heal; If hovering yet, with viewless ministry, In scenes which Memory consecrates to thee, Thou soothe with binding balm which grief endears, A Sire's, a Husband's, and—a Mother's tears!—

Till Pity's self expire, a Nation's sighs, Spontaneous incense! o'er thy tomb shall rise: And, 'midst the dark vicissitudes that wait Earth's balanced empires in the scales of Fate, Be thou OUR angel-advocate the while, And gleam, a guardian saint, around thy native isle!



THE PRESUMPTUOUS FLY.

Sung by Mr. PYNE.—Composed by Mr. ROOKE.

Come away, come away, little fly! Don't disturb the sweet calm of lore's nest; If you do, I protest you shall die, And your tomb be that beautiful breast. Don't tickle the girl in her sleep, Don't cause so much beauty to sigh; If she frown, half the graces will weep, If she weep, all the graces will die. Come away, little fly, &c.

Now she wakes! steal a kiss and be gone; Life is precious: away, little fly! Should your rudeness provoke her to scorn, You'll meet death from the glance of her eye. Were I ask'd by fair Chloe to say How I felt, as the flutterer I chid; I should own, as I drove it away, I wish'd to be there in its stead! Come away, little fly, &c.



THE HEROES OF WATERLOO.

Address, written for a Benefit, at a Provincial Theatre, for the Wounded Survivors, Families, and Relatives, of the Heroes of Waterloo.

Once more Britannia sheathes her conqu'ring sword, And Peace returns, by Victory restored; Peace, that erewhile estranged, 'midst long alarms, Scarce welcomed home, was ravish'd from our arms; What time, fierce bounding from his broken chain, Gaul's banish'd Despot re-aspired to reign; Whilst at his call, prompt minions of his breath, Round his dire throne rush'd Havoc, Spoil, and Death; With wonted pomp his baleful ensign blazed, And Europe shrunk, and shudder'd as she gazed. Insulted Liberty her tocsin rung; Again Britannia to the combat sprung: Star of the Nations! her auspicious form Led on their march, and foremost braved the storm.

Pent-in its clouds, ere yet the tempest flash'd, Ere peal on peal the mingling thunder crash'd; While Fate hung dubious o'er the marshall'd powers, What anxious fears, what trembling hopes, were ours! For never yet from Gallia's confines came War's fell eruption with so fierce a flame: She sent a Chief, matur'd in martial strife, Who fought for fame, for empire, and for life; Whose Host had sworn, deep-stung with recent shame, To satiate vengeance, and retrieve their fame! Each furious impulse, each hot throb, was there, That spurs Ambition, or inflames Despair. Then Britain fix'd on her Unconquer'd Son, Her eye, her hope—immortal WELLINGTON! He, skill'd to crash, with one collective blow Sustain'd sedate the fierce assaulting foe. How stood his squadrons like the steadfast rock, Frowning on Ocean's ineffectual shock! Till forward summon'd to the fierce attack, They give to Gaul his furious onset back; Swift on its prey each fiery legion springs, As when Heaven's ire the vollied lightning wings! Then Gallia's blood in expiation stream'd, Then trembling Europe saw her fate redeem'd; And England, radiant in her triumph past, Beheld them all transcended in the last: Yes, raptured Britons blest the gale that blew The tidings home—the tale of Waterloo! But, oh! while joy tumultuous hail'd the day, Cold on the plain what gallant victims lay! Deaf to the triumph of their sacred cause, Deaf to their country's shout, the world's applause!

Rear high the column, bid the marble breathe, Pour soft the verse, and twine the laureate wreath; From year to year let musing Memory shed Her tenderest tears, to grace the glorious dead. 'Tis ours with grateful ardour to sustain The wounded veteran on his bed of pain; To soothe the widow, sunk in anguish deep, Whose orphan weeps to see its mother weep.

Oh! when, outstretch'd on that triumphant field, The prostrate Warrior felt his labours seal'd; Felt, 'midst the shout of Victory pealing round, Life's eddying stream fast welling from his wound; Perchance Affection bade her visions rise— Wife, children, floated o'er his closing eyes: For them alone he heaved the bitter sigh; Yet for his country glorying thus to die! To her bequeath'd them with his parting breath, And sunk serene in unregretted death.—

To no cold ear was that appeal prefer'd; With glowing bosom grateful England heard; With liberal hand she pours the prompt relief, Soothes the sick head, and wipes the tear of grief.

Our humble efforts consecrate, to-night, To this great cause, our small but willing mite. Bright are the wreaths the warrior's urn which grace, And bless'd the bounty that protects his race! Thus warm'd, thus waken'd, with congenial fire, Each hero's son shall emulate his sire; From age to age prolong the glorious line, And guard their country with a shield divine!



THE NIGHT-BLOWING CEREUS.

Can it be true, so fragrant and so fair, To give thy perfumes to the dews of night? Can aught so beautiful, despise the glare, And fade, and sicken in the morning light?

Yes! peerless flower, the Heavens alone exhale Thy fragrance, while the glittering stars attest, And incense wafted by the midnight gale, Untainted rises from thy spotless breast.

How like that Faith whose nature is apart From human gaze, to love and work unseen, Which gives to God an undivided heart, In sorrow steadfast, and in joy serene; That night-flower of the soul, whose fragrant power Breathes on the darkness of the closing hour!



1827;

OR, THE POET'S LAST POEM.

Ye Bards in all your thousand dens, Great souls with fewer pence than pens, Sublime adorers of Apollo, With folios full, and purses hollow; Whose very souls with rapture glisten, When you can find a fool to listen; Who, if a debt were paid by pun, Would never be completely done. Ye bright inhabitants of garrets, Whose dreams are rich in ports and clarets, Who, in your lofty paradise, See aldermanic banquets rise— And though the duns around you troop, Still float in seas of turtle soup. I here forsake the tuneful trade, Where none but lordlings now are paid, Or where some northern rogue sits puling, (The curse of universal schooling)— A ploughman to his country lost, An author to his printer's cost— A slave to every man who'll buy him, A knave to every man who'll try him— Yet let him take the pen, at once The laurel gathers round his sconce!

On every subject superseded, My favorite topics all invaded, I scarcely dip my pen in praise, When fifty bardlings grasp my bays; Or let me touch a drop of satire, (I once knew something of the matter), Just fifty bardlings take the trouble, To be my tuneful worship's double. Fine similies that nothing fit, Joe Miller's, that must pass for wit; The dull, dry, brain-besieging jokes, The humour that no laugh provokes— The nameless, worthless, witless rancours, The rage that souls of scribblers cankers— (Administer'd in gall go thick, It makes even Sunday critic's sick!) Disgust my passion, fill my place, And snatch my prize before my face.

If then I take the "brilliant" pen. And "scorning measures" talk of men— There Luttrel steps 'twixt me and fame— So like, egad, we're just the same; I never half squeeze out a thought, But jumps its fellow on the spot— My tenderest dreams, my fondest touch, Are victims to his ready clutch; The whirling waltz, the gay costume, The porcelain tooth, the gallic bloom; The vapid smiles, the lisping loves Of turtles (never meant for doves)— The dreary stuff that fills the ears, Where all the orators are peers— The hides reveal'd through ball-room dresses, Where all the parties are peer-esses; The dulness of the toujours gai, The yawning night, the sleepy day, The visages of cheese and chalk, The drowsy, dreamy, languid talk; The fifty other horrid things, That strip old Time of both his wings! There's not a topic of them all But comes, hey presto! at his call.

Or when I turn my pen to love, A theme that fits me like my glove, A pang I've borne these twenty years With ten-times twenty several dears, Each glance a dart, each smile a quiver, Stinging their bard from lungs to liver— To work my ruin, or my cure, Up starts thy pen, Anacreon Moore! In vain I pour my shower of roses, On which the matchless fair one dozes, And plant around her conch the graces, While jealous Venus breaks her laces, To see a younger face promoted, To see her own old face out-voted; And myrtle branches twisting o'er her, Bow down, each turn'd a true adorer. Up starts the Irish Bard—in vain I write, 'tis all against the grain: In vain I talk of smiles or sighs, The girls all have him in their eyes; And not a soul—mamma, or miss— But vows he's the sole Bard of Bliss!

Since first I dipp'd in the romantic, A hundred thousand have run frantic— There's not a hideous highland spot, (Long fallowed to the core by Scott)— No rill, through rack and thistle dribbling, But has its deadlier crop of scribbling. Each fen, and flat, and flood, and fell, Gives birth to verses by the ell— There Wordsworth, for his muse's sallies, Claims all the ponds, the lanes, and alleys— There Coleridge swears none else shall tune A bag-pipe to the list'ning moon; On come in clouds the scribbling columns, Each prowling for his next three volumes. I scorn the rascal tribe, and spurn all The yearly, monthly, and diurnal.

I write the finest things that ever Made duchess fond, or marquiss clever— (Although I'd rather half turn Turk, The thing's such monstrous up-hill work). My ton's the very cream of fashion, My passion the sublimest passion, My rage satanic, love the same, Of all blue flames, the bluest flame— My piety perpetual matins, A quaker propp'd on double pattens; My lovely girls the most precocious, My beaus delightfully atrocious! Yet scarcely have I play'd my card, When up comes politician Ward, Before my face he trumps my trump, Sweeps off my honours in the lump, And never asking my permission, Talks sermons to the third edition.

Or Boulogne, Highway Byeway, Grattan, (The Pyrenees begin to flatten, A feast denied to storm and shower, The pen's the wonder-working power); Or Smith, the master of "Addresses," Carves history out in modern messes:— Tells how gay Charles cook'd up his collops, How fleeced his friends, how paid his trollops— How pledged his soul, and pawn'd his oath, 'Till none would give a straw for both; And touching paupers for the Evil, Touch'd England half way to the devil Or Hook, picks up my favorite hits, For when was friendship between wits? Or Lyster, doubly dandyfied, Fidgets his donkey by my side; Or Bulwer rambles back from Greece, Woolgathering from the Golden fleece— Or forty volumes, piping hot, Come blazing from volcano Scott; When pens like their's play all my game. The tasteless world must bear the blame.

I had a budget, full of fan, But here again, I'm lost, undone! I'm so forestall'd—that faith, I could Half quarrel with—my lively Hood: For odd it is, my "Oddities," Are even all the same with his; Would Sherwood (him of Paternoster), Assist my pilferings to foster, I'd turn free-booter—nay, I would E'en play the part of robbing Hood— But brother Wits should never quarrel, Nor try to "pluck each other's laurel," And tho' my income's scarce enough To find friend Petersham with snuff, Here's peace to all! and kind regards! And Brother Hood among the Bards.

So all, friends, countrymen, and lovers, With one, or one and twenty covers, Farewell to all;—my glories past, I pen my lay, my sweetest, last! Another Phoenix, build my nest Of spices, Phoebus' very best, Concentrating in these gay pages, Wit, worth the wit of all the stages; Love, tender as the midnight talk, In softest summer's midnight walk, With leave to all earth's fools to spurn 'em, Nay (if they first will buy) to burn 'em.



TO THE REVIEWERS.

Oh! ye, enthroned in presidential awe, To give the song-smit generation law; Who wield Apollo's delegated rod, And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod; A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils, Plebeian cares, and mercenary toils, Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude, He dares within the mountain's pale intrude; For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells. And rules the spirit with Lethean spells; By hands unseen aerial harps are hung, And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young, On her broad bosom rears the laughing Loves, And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves; Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow, And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow.

There, while the Muses wanton unconfined, And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind, 'Tis yours to strew their steps with votive flowers; To watch them slumbering 'midst the blissful bowers; To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms; And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms! Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss? Alas! he pants not for superior bliss; Thrice-bless'd his virgin modesty shall be To snatch an evanescent ecstacy! The fierce extremes of superhuman love, For his frail sense too exquisite might prove; He turns, all blushing, from th' Aoenian shade, To humbler raptures with a mortal maid.

I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights, Awaked to vengeance, on such flights to frown, Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down. But, if empower'd to strike th' immortal lyre, The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire, 'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies, Subdued by his resistless energies, 'Tis yours to bid Pierian fountains flow, And toast his name in Wit's seraglio; To bind his brows with amaranthine bays, And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days! Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays, are mine, If by your looks my doom I may divine, Ye frown so dreadful, and ye swell so big, Your fateful arms, the goose-quill, and the wig: The wig, with wisdom's somb'rous seal impress'd, Mysterious terrors, grim portents, invest; And shame and honour on the goose-quill perch, Like doves and ravens on a country church.

As some raw 'Squire, by rustic nymphs admired, Of vulgar charms, and easy conquests tired, Resolves new scenes and nobler flights to dare, Nor "waste his sweetness in the desert air," To town repairs, some famed assembly seeks, With red importance blust'ring in his cheeks; But when, electric on th' astonish'd wight Burst the full floods of music and of light, While levell'd mirrors multiply the rows Of radiant beauties, and accomplish'd beaus, At once confounded into sober sense, He feels his pristine insignificance: And blinking, blund'ring, from the general quiz Retreats, "to ponder on the thing he is." By pride inflated, and by praise allured, Small Authors thus strut forth, and thus get cured; But, Critics, hear I an angel pleads for me, That tongueless, ten-tongued cherub, Modesty.

Sirs! if you damn me, you'll resemble those That flay'd the Traveller who had lost his clothes; Are there not foes enough to do my books? Relentless trunk-makers and pastry-cooks? Acknowledge not those barbarous allies, The wooden box-men, and the men of pies: For Heav'n's sake, let it ne'er be understood That you, great Censors! coalesce with wood; Nor let your actions contradict your looks, That tell the world you ne'er colleague with cooks.

But, if the blithe Muse will indulge a smile, Why scowls thy brow, O Bookseller! the while? Thy sunk eyes glisten through eclipsing fears, Fill'd, like Cassandra's, with prophetic tears: With such a visage, withering, woe-begone, Shrinks the pale poet from the damning dun. Come, let us teach each other's tears to flow, Like fasting bards, in fellowship of woe, When the coy Muse puts on coquettish airs, Nor deigns one line to their voracious prayers! Thy spirit, groaning like th' encumber'd block Which bears my works, deplores them as dead stock. Doom'd by these undiscriminating times To endless sleep, with Delia Cruscan rhymes; Yes, Critics whisper thee, litigious wretches! Oblivion's hand shall finish all my sketches. But see, my soul, such bug-bears has repell'd With magnanimity unparallel'd! Take up the volume, every care dismiss, And smile, gruff Gorgon! while I tell thee this: Not one shall lie neglected on the shelf, All shall be sold—I'll buy them in myself!