University of Virginia Library



III, IV. VOL. III., VOL. IV. CORRUPTION AND INTOLERANCE. THE SCEPTIC. TWOPENNY POST-BAG. SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS. IRISH MELODIES. NATIONAL AIRS. SACRED SONGS.



CORRUPTION, AND INTOLERANCE.

TWO POEMS. ADDRESSED TO AN ENGLISHMAN BY AN IRISHMAN.



CORRUPTION,

AN EPISTLE.

Νυν δ' απανθ' ωσπερ εξ αγορας εκπεπραται ταυτα: αντεισηκται δε αντι τουτων, υφ' ων απολωλε και νενοσηκεν η Ελλας. Ταυτα δ' εστι τι; ζηλος, ει τις ειληφε τι: γελως αν ομολογη: συγγνωμη τοις ελεγχομενοις: μισος, αν τουτοις τις επιτιμα: ταλλα παντα, οσα εκ του δωροδοκειν ηρτηται. Demosth. Philipp. iii.



Boast on, my friend—though stript of all beside,
Thy struggling nation still retains her pride :
That pride, which once in genuine glory woke
When Marlborough fought, and brilliant St. John spoke;
That pride which still, by time and shame unstung,
Outlives even Wh---tel---cke's sword and H*wk*sb'ry's tongue!
Boast on, my friend, while in this humbled isle
Where Honour mourns and Freedom fears to smile,

14

Where the bright light of England's fame is known
But by the shadow o'er our fortunes thrown;
Where, doom'd ourselves to nought but wrongs and slights ,
We hear you boast of Britain's glorious rights,
As wretched slaves, that under hatches lie,
Hear those on deck extol the sun and sky!
Boast on, while wandering through my native haunts,
I coldly listen to thy patriot vaunts;
And feel, though close our wedded countries twine,
More sorrow for my own than pride from thine.

15

Yet pause a moment—and if truths severe
Can find an inlet to that courtly ear,
Which hears no news but W---rd's gazetted lies,
And loves no politics in rhyme but Pye's,—
If aught can please thee but the good old saws
Of “Church and State,” and “William's matchless laws,”
And “Acts and Rights of glorious Eighty-eight,”—
Things, which though now a century out of date,
Still serve to ballast, with convenient words,
A few crank arguments for speeching lords ,—
Turn, while I tell how England's freedom found,
Where most she look'd for life, her deadliest wound;

16

How brave she struggled, while her foe was seen,
How faint since Influence lent that foe a screen;
How strong o'er James and Popery she prevail'd,
How weakly fell, when Whigs and gold assail'd.
While kings were poor, and all those schemes unknown
Which drain the people, to enrich the throne;
Ere yet a yielding Commons had supplied
Those chains of gold by which themselves are tied;

17

Then proud Prerogative, untaught to creep
With bribery's silent foot on Freedom's sleep,
Frankly avow'd his bold enslaving plan,
And claim'd a right from God to trample man!
But Luther's schism had too much rous'd mankind
For Hampden's truths to linger long behind;
Nor then, when king-like popes had fallen so low,
Could pope-like kings escape the levelling blow.
That ponderous sceptre (in whose place we bow
To the light talisman of influence now),
Too gross, too visible to work the spell
Which modern power performs, in fragments fell:
In fragments lay, till, patch'd and painted o'er
With fleurs-de-lys, it shone and scourged once more.
'Twas then, my friend, thy kneeling nation quaff'd
Long, long and deep, the churchman's opiate draught
Of passive, prone obedience—then took flight
All sense of man's true dignity and right;

18

And Britons slept so sluggish in their chain,
That Freedom's watch-voice call'd almost in vain.
Oh England! England! what a chance was thine,
When the last tyrant of that ill-starr'd line
Fled from his sullied crown, and left thee free
To found thy own eternal liberty!
How nobly high, in that propitious hour,
Might patriot hands have rais'd the triple tower

19

Of British freedom, on a rock divine
Which neither force could storm nor treachery mine!
But no—the luminous, the lofty plan,
Like mighty Babel, seem'd too bold for man;
The curse of jarring tongues again was given
To thwart a work which raised men nearer heaven.
While Tories marr'd what Whigs had scarce begun,
While Whigs undid what Whigs themselves had done ,

20

The hour was lost, and William, with a smile,
Saw Freedom weeping o'er the unfinish'd pile!

21

Hence all the ills you suffer,—hence remain
Such galling fragments of that feudal chain ,

22

Whose links, around you by the Norman flung,
Though loosed and broke so often, still have clung.
Hence sly Prerogative, like Jove of old,
Has turn'd his thunder into showers of gold,
Whose silent courtship wins securer joys,
Taints by degrees, and ruins without noise.

23

While parliaments, no more those sacred things
Which make and rule the destiny of kings,

24

Like loaded dice by ministers are thrown,
And each new set of sharpers cog their own.
Hence the rich oil, that from the Treasury steals,
Drips smooth o'er all the Constitution's wheels,
Giving the old machine such pliant play ,
That Court and Commons jog one joltless way,
While Wisdom trembles for the crazy car,
So gilt, so rotten, carrying fools so far;
And the duped people, hourly doom'd to pay
The sums that bribe their liberties away ,—

25

Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,—
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart
Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

26

But soft! methinks I hear thee proudly say,
“What! shall I listen to the impious lay,
“That dares, with Tory licence, to profane
“The bright bequests of William's glorious reign?
“Shall the great wisdom of our patriot sires,
“Whom H*wks*b---y quotes and savoury B---rch admires,
“Be slander'd thus? shall honest St---le agree
“With virtuous R*se to call us pure and free,
“Yet fail to prove it? Shall our patent pair
“Of wise state-poets waste their words in air,
“And P---e unheeded breathe his prosperous strain,
“And C*nn*ng take the people's sense in vain?”
The people!—ah, that Freedom's form should stay
Where Freedom's spirit long hath pass'd away!

27

That a false smile should play around the dead,
And flush the features when the soul hath fled!
When Rome had lost her virtue with her rights,
When her foul tyrant sat on Capreæ's heights
Amid his ruffian spies, and doom'd to death
Each noble name they blasted with their breath,—

28

Even then, (in mockery of that golden time,
When the Republic rose revered, sublime,
And her proud sons, diffused from zone to zone,
Gave kings to every nation but their own,)
Even then the senate and the tribunes stood,
Insulting marks, to show how high the flood
Of Freedom flow'd, in glory's by-gone day,
And how it ebb'd,—for ever ebb'd away!
Look but around—though yet a tyrant's sword
Nor haunts our sleep nor glitters o'er our board,
Though blood be better drawn, by modern quacks,
With Treasury leeches than with sword or axe;
Yet say, could even a prostrate tribune's power,
Or a mock senate, in Rome's servile hour,
Insult so much the claims, the rights of man,
As doth that fetter'd mob, that free divan,

29

Of noble tools and honourable knaves,
Of pension'd patriots and privileged slaves;—
That party-colour'd mass, which nought can warm
But rank corruption's heat—whose quicken'd swarm
Spread their light wings in Bribery's golden sky,
Buzz for a period, lay their eggs, and die;—
That greedy vampire, which from Freedom's tomb
Comes forth, with all the mimicry of bloom
Upon its lifeless cheek, and sucks and drains
A people's blood to feed its putrid veins!
Thou start'st, my friend, at picture drawn so dark—
“Is there no light?” thou ask'st—“no lingering spark
“Of ancient fire to warm us? Lives there none,
“To act a Marvell's part?” —alas! not one.
To place and power all public spirit tends,
In place and power all public spirit ends ;

30

Like hardy plants, that love the air and sky,
When out, 'twill thrive—but taken in, 'twill die!
Not bolder truths of sacred Freedom hung
From Sidney's pen or burn'd on Fox's tongue,
Than upstart Whigs produce each market-night,
While yet their conscience, as their purse, is light;
While debts at home excite their care for those
Which, dire to tell, their much-lov'd country owes,
And loud and upright, till their prize be known,
They thwart the King's supplies to raise their own.
But bees, on flowers alighting, cease their hum—
So, settling upon places, Whigs grow dumb.
And, though most base is he who, 'neath the shade
Of Freedom's ensign plies corruption's trade,
And makes the sacred flag he dares to show
His passport to the market of her foe,

31

Yet, yet, I own, so venerably dear
Are Freedom's grave old anthems to my ear,
That I enjoy them, though by traitors sung,
And reverence Scripture even from Satan's tongue.
Nay, when the constitution has expired,
I'll have such men, like Irish wakers, hired
To chant old “Habeas Corpus” by its side,
And ask, in purchas'd ditties, why it died?
See yon smooth lord, whom nature's plastic pains
Would seem to've fashion'd for those Eastern reigns
When eunuchs flourish'd, and such nerveless things
As men rejected were the chosen of kings ;—
Even he, forsooth, (oh fraud, of all the worst!)
Dared to assume the patriot's name at first—

32

Thus Pitt began, and thus begin his apes;
Thus devils, when first raised, take pleasing shapes
But oh, poor Ireland! if revenge be sweet
For centuries of wrong, for dark deceit
And withering insult—for the Union thrown
Into thy bitter cup , when that alone
Of slavery's draught was wanting —if for this
Revenge be sweet, thou hast that dæmon's bliss;

33

For, sure, 'tis more than hell's revenge to see
That England trusts the men who've ruin'd thee;—
That, in these awful days, when every hour
Creates some new or blasts some ancient power,
When proud Napoleon, like th' enchanted shield
Whose light compell'd each wondering foe to yield,

34

With baleful lustre blinds the brave and free,
And dazzles Europe into slavery,—
That, in this hour, when patriot zeal should guide,
When Mind should rule, and—Fox should not have died,
All that devoted England can oppose
To enemies made fiends and friends made foes,
Is the rank refuse, the despised remains
Of that unpitying power, whose whips and chains
Drove Ireland first to turn, with harlot glance,
Tow'rds other shores, and woo th' embrace of France;—
Those hack'd and tainted tools, so foully fit
For the grand artisan of mischief, P*tt,
So useless ever but in vile employ,
So weak to save, so vigorous to destroy—
Such are the men that guard thy threaten'd shore,
Oh England! sinking England! boast no more.
 

Angli suos ac sua omnia impense mirantur; cæteras nationes despectui habent. —Barclay (as quoted in one of Dryden's prefaces).

England began very early to feel the effects of cruelty towards her dependencies. “The severity of her government (says Macpherson) contributed more to deprive her of the continental dominions of the family of Plantagenet than the arms of France.” —See his History, vol. i.

“By the total reduction of the kingdom of Ireland in 1691 (says Burke), the ruin of the native Irish, and in a great measure, too, of the first races of the English, was completely accomplished. The new English interest was settled with as solid a stability as any thing in human affairs can look for. All the penal laws of that unparalleled code of oppression, which were made after the last event, were manifestly the effects of national hatred and scorn towards a conquered people, whom the victors delighted to trample upon, and were not at all afraid to provoke.” Yet this is the era to which the wise Common Council of Dublin refer us for “invaluable blessings,” &c.

It never seems to occur to those orators and addressers who round off so many sentences and paragraphs with the Bill of Rights, the Act of Settlement, &c., that most of the provisions which these Acts contained for the preservation of parliamentary independence have been long laid aside as romantic and troublesome. I never meet, I confess, with a politician who quotes seriously the Declaration of Rights, &c., to prove the actual existence of English liberty, that I do not think of that marquis, whom Montesquieu mentions , who set about looking for mines in the Pyrenees, on the strength of authorities which he had read in some ancient authors. The poor marquis toiled and searched in vain. He quoted his authorities to the last, but found no mines after all.

Liv. xxi. chap. 2.

The chief, perhaps the only advantage which has resulted from the system of influence, is that tranquil course of uninterrupted action which it has given to the administration of government. If kings must be paramount in the state (and their ministers for the time being always think so), the country is indebted to the Revolution for enabling them to become so quietly, and for removing skilfully the danger of those shocks and collisions which the alarming efforts of prerogative never failed to produce.

Instead of vain and disturbing efforts to establish that speculative balance of the constitution, which, perhaps, has never existed but in the pages of Montesquieu and De Lolme, a preponderance is now silently yielded to one of the three estates, which carries the other two almost insensibly, but still effectually, along with it; and even though the path may lead eventually to destruction, yet its specious and gilded smoothness almost atones for the danger; and, like Milton's bridge over Chaos, it may be said to lead,

“Smooth, easy, inoffensive, down to ------.”

The drivelling correspondence between James I. and his “dog Steenie” (the Duke of Buckingham), which we find among the Hardwicke Papers, sufficiently shows, if we wanted any such illustration, into what doting, idiotic brains the plan of arbitrary power may enter.

Tacitus has expressed his opinion, in a passage very frequently quoted, that such a distribution of power as the theory of the British constitution exhibits is merely a subject of bright speculation, “a system more easily praised than practised, and which, even could it happen to exist, would certainly not prove permanent;” and, in truth, a review of England's annals would dispose us to agree with the great historian's remark. For we find that at no period whatever has this balance of the three estates existed; that the nobles predominated till the policy of Henry VII., and his successor reduced their weight by breaking up the feudal system of property; that the power of the Crown became then supreme and absolute, till the bold encroachments of the Commons subverted the fabric altogether; that the alternate ascendency of prerogative and privilege distracted the period which followed the Restoration; and that, lastly, the Acts of 1688, by laying the foundation of an unbounded court-influence, have secured a preponderance to the Throne, which every succeeding year increases. So that the vaunted British constitution has never perhaps existed but in mere theory.

The monarchs of Great Britain can never be sufficiently grateful for that accommodating spirit which led the Revolutionary Whigs to give away the crown, without imposing any of those restraints or stipulations which other men might have taken advantage of so favourable a moment to enforce, and in the framing of which they had so good a model to follow as the limitations proposed by the Lords Essex and Halifax, in the debate upon the Exclusion Bill. They not only condescended, however, to accept of places, but took care that these dignities should be no impediment to their “voice potential” in affairs of legislation; and although an Act was after many years suffered to pass, which by one of its articles disqualified placemen from serving as members of the House of Commons, it was yet not allowed to interfere with the influence of the reigning monarch, nor with that of his successor Anne. The purifying clause, indeed, was not to take effect till after the decease of the latter sovereign, and she very considerately repealed it altogether. So that, as representation has continued ever since, if the king were simple enough to send to foreign courts ambassadors who were most of them in the pay of those courts, he would be just as honestly and faithfully represented as are his people. It would be endless to enumerate all the favours which were conferred upon William by those “apostate Whigs.” They complimented him with the first suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act which had been hazarded since the confirmation of that privilege; and this example of our Deliverer's reign has not been lost upon any of his successors. They promoted the establishment of a standing army, and circulated in its defence the celebrated “Balancing Letter,” in which it is insinuated that England, even then, in her boasted hour of regeneration, was arrived at such a pitch of faction and corruption, that nothing could keep her in order but a Whig ministry and a standing army. They refused, as long as they could, to shorten the duration of parliaments; and though, in the Declaration of Rights, the necessity of such a reform was acknowledged, they were able, by arts not unknown to modern ministers, to brand those as traitors and republicans who urged it. But the grand and distinguishing trait of their measures was the power they bestowed on the Crown of almost annihilating the freedom of elections,—of turning from its course, and ever defiling that great stream of Representation, which had, even in the most agitated periods, reflected some features of the people, but which, from thenceforth; became the Pactolus, the “aurifer amnis,” of the court, and served as a mirror of the national will and popular feeling no longer. We need but consult the writings of that time, to understand the astonishment then excited by measures, which the practice of a century has rendered not only familiar but necessary. See a pamphlet called “The Danger of mercenary Parliaments,” 1698; State Tracts, Will. III. vol. ii.; see also “Some Paradoxes presented as a New Year's Gift” (State Poems, vol. iii.).

See a pamphlet published in 1693, upon the King's refusing to sign the Triennial Bill, called “A Discourse between a Yeoman of Kent and a Knight of a Shire.”— “Hereupon (says the Yeoman) the gentleman grew angry, and said that I talked like a base commons-wealth man.”

The last great wound given to the feudal system was the Act of the 12th of Charles II., which abolished the tenure of knight's service in capite, and which Blackstone compares, for its salutary influence upon property, to the boasted provisions of Magna Charta itself. Yet even in this Act we see the effects of that counteracting spirit which has contrived to weaken every effort of the English nation towards liberty. The exclusion of copyholders from their share of elective rights was permitted to remain as a brand of feudal servitude, and as an obstacle to the rise of that strong counterbalance which an equal representation of property would oppose to the weight of the Crown. If the managers of the Revolution had been sincere in their wishes for reform, they would not only have taken this fetter off the rights of election, but would have renewed the mode adopted in Cromwell's time of increasing the number of knights of the shire, to the exclusion of those rotten insignificant boroughs, which have tainted the whole mass of the constitution. Lord Clarendon calls this measure of Cromwell's “an alteration fit to be more warrantable made, and in a better time.” It formed part of Mr. Pitt's plan in 1783; but Pitt's plan of reform was a kind of announced dramatic piece, about as likely to be ever acted as Mr. Sheridan's “Foresters.”

------ fore enim tutum iter et patens
Converso in pretium Deo.
Aurum per medios ire satellites, &c.
Horat.

It would be a task not uninstructive to trace the history of Prerogative from the date of its strength under the Tudor princes, when Henry VII. and his successors “taught the people (as Nathaniel Bacon says) to dance to the tune of Allegiance,” to the period of the Revolution, when the Throne, in its attacks upon liberty, began to exchange the noisy explosions of Prerogative for the silent and effectual air-gun of Influence. In following its course, too, since that memorable era, we shall find that, while the royal power has been abridged in branches where it might be made conducive to the interests of the people, it has been left in full and unshackled vigour against almost every point where the integrity of the constitution is vulnerable. For instance, the power of chartering boroughs, to whose capricious abuse in the hands of the Stuarts we are indebted for most of the present anomalies of representation, might, if suffered to remain, have in some degree atoned for its mischief, by restoring the old unchartered boroughs to their rights, and widening more equally the basis of the legislature. But, by the Act of Union with Scotland, this part of the prerogative was removed, lest Freedom should have a chance of being healed, even by the rust of the spear which had formerly wounded her. The dangerous power, however, of creating peers, which has been so often exercised for the government against the constitution, is still left in free and unqualified activity; notwithstanding the example of that celebrated Bill for the limitation of this ever-budding branch of prerogative, which was proposed in the reign of George I. under the peculiar sanction and recommendation of the Crown, but which the Whigs thought right to reject, with all that characteristic delicacy, which, in general, prevents them when enjoying the sweets of office themselves, from taking any uncourtly advantage of the Throne. It will be recollected, however, that the creation of the twelve peers by the Tories in Anne's reign (a measure which Swift, like a true party man, defends) gave these upright Whigs all possible alarm for their liberties.

With regard to the generous fit about his prerogative which seized so unroyally the good king George I., historians have hinted that the paroxysm originated far more in hatred to his son than in love to the constitution. This, of course, however, is a calumny: no loyal person, acquainted with the annals of the three Georges, could possibly suspect any one of those gracious monarchs either of ill-will to his heir, or indifference for the constitution.

Historic. and Politic. Discourse, &c. part ii. p. 114.

Coxe says that this Bill was projected by Sunderland.

“They drove so fast (says Welwood of the ministers of Charles I.), that it was no wonder that the wheels and chariot broke.” (Memoirs, p. 35.)—But this fatal accident, if we may judge from experience, is to be imputed far less to the folly and impetuosity of the drivers, than to the want of that suppling oil from the Treasury which has been found so necessary to make a government like that of England run smoothly. Had Charles been as well provided with this article as his successors have been since the happy Revolution, his Commons would never have merited from him the harsh appellation of “seditious vipers,” but would have been (as they now are, and I trust always will be) “dutiful Commons,” “loyal Commons,” &c. &c., and would have given him ship-money, or any other sort of money he might have fancied.

Among those auxiliaries which the Revolution of 1688 marshalled on the side of the Throne, the bugbear of Popery has not been the least convenient and serviceable. Those unskilful tyrants. Charles and James, instead of profiting by that useful subserviency which has always distinguished the ministers of our religious establishment, were so infatuated as to plan the ruin of this best bulwark of their power, and, moreover, connected their designs upon the Church so undisguisedly with their attacks upon the Constitution, that they identified in the minds of the people the interests of their religion and their liberties. During those times, therefore, “No Popery” was the watchword of freedom, and served to keep the public spirit awake against the invasions of bigotry and prerogative. The Revolution, however, by removing this object of jealousy, has produced a reliance on the orthodoxy of the Throne, of which the Throne has not failed to take advantage; and the cry of “No Popery” having thus lost its power of alarming the people against the inroads of the Crown, has served ever since the very different purpose of strengthening the Crown against the pretensions and struggles of the people. The danger of the Church from Papists and Pretenders was the chief pretext for the repeal of the Triennial Bill, for the adoption of a standing army, for the numerous suspensions of the Habeas Corpus Act, and, in short, for all those spirited infractions of the constitution by which the reigns of the last century were so eminently distinguished. We have seen very lately, too, how the Throne has been enabled, by the same scarecrow sort of alarm, to select its ministers from among men, whose servility is their only claim to elevation, and who are pledged (if such an alternative could arise) to take part with the scruples of the King against the salvation of the empire.

Somebody has said, “Quand tous les poëtes seraient noyés, ce ne serait pas grand dommage;” but I am aware that this is not fit language to be held at a time when our birth-day odes and state-papers are written by such pretty poets as Mr. P---e and Mr. C*nn*ng. All I wish is, that the latter gentleman would change places with his brother P---e, by which means we should have somewhat less prose in our odes, and certainly less poetry in our politics.

“It is a scandal (said Sir Charles Sedley in William's reign) that a government so sick at heart as ours is should look so well in the face;” and Edmund Burke has said, in the present reign, “When the people conceive that laws and tribunals, and even popular assemblies, are perverted from the ends of their institution, they find in these names of degenerated establishments only new motives to discontent. Those bodies which, when full of life and beauty, lay in their arms and were their joy and comfort, when dead and putrid become more loathsome from remembrance of former endearments.” —Thoughts on the present Discontents, 1770.

------ Tutor haberi
Principis, Augustâ Caprearum in rupe sedentis
Cum grege Chaldæo.

Juvenal. Sat. x. v. 92.

The senate still continued, during the reign of Tiberius, to manage all the business of the public; the money was then and long after coined by their authority, and every other public affair received their sanction.

We are told by Tacitus of a certain race of men, who made themselves particularly useful to the Roman emperors, and were therefore called “instrumenta regni,” or “court tools.” From this it appears, that my Lords M---, C---, &c. &c. are by no means things of modern invention.

There is something very touching in what Tacitus tells us of the hopes that revived in a few patriot bosoms, when the death of Augustus was near approaching, and the fond expectation with which they already began “bona libertatis incassum disserere.”

According to Ferguson, Cæsar's interference with the rights of election “made the subversion of the republic more felt than any of the former acts of his power.” —Roman Republic, book v. chap. i.

Andrew Marvell, the honest opposer of the court during the reign of Charles the Second, and the last member of parliament who, according to the ancient mode, took wages from his constituents. The Commons have, since then, much changed their pay-masters. —See the State Poems for some rude but spirited effusions of Andrew Marvell.

The following artless speech of Sir Francis Winnington, in the reign of Charles the Second, will amuse those who are fully aware of the perfection we have since attained in that system of government whose humble beginnings so much astonished the worthy baronet. “I did observe (says he) that all those who had pensions, and most of those who had offices, voted all of a side, as they were directed by some great officer, exactly as if their business in this House had been to preserve their pensions and offices, and not to make laws for the good of them who sent them here.”—He alludes to that parliament which was called, par excellence, the Pensionary Parliament.

According to Xenophon, the chief circumstance which recommended these creatures to the service of Eastern princes was the ignominious station they held in society, and the probability of their being, upon this account, more devoted to the will and caprice of a master, from whose notice alone they derived consideration, and in whose favour they might seek refuge from the general contempt of mankind.—Αδοξοι οντες οι ευνουχοι παρα τοις αλλοις ανθρωποις και δια τουτο δεσποτου επικουρου προσδεονται.—But I doubt whether even an Eastern prince would have chosen an entire administration upon this principle.

“And in the cup an Union shall be thrown.” Hamlet.

Among the many measures, which, since the Revolution, have contributed to increase the influence of the Throne, and to feed up this “Aaron's serpent” of the constitution to its present healthy and respectable magnitude, there have been few more nutritive than the Scotch and Irish Unions. Sir John Packer said, in a debate upon the former question, that “he would submit it to the House, whether men who had basely betrayed their trust, by giving up their independent constitution, were fit to be admitted into the English House of Commons.” But Sir John would have known, if he had not been out of place at the time, that the pliancy of such materials was not among the least of their recommendations. Indeed, the promoters of the Scotch Union were by no means disappointed in the leading object of their measure, for the triumphant majorities of the court-party in parliament may be dated from the admission of the 45 and the 16. Once or twice, upon the alteration of their law of treason and the imposition of the malt-tax (measures which were in direct violation of the Act of Union), these worthy North Britons arrayed themselves in opposition to the court; but finding this effort for their country unavailing, they prudently determined to think thenceforward of themselves, and few men have ever kept to a laudable resolution more firmly. The effect of Irish representation on the liberties of England will be no less perceptible and permanent.

------Ουδ' ογε Ταυρου
Λειπεται αντελλοντος
The infusion of such cheap and useful ingredients as my Lord L., Mr. D. B., &c. &c. into the legislature, cannot but act as a powerful alterative on the constitution, and clear it by degrees of all troublesome humours of honesty.

From Aratus (v. 715.) a poet who wrote upon astronomy, though, as Cicero assures us, he knew nothing whatever about the subject: just as the great Harvey wrote “De Generatione,” though he had as little to do with the matter as my Lord Viscount C.

The magician's shield in Ariosto:—

E tolto per vertù dello splendore
La libertate a loro.

Cant. 2.

We are told that Cæsar's code of morality was contained in the following lines of Euripides, which that great man frequently repeated:—
Ειπερ γαρ αδικειν χρη τυραννιδος περι
Καλλιστον αδικειν: τ'αλλα δ'ευσεβειν χπεων

This is also, as it appears, the moral code of Napoleon.

The following prophetic remarks occur in a letter written by Sir Robert Talbot, who attended the Duke of Bedford to Paris in 1762. Talking of states which have grown powerful in commerce, he says, “According to the nature and common course of things, there is a confederacy against them, and consequently in the same proportion as they increase in riches, they approach to destruction. The address of our King William, in making all Europe take the alarm at France, has brought that country before us near that inevitable period. We must necessarily have our turn, and Great Britain will attain it as soon as France shall have a declaimer with organs as proper for that political purpose as were those of our William the Third ------ Without doubt, my Lord, Great Britain must lower her flight. Europe will remind us of the balance of commerce, as she has reminded France of the balance of power. The address of our statesmen will immortalise them by contriving for us a descent which shall not be a fall, by making us rather resemble Holland than Carthage and Venice.” —Letters on the French Nation.



INTOLERANCE,

A SATIRE.

“This clamour, which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion, has almost worn out the very appearance of it, and rendered us not only the most divided but the most immoral people upon the face of the earth.” Addison, Freeholder, No. 37.



Start not, my friend, nor think the Muse will stain
Her classic fingers with the dust profane
Of Bulls, Decrees, and all those thundering scrolls,
Which took such freedom once with royal souls ,

40

When heaven was yet the pope's exclusive trade,
And kings were damn'd as fast as now they're made.

41

No, no—let D---gen---n search the papal chair
For fragrant treasures long forgotten there;
And, as the witch of sunless Lapland thinks
That little swarthy gnomes delight in stinks,
Let sallow P*rc*v*l snuff up the gale
Which wizard D---gen---n's gather'd sweets exhale.
Enough for me, whose heart has learn'd to scorn
Bigots alike in Rome or England born,
Who loathe the venom, whencesoe'er it springs,
From popes or lawyers , pastry-cooks or kings,—
Enough for me to laugh and weep by turns,
As mirth provokes, or indignation burns,

42

As C*nn*ng vapours, or as France succeeds,
As H*wk*sb'ry proses, or as Ireland bleeds!
And thou, my friend, if, in these headlong days,
When bigot Zeal her drunken antics plays
So near a precipice, that men the while
Look breathless on and shudder while they smile—
If, in such fearful days, thou'lt dare to look
To hapless Ireland, to this rankling nook
Which Heaven hath freed from poisonous things in vain,
While G*ff*rd's tongue and M---sgr*ve's pen remain—
If thou hast yet no golden blinkers got
To shade thine eyes from this devoted spot,
Whose wrongs, though blazon'd o'er the world they be,
Placemen alone are privileged not to see—
Oh! turn awhile, and, though the shamrock wreathes
My homely harp, yet shall the song it breathes
Of Ireland's slavery, and of Ireland's woes,
Live, when the memory of her tyrant foes
Shall but exist, all future knaves to warn,
Embalm'd in hate and canonised by scorn.

43

When C*stl*r---gh, in sleep still more profound
Than his own opiate tongue now deals around,
Shall wait th' impeachment of that awful day.
Which even his practised hand can't bribe away.
Yes, my dear friend, wert thou but near me now,
To see how Spring lights up on Erin's brow
Smiles that shine out, unconquerably fair,
Even through the blood-marks left by C---md---n there,—
Could'st thou but see what verdure paints the sod
Which none but tyrants and their slaves have trod,
And didst thou know the spirit, kind and brave,
That warms the soul of each insulted slave,
Who, tired with struggling, sinks beneath his lot,
And seems by all but watchful France forgot —

44

Thy heart would burn—yes, even thy Pittite heart
Would burn, to think that such a blooming part
Of the world's garden, rich in nature's charms,
And fill'd with social souls and vigorous arms,
Should be the victim of that canting crew,
So smooth, so godly,—yet so devilish too;
Who, arm'd at once with prayer-books and with whips ,
Blood on their hands, and Scripture on their lips,

45

Tyrants by creed, and torturers by text,
Make this life hell, in honour of the next!

46

Your R---desd---les, P*rc*v*ls,—great, glorious Heaven,
If I'm presumptuous, be my tongue forgiven,
When here I swear, by my soul's hope of rest,
I'd rather have been born, ere man was blest
With the pure dawn of Revelation's light,
Yes,—rather plunge me back in Pagan night,

47

And take my chance with Socrates for bliss ,
Than be the Christian of a faith like this,
Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,
And in a convert mourns to lose a prey;

48

Which, grasping human hearts with double hold,—
Like Danäe's lover mixing god and gold ,—
Corrupts both state and church, and makes an oath
The knave and atheist's passport into both;
Which, while it dooms dissenting souls to know
Nor bliss above nor liberty below,

49

Adds the slave's suffering to the sinner's fear,
And, lest he 'scape hereafter, racks him here!

50

But no—far other faith, far milder beams
Of heavenly justice warm the Christian's dreams;

51

His creed is writ on Mercy's page above,
By the pure hands of all-atoning Love;
He weeps to see abused Religion twine
Round Tyranny's coarse brow her wreath divine;
And he, while round him sects and nations raise
To the one God their varying notes of praise,
Blesses each voice, whate'er its tone may be,
That serves to swell the general harmony.
Such was the spirit, gently, grandly bright,
That fill'd, oh Fox! thy peaceful soul with light;

52

While free and spacious as that ambient air
Which folds our planet in its circling care,
The mighty sphere of thy transparent mind
Embraced the world, and breathed for all mankind.
Last of the great, farewell!—yet not the last—
Though Britain's sunshine hour with thee be past,
Ierne still one ray of glory gives,
And feels but half thy loss while Grattan lives.
 

The king-deposing doctrine, notwithstanding its many mischievous absurdities, was of no little service to the cause of political liberty, by inculcating the right of resistance to tyrants, and asserting the will of the people to be the only true fountain of power. Bellarmine, the most violent of the advocates for papal authority, was one of the first to maintain (De Pontif. lib. i. cap. 7.), “that kings have not their authority or office immediately from God nor his law, but only from the law of nations;” and in King James's “Defence of the Rights of Kings against Cardinal Perron,” we find his Majesty expressing strong indignation against the Cardinal for having asserted “that to the deposing of a king the consent of the people must be obtained”—“for by these words (says James) the people are exalted above the king, and made the judges of the king's deposing,” p. 424.—Even in Mariana's celebrated book, where the nonsense of bigotry does not interfere, there may be found many liberal and enlightened views of the principles of government, of the restraints which should be imposed upon royal power, of the subordination of the Throne to the interests of the people, &c. &c. (De Rege et Regis Institutione. See particularly lib. i. cap. 6. 8. and 9.)—It is rather remarkable, too, that England should be indebted to another Jesuit for the earliest defence of that principle upon which the Revolution was founded, namely, the right of the people to change the succession.—(See Doleman's “Conferences,” written in support of the title of the Infanta of Spain against that of James I.)—When Englishmen, therefore, say that Popery is the religion of slavery, they should not only recollect that their own boasted constitution is the work and bequest of popish ancestors; they should not only remember the laws of Edward III., “under whom (says Bolingbroke) the constitution of our parliaments, and the whole form of our government, became reduced into better form;” but they should know that even the errors charged on Popery have leaned to the cause of liberty, and that Papists were the first promulgators of the doctrines which led to the Revolution.—In general, however, the political principles of the Roman Catholics have been described as happened to suit the temporary convenience of their oppressors, and have been represented alternately as slavish or refractory, according as a pretext for tormenting them was wanting. The same inconsistency has marked every other imputation against them. They are charged with laxity in the observance of oaths, though an oath has been found sufficient to shut them out from all worldly advantages. If they reject certain decisions of their church, they are said to be sceptics and bad Christians; if they admit those very decisions, they are branded as bigots and bad subjects. We are told that confidence and kindness will make them enemies to the government, though we know that exclusion and injuries have hardly prevented them from being its friends. In short, nothing can better illustrate the misery of those shifts and evasions by which a long course of cowardly injustice must be supported, than the whole history of Great Britain's conduct towards the Catholic part of her empire.

The “Sella Stercoraria” of the popes.—The Right Honourable and learned Doctor will find an engraving of this chair in Spanheim's “Disquisitio Historica de Papâ Fœminâ” (p. 118.); and I recommend it as a model for the fashion of that seat which the Doctor is about to take in the privy-council of Ireland.

When Innocent X. was entreated to decide the controversy between the Jesuits and the Jansenists, he answered, that “he had been bred a lawyer, and had therefore nothing to do with divinity.”—It were to be wished that some of our English pettifoggers knew their own fit element as well as Pope Innocent X.

Not the C---md---n who speaks thus of Ireland:— “To wind up all, whether we regard the fruitfulness of the soil, the advantage of the sea, with so many commodious havens, or the natives themselves, who are warlike, ingenious, handsome, and well-complexioned, soft-skinned and very nimble, by reason of the pliantness of their muscles, this Island is in many respects so happy, that Giraldus might very well say, ‘Nature had regarded with more favourable eyes than ordinary this Kingdom of Zephyr.’”

The example of toleration, which Bonaparte has held forth, will, I fear, produce no other effect than that of determining the British government to persist, from the very spirit of opposition, in their own old system of intolerance and injustice; just as the Siamese blacken their teeth, “because,” as they say, “the devil has white ones.”

See l'Histoire Naturelle et Polit. du Royaume de Siam, &c.

One of the unhappy results of the controversy between Protestants and Catholics, is the mutual exposure which their criminations and recriminations have produced. In vain do the Protestants charge the Papists with closing the door of salvation upon others, while many of their own writings and articles breathe the same uncharitable spirit. No canon of Constance or Lateran ever damned heretics more effectually than the eighth of the Thirty-nine Articles consigns to perdition every single member of the Greek church; and I doubt whether a more sweeping clause of damnation was ever proposed in the most bigoted council, than that which the Calvinistic theory of predestination in the seventeenth of these Articles exhibits. It is true that no liberal Protestant avows such exclusive opinions; that every honest clergyman must feel a pang while he subscribes to them; that some even assert the Athanasian Creed to be the forgery of one Vigilius Tapsensis, in the beginning of the sixth century, and that eminent divines, like Jortin, have not hesitated to say, “There are propositions contained in our Liturgy and Articles, which no man of common sense amongst us believes.” But while all this is freely conceded to Protestants; while nobody doubts their sincerity, when they declare that their articles are not essentials of faith, but a collection of opinions which have been promulgated by fallible men, and from many of which they feel themselves justified in dissenting,— while so much liberty of retractation is allowed to Protestants upon their own declared and subscribed Articles of religion, is it not strange that a similar indulgence should be so obstinately refused to the Catholics, upon tenets which their church has uniformly resisted and condemned, in every country where it has independently flourished? When the Catholics say, “The Decree of the Council of Lateran, which you object to us, has no claim whatever upon either our faith or our reason; it did not even profess to contain any doctrinal decision, but was merely a judicial proceeding of that assembly; and it would be as fair for us to impute a wife-killing doctrine to the Protestants, because their first pope, Henry VIII., was sanctioned in an indulgence of that propensity, as for you to conclude that we have inherited a king-deposing taste from the acts of the Council of Lateran, or the secular pretensions of our popes. With respect, too, to the Decree of the Council of Constance, upon the strength of which you accuse us of breaking faith with heretics, we do not hesitate to pronounce that Decree a calumnious forgery, a forgery, too, so obvious and ill-fabricated, that none but our enemies have ever ventured to give it the slightest credit for authenticity.”—When the Catholics make these declarations (and they are almost weary with making them), when they show, too, by their conduct, that these declarations are sincere, and that their faith and morals are no more regulated by the absurd decrees of old councils and popes, than their science is influenced by the papal anathema against that Irishman who first found out the Antipodes,—is it not strange that so many still wilfully distrust what every good man is so much interested in believing? That so many should prefer the dark-lantern of the 13th century to the sunshine of intellect which has since overspread the world, and that every dabbler in theology, from Mr. Le Mesurier down to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, should dare to oppose the rubbish of Constance and Lateran to the bright and triumphant progress of justice, generosity, and truth?

Strictures on the Articles, Subscriptions, &c.

Virgilius, surnamed Solivagus, a native of Ireland, who maintained, in the 8th century, the doctrine of the Antipodes, and was anathematised accordingly by the Pope. John Scotus Erigena, another Irishman, was the first that ever wrote against transubstantiation.

In a singular work, written by one Franciscus Collius, “upon the Souls of the Pagans,” the author discusses, with much coolness and erudition, all the probable chances of salvation upon which a heathen philosopher might calculate. Consigning to perdition without much difficulty Plato, Socrates, &c. the only sage at whose fate he seems to hesitate is Pythagoras, in consideration of his golden thigh, and the many miracles which he performed. But, having balanced a little his claims, and finding reason to father all these miracles on the devil, he at length, in the twenty-fifth chapter, decides upon damning him also. (De Animabus Paganorum, lib. iv. cap. 20. and 25.)—The poet Dante compromises the matter with the Pagans, and gives them a neutral territory or limbo of their own, where their employment, it must be owned, is not very enviable—“Senza speme vivemo in desio.”—Cant. iv.— Among the numerous errors imputed to Origen, he is accused of having denied the eternity of future punishment; and, if he never advanced a more irrational doctrine, we may venture, I think, to forgive him. He went so far, however, as to include the devil himself in the general hell-delivery which he supposed would one day or other take place, and in this St. Augustin thinks him rather too merciful—“Miserecordior profecto fuit Origenes, qui et ipsum diabolum,” &c. (De Civitat. Dei. lib. xxi. cap. 17.)—According to St. Jerom, it was Origen's opinion, that “the devil himself, after a certain time, will be as well off as the angel Gabriel”—“Id ipsum fore Gabrielem quod diabolum.” (See his Epistle to Pammachius.) But Halloix, in his Defence of Origen, denies strongly that this learned father had any such misplaced tenderness for the devil.

Mr. Fox, in his Speech on the Repeal of the Test Act (1790), thus condemns the intermixture of religion wih the political constitution of a state:—“What purpose (he asks) can it serve, except the baleful purpose of communicating and receiving contamination? Under such an alliance corruption must alight upon the one, and slavery overwhelm the other.”

Locke, too, says of the connection between church and state, “The boundaries on both sides are fixed and immoveable. He jumbles heaven and earth together, the things most remote and opposite, who mixes these two societies, which are in their original, end, business, and in every thing, perfectly distinct and infinitely different from each other.” —First Letter on Toleration.

The corruptions introduced into Christianity may be dated from the period of its establishment under Constantine, nor could all the splendour which it then acquired atone for the peace and purity which it lost.

There has been, after all, quite as much intolerance among Protestants as among Papists. According to the hackneyed quotation—

Iliacos intra muros peccatur et extra.

Even the great champion of the Reformation, Melanchthon, whom Jortin calls “a divine of much mildness and good-nature,” thus expresses his approbation of the burning of Servetus: “Legi (he says to Bullinger) quæ de Serveti blasphemiis respondistis, et pietatem ac judicia vestra probo. Judico etiam senatum Genevensem rectè fecisse, quod hominem pertinacem et non omissurum blasphemias sustulit; ac miratus sum esse qui severitatem illam improbent.”—I have great pleasure in contrasting with these “mild and good-natured” sentiments the following words of the Papist Baluze, in addressing his friend Conringius: “Interim amemus, mî Conringi, et tametsi diversas opiniones tuemur in causâ religionis, moribus tamen diversi non simus, qui eadem literarum studia sectamur.” —Herman. Conring. Epistol. par. secund. p. 56.

Hume tells us that the Commons, in the beginning of Charles the First's reign, “attacked Montague, one of the King's chaplains, on account of a moderate book which he had lately composed, and which, to their great disgust, saved virtuous Catholics, as well as other Christians, from eternal torments.”—In the same manner a complaint was lodged before the Lords of the Council against that excellent writer Hooker, for having, in a Sermon against Popery, attempted to save many of his Popish ancestors for ignorance.—To these examples of Protestant toleration I shall beg leave to oppose the following extract from a letter of old Roger Ascham (the tutor of Queen Elizabeth), which is preserved among the Harrington Papers, and was written in 1566, to the Earl of Leicester, complaining of the Archbishop Young, who had taken away his prebend in the church of York: “Master Bourne did never grieve me half so moche in offering me wrong, as Mr. Dudley and the Byshopp of York doe, in taking away my right. No byshopp in Q. Mary's time would have so dealt with me; not Mr. Bourne hymself, when Winchester lived, durst have so dealt with me. For suche good estimation in those dayes even the learnedst and wysest men, as Gardener and Cardinal Poole, made of my poore service, that although they knewe perfectly that in religion, both by open wrytinge and pryvie talke, I was contrarye unto them; yea, when Sir Francis Englefield by name did note me speciallye at the councill-board, Gardener would not suffer me to be called thither, nor touched ellswheare, saiinge suche words of me in a lettre, as, though lettres cannot, I blushe to write them to your lordshipp. Winchester's good-will stoode not in speaking faire and wishing well, but he did in deede that for me , whereby my wife and children shall live the better when I am gone.” (See Nugæ Antiquæ, vol. i. pp. 98, 99.)— If men who acted thus were bigots, what shall we call Mr. P*rc*v*l?

In Sutcliffe's “Survey of Popery” there occurs the following assertion:—“Papists, that positively hold the heretical and false doctrines of the modern church of Rome, cannot possibly be saved.”—As a contrast to this and other specimens of Protestant liberality, which it would be much more easy than pleasant to collect, I refer my reader to the Declaration of Le Père Courayer;—doubting not that, while he reads the sentiments of this pious man upon toleration, he will feel inclined to exclaim with Belsham, “Blush, ye Protestant bigots! and be confounded at the comparison of your own wretched and malignant prejudices with the generous and enlarged ideas, the noble and animated language of this Popish priest.”— Essays, xxvii. p. 86.

Sir John Bourne, Principal Secretary of State to Queen Mary.

By Gardener's favour Ascham long held his fellowship, though not resident.

“La tolérance est la chose du monde la plus propre à ramener le siècle d'or, et à faire un concert et une harmonie de plusieurs voix et instruments de différents tons et notes, aussi agréable pour le moins que l'uniformité d'une seule voix.” Bayle, Commentaire Philosophique, &c. part ii. chap. vi.— Both Bayle and Locke would have treated the subject of Toleration in a manner much more worthy of themselves and of the cause, if they had written in an age less distracted by religious prejudices.



THE SCEPTIC,

A PHILOSOPHICAL SATIRE.

Νομον παντων βασιλεα.
Pindar. ap. Herodot. lib. iii.



THE SCEPTIC.

As the gay tint, that decks the vernal rose ,
Not in the flower, but in our vision glows;
As the ripe flavour of Falernian tides
Not in the wine, but in our taste resides;

70

So when, with heartfelt tribute, we declare
That Marco's honest and that Susan's fair,
'Tis in our minds, and not in Susan's eyes
Or Marco's life, the worth or beauty lies:
For she, in flat-nosed China, would appear
As plain a thing as Lady Anne is here;
And one light joke at rich Loretto's dome
Would rank good Marco with the damn'd at Rome.
There's no deformity so vile, so base,
That 'tis not somewhere thought a charm, a grace;
No foul reproach, that may not steal a beam
From other suns, to bleach it to esteem.

71

Ask, who is wise?—you'll find the self-same man
A sage in France, a madman in Japan;
And here some head beneath a mitre swells,
Which there had tingled to a cap and bells:
Nay, there may yet some monstrous region be,
Unknown to Cook, and from Napoleon free,
Where C*stl*r---gh would for a patriot pass,
And mouthing M---ve scarce be deem'd an ass!
“List not to reason (Epicurus cries),
“But trust the senses, there conviction lies :”—

72

Alas! they judge not by a purer light,
Nor keep their fountains more untinged and bright:
Habit so mars them, that the Russian swain
Will sigh for train-oil, while he sips Champagne;
And health so rules them, that a fever's heat
Would make even Sh*r*d*n think water sweet.

73

Just as the mind the erring sense believes,
The erring mind, in turn, the sense deceives;
And cold disgust can find but wrinkles there,
Where passion fancies all that's smooth and fair.

74

P****, who sees, upon his pillow laid,
A face for which ten thousand pounds were paid,
Can tell, how quick before a jury flies
The spell that mock'd the warm seducer's eyes.
Self is the medium through which Judgment's ray
Can seldom pass without being turn'd astray.
The smith of Ephesus thought Dian's shrine,
By which his craft most throve, the most divine;
And ev'n the true faith seems not half so true,
When link'd with one good living as with two.
Had W*lc*t first been pension'd by the throne,
Kings would have suffer'd by his praise alone;
And P---ine perhaps, for something snug per ann.,
Had laugh'd, like W*ll*sley, at all Rights of Man.
But 'tis not only individual minds,—
Whole nations, too, the same delusion blinds.
Thus England, hot from Denmark's smoking meads,
Turns up her eyes at Gallia's guilty deeds;

75

Thus, self-pleas'd still, the same dishonouring chain
She binds in Ireland, she would break in Spain;
While prais'd at distance, but at home forbid,
Rebels in Cork are patriots at Madrid.
If Grotius be thy guide, shut, shut the book,—
In force alone for Laws of Nations look.
Let shipless Danes and whining yankees dwell
On naval rights, with Grotius and Vattel,
While C---bb---t's pirate code alone appears
Sound moral sense to England and Algiers.
Woe to the Sceptic, in these party days,
Who wafts to neither shrine his puffs of praise!
For him no pension pours its annual fruits,
No fertile sinecure spontaneous shoots;
Not his the meed that crown'd Don H---kh*m's rhyme,
Nor sees he e'er, in dreams of future time,
Those shadowy forms of sleek reversions rise,
So dear to Scotchmen's second-sighted eyes.
Yet who, that looks to History's damning leaf,
Where Whig and Tory, thief opposed to thief,

76

On either side in lofty shame are seen ,
While Freedom's form hangs crucified between—
Who, B---rd---tt, who such rival rogues can see,
But flies from both to Honesty and thee?
If, weary of the world's bewildering maze ,
Hopeless of finding, through its weedy ways,
One flower of truth, the busy crowd we shun,
And to the shades of tranquil learning run,
How many a doubt pursues! how oft we sigh,
When histories charm, to think that histories lie!!

77

That all are grave romances, at the best,
And M---sgr*ve's but more clumsy than the rest.
By Tory Hume's seductive page beguiled,
We fancy Charles was just and Strafford mild ;
And Fox himself, with party pencil, draws
Monmouth a hero, “for the good old cause!”

78

Then, rights are wrongs, and victories are defeats,
As French or English pride the tale repeats;
And, when they tell Corunna's story o'er,
They'll disagree in all, but honouring Moore:
Nay, future pens, to flatter future courts,
May cite perhaps the Park-guns' gay reports,
To prove that England triumph'd on the morn
Which found her Junot's jest and Europe's scorn.
In science, too—how many a system, raised
Like Neva's icy domes, awhile hath blazed
With lights of fancy and with forms of pride,
Then, melting, mingled with the oblivious tide!

79

Now Earth usurps the centre of the sky,
Now Newton puts the paltry planet by;
Now whims revive beneath Descartes's pen,
Which now, assail'd by Locke's, expire again.
And when, perhaps, in pride of chemic powers,
We think the keys of Nature's kingdom ours,
Some Davy's magic touch the dream unsettles,
And turns at once our alkalis to metals.
Or, should we roam, in metaphysic maze,
Through fair-built theories of former days,
Some Dr*mm---d from the north, more ably skill'd,
Like other Goths, to ruin than to build,

80

Tramples triumphant through our fanes o'erthrown,
Nor leaves one grace, one glory of his own.
Oh Learning, whatsoe'er thy pomp and boast,
Unletter'd minds have taught and charm'd men most.
The rude, unread Columbus was our guide
To worlds, which learn'd Lactantius had denied;
And one wild Shakspeare, following Nature's lights,
Is worth whole planets, fill'd with Stagyrites.
See grave Theology, when once she strays
From Revelation's path, what tricks she plays;
What various heav'ns,—all fit for bards to sing,—
Have churchmen dream'd, from Papias down to King!

81

While hell itself, in India nought but smoke ,
In Spain's a furnace, and in France—a joke.
Hail, modest Ignorance, thou goal and prize,
Thou last, best knowledge of the simply wise!
Hail, humble Doubt, when error's waves are past,
How sweet to reach thy shelter'd port at last,
And, there, by changing skies nor lured nor awed,
Smile at the battling winds that roar abroad.
There gentle Charity, who knows how frail
The bark of Virtue, even in summer's gale,
Sits by the nightly fire, whose beacon glows
For all who wander, whether friends or foes.
There Faith retires, and keeps her white sail furl'd,
Till call'd to spread it for a better world;

82

While Patience, watching on the weedy shore,
And, mutely waiting till the storm be o'er,
Oft turns to Hope, who still directs her eye
To some blue spot, just breaking in the sky!
Such are the mild, the blest associates given
To him who doubts,—and trusts in nought but Heaven!
 

“The particular bulk, number, figure, and motion of the parts of fire or snow are really in them, whether any one perceive them or not, and therefore they may be called real qualities, because they really exist in those bodies; but light, heat, whiteness, or coldness, are no more really in them than sickness or pain is in manna. Take away the sensation of them; let not the eye see light or colours, nor the ears hear sounds; let the palate not taste, nor the nose smell, and all colours, tastes, odours, and sounds, as they are such particular ideas, vanish and cease.” —Locke, book ii. chap. 8.

Bishop Berkeley, it is well known, extended this doctrine even to primary qualities, and supposed that matter itself has but an ideal existence. But, how are we to apply his theory to that period which preceded the formation of man, when our system of sensible things was produced, and the sun shone, and the waters flowed, without any sentient being to witness them? The spectator, whom Whiston supplies, will scarcely solve the difficulty: “To speak my mind freely,” says he, “I believe that the Messias was there actually present.” —See Whiston, of the Mosaic Creation.

Boetius employs this argument of the Sceptics among his consolatory reflections upon the emptiness of fame. “Quid quod diversarum gentium mores inter se atque instituta discordant, ut quod apud alios laude, apud alios supplicio dignum judicetur?”—Lib. ii. prosa 7. Many amusing instances of diversity, in the tastes, manners, and morals of different nations, may be found throughout the works of that amusing Sceptic Le Mothe le Vayer.—See his Opuscule Sceptique, his Treatise “De la Secte Sceptique,” and, above all, those Dialogues, not to be found in his works, which he published under the name of Horatius Tubero.—The chief objection to these writings of Le Vayer (and it is a blemish which may be felt also in the Esprit des Loix), is the suspicious obscurity of the sources from whence he frequently draws his instances, and the indiscriminate use made by him of the lowest populace of the library,—those lying travellers and wonder-mongers, of whom Shaftesbury, in his Advice to an Author, complains, as having tended in his own time to the diffusion of a very shallow and vicious sort of scepticism.— Vol. i. p. 352. The Pyrrhonism of Le Vayer, however, is of the most innocent and playful kind; and Villemandy, the author of Scepticismus Debellatus, exempts him specially in the declaration of war which he denounces against the other armed neutrals of the sect, in consideration of the orthodox limits within which he confines his incredulity.

This was the creed also of those modern Epicureans, whom Ninon de l'Enclos collected around her in the Rue des Tournelles, and whose object seems to have been to decry the faculty of reason, as tending only to embarrass our wholesome use of pleasures, without enabling us, in any degree, to avoid their abuse. Madame des Houlières, the fair pupil of Des Barreaux in the arts of poetry and gallantry, has devoted most of her verses to this laudable purpose, and is even such a determined foe to reason, that, in one of her pastorals, she congratulates her sheep on the want of it. St. Evremont speaks thus upon the subject:—

“Un mélange incertain d'esprit et de matière
Nous fait vivre avec trop ou trop peu de lumière.
[OMITTED] Nature, élève-nous à la clarté des anges,
Ou nous abaise au sens des simples animaux.”
Which may be thus paraphrased:—
Had man been made, at nature's birth,
Of only flame or only earth,
Had he been form'd a perfect whole
Of purely that, or grossly this,
Then sense would ne'er have clouded soul,
Nor soul restrain'd the sense's bliss.
Oh happy, had his light been strong,
Or had he never shared a light,
Which shines enough to show he's wrong,
But not enough to lead him right.

See, among the fragments of Petronius, those verses beginning “Fallunt nos oculi,” &c. The most sceptical of the ancient poets was Euripides; and it would, I think, puzzle the whole school of Pyrrho to produce a doubt more startling than the following:—

Τις δ' οιδεν ει ζην τουθ' ο κεκληται θανειν,
Το ζην δε θνησκειν εστι.
See Laert. in Pyrrh.

Socrates and Plato were the grand sources of ancient scepticism. According to Cicero (de Orator. lib. iii.), they supplied Arcesilas with the doctrines of the Middle Academy; and how closely these resembled the tenets of the Sceptics, may be seen even in Sextus Empiricus (lib. i. cap. 33.), who, with all his distinctions, can scarcely prove any difference. It appears strange that Epicurus should have been a dogmatist; and his natural temper would most probably have led him to the repose of scepticism, had not the Stoics, by their violent opposition to his doctrines, compelled him to be as obstinate as themselves. Plutarch, indeed, in reporting some of his opinions, represents him as having delivered them with considerable hesitation.—Επικουρος ουδεν απογινωσκει τουτων, εχομενος του ενδεχομενου.De Placit. Philosoph. lib. ii. cap. 13. See also the 21st and 22d chapters. But that the leading characteristics of the sect were self-sufficiency and dogmatism, appears from what Cicero says of Velleius, De Natur. Deor.—“Tum Velleius, fidenter sanè, ut solent isti, nihil tam verens quam ne dubitare aliquâ de re videretur.”

Acts, chap. xix. “For a certain man named Demetrius, a silversmith, which made silver shrines for Diana, brought no small gain unto the craftsmen.”

“Those two thieves,” says Ralph, “between whom the nation is crucified.” —Use and Abuse of Parliaments.

The agitation of the ship is one of the chief difficulties which impede the discovery of the longitude at sea; and the tumult and hurry of life are equally unfavourable to that calm level of mind which is necessary to an inquirer after truth.

In the mean time, our modest Sceptic, in the absence of truth, contents himself with probabilities, resembling in this respect those suitors of Penelope, who, on finding that they could not possess the mistress herself, very wisely resolved to put up with her maids; τη Πηνελοπη πλησιαζειν μη δυναμενοι, ταις ταυτης εμιγνυντο θεραπαιναις.Plutarch, Περι Παιδων Αγωγης.

See a curious work, entitled “Reflections upon Learning,” written on the plan of Agrippa's “De Vanitate Scientiarum,” but much more honestly and skilfully executed.

This historian of the Irish rebellions has outrun even his predecessor in the same task, Sir John Temple, for whose character with respect to veracity the reader may consult Carte's Collection of Ormond's Original Papers, p. 207. See also Dr. Nalson's account of him, in the introduction to the second volume of his Historic. Collect.

He defends Strafford's conduct as “innocent and even laudable.” In the same spirit, speaking of the arbitrary sentences of the Star Chamber, he says,—“The severity of the Star Chamber, which was generally ascribed to Laud's passionate disposition, was perhaps, in itself, somewhat blameable.”

That flexibility of temper and opinion, which the habits of scepticism are so calculated to produce, are thus pleaded for by Mr. Fox, in the very sketch of Monmouth to which I allude; and this part of the picture the historian may be thought to have drawn from himself. “One of the most conspicuous features in his character seems to have been a remarkable, and, as some think, a culpable degree of flexibility. That such a disposition is preferable to its opposite extreme will be admitted by all, who think that modesty, even in excess, is more nearly allied to wisdom than conceit and self-sufficiency. He who has attentively considered the political, or indeed the general concerns of life, may possibly go still further, and may rank a willingness to be convinced, or, in some cases, even without conviction, to concede our own opinion to that of other men, among the principal ingredients in the composition of practical wisdom.”—It is right to observe, however, that the Sceptic's readiness of concession arises rather from uncertainty than conviction, more from a suspicion that his own opinion may be wrong, than from any persuasion that the opinion of his adversary is right. “It may be so,” was the courteous and sceptical formula, with which the Dutch were accustomed to reply to the statements of ambassadors. See Lloyd's State Worthies, art. Sir Thomas Wyat.

Descartes, who is considered as the parent of modern scepticism, says, that there is nothing in the whole range of philosophy which does not admit of two opposite opinions, and which is not involved in doubt and uncertainty. “In Philosophia nihil adhuc reperiri, de quo non in utramque partem disputatur, hoc est, quod non sit incertum et dubium.” Gassendi is likewise to be added to the list of modern Sceptics, and Wedderkopff, in his Dissertation “De Scepticismo profano et sacro” (Argentorat. 1666), has denounced Erasmus also as a follower of Pyrrho, for his opinions upon the Trinity, and some other subjects. To these if we add the names of Bayle, Mallebranche, Dryden, Locke, &c. &c., I think there is no one who need be ashamed of doubting in such company.

See this gentleman's Academic Questions.

Papias lived about the time of the apostles, and is supposed to have given birth to the heresy of the Chiliastæ, whose heaven was by no means of a spiritual nature, but rather an anticipation of the Prophet of Hera's elysium. See Eusebius, Hist. Ecclesiast. lib. iii. cap. 33., and Hieronym. de Scriptor. Ecclesiast.—From all I can find in these authors concerning Papias, it seems hardly fair to impute to him those gross imaginations in which the believers of the sensual millennium indulged.

King, in his Morsels of Criticism, vol. i., supposes the sun to be the receptacle of blessed spirits.

The Indians call hell “the House of Smoke.” See Picart upon the Religion of the Banians. The reader who is curious about infernal matters, may be edified by consulting Rusca de Inferno, particularly lib. ii. cap. 7, 8., where he will find the precise sort of fire ascertained in which wicked spirits are to be burned hereafter.

“Chère Sceptique, douce pâture de mon ame, et l'unique port de salut à un esprit qui aime le repos!” —La Mothe le Vayer.



TWOPENNY POST-BAG.

BY THOMAS BROWN, THE YOUNGER.

Elapsæ manibus secidére tabellæ. Ovid.



DEDICATION.

TO STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ.


INTERCEPTED LETTERS, &c.

LETTER I. FROM THE PR*NC*SS CH*RL*E OF W*L*S TO THE LADY B*RB---A ASHL*Y.

My dear Lady Bab, you'll be shock'd, I'm afraid,
When you hear the sad rumpus your Ponies have made;
Since the time of horse-consuls (now long out of date),
No nags ever made such a stir in the state.
Lord Eld---n first heard—and as instantly pray'd he
To “God and his King”—that a Popish young Lady

98

(For though you've bright eyes and twelve thousand a year,
It is still but too true you're a Papist, my dear,)
Had insidiously sent, by a tall Irish groom,
Two priest-ridden Ponies, just landed from Rome,
And so full, little rogues, of pontifical tricks,
That the dome of St. Paul's was scarce safe from their kicks.
Off at once to Papa, in a flurry he flies—
For Papa always does what these statesmen advise,
On condition that they'll be, in turn, so polite
As in no case whate'er to advise him too right
“Pretty doings are here, Sir (he angrily cries,
While by dint of dark eyebrows he strives to look wise)—
“'Tis a scheme of the Romanists, so help me God!
“To ride over your most Royal Highness roughshod—
“Excuse, Sir, my tears—they're from loyalty's source—
“Bad enough 'twas for Troy to be sack'd by a Horse,
“But for us to be ruin'd by Ponies still worse!”

99

Quick a Council is call'd—the whole Cabinet sits—
The Archbishops declare, frighten'd out of their wits,
That if once Popish Ponies should eat at my manger,
From that awful moment the Church is in danger!
As, give them but stabling, and shortly no stalls
Will suit their proud stomachs but those at St. Paul's.
The Doctor , and he, the devout man of Leather ,
V---ns---tt---t, now laying their Saint-heads together,
Declare that these skittish young a-bominations
Are clearly foretold in Chap. vi. Revelations—
Nay, they verily think they could point out the one
Which the Doctor's friend Death was to canter upon.
Lord H---rr---by, hoping that no one imputes
To the Court any fancy to persecute brutes,
Protests, on the word of himself and his cronies,
That had these said creatures been Asses, not Ponies,
The Court would have started no sort of objection,
As Asses were, there, always sure of protection.

100

“If the Pr*nc*ss will keep them (says Lord C*stl*r---gh),
“To make them quite harmless, the only true way
“Is (as certain Chief Justices do with their wives)
“To flog them within half an inch of their lives.
“If they've any bad Irish blood lurking about,
“This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out.”
Should this be thought cruel, his Lordship proposes
“The new Veto snaffle to bind down their noses—
“A pretty contrivance, made out of old chains,
“Which appears to indulge, while it doubly restrains;
“Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks
“(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else breaks their necks!”
This proposal receiv'd pretty general applause
From the Statesmen around—and the neck-breaking clause

101

Had a vigour about it, which soon reconcil'd
Even Eld---n himself to a measure so mild.
So the snaffles, my dear, were agreed to nem. con.,
And my Lord C*stl*r---gh, having so often shone
In the fettering line, is to buckle them on.
I shall drive to your door in these Vetos some day,
But, at present, adieu!—I must hurry away
To go see my Mamma, as I'm suffer'd to meet her
For just half an hour by the Qu---n's best repeater.
Ch*rl*tte.
 

This young Lady, who is a Roman Catholic, had lately made a present of some beautiful Ponies to the Pr*nc*ss.

Mr. Addington, so nicknamed.

Alluding to a tax lately laid upon leather.

The question whether a Veto was to be allowed to the Crown in the appointment of Irish Catholic Bishops was, at this time, very generally and actively agitated.


102

LETTER II. FROM COLONEL M'M---H---N TO G---LD FR---NC---S L---CKIE, ESQ.

Dear Sir, I've just had time to look
Into your very learned Book ,
Wherein—as plain as man can speak,
Whose English is half modern Greek—
You prove that we can ne'er intrench
Our happy isles against the French,
Till Royalty in England's made
A much more independent trade;—
In short, until the House of Guelph
Lays Lords and Commons on the shelf,
And boldly sets up for itself.
 

For an account of this extraordinary work of Mr. Leckie, see the Edinburgh Review, vol. xx.


103

All, that can well be understood
In this said Book, is vastly good;
And, as to what's incomprehensible,
I dare be sworn 'tis full as sensible.
But, to your work's immortal credit,
The Pr*n*e, good Sir, the Pr*n*e has read it
(The only Book, himself remarks,
Which he has read since Mrs. Clarke's).
Last levee-morn he look'd it through,
During that awful hour or two
Of grave tonsorial preparation,
Which, to a fond, admiring nation,
Sends forth, announc'd by trump and drum,
The best-wigg'd Pr*n*e in Christendom.
He thinks with you, th' imagination
Of partnership in legislation
Could only enter in the noddles
Of dull and ledger-keeping twaddles,
Whose heads on firms are running so,
They ev'n must have a King and Co.,
And hence, most eloquently show forth
On checks and balances, and so forth.

104

But now, he trusts, we're coming near a
Far more royal, loyal era;
When England's monarch need but say,
“Whip me those scoundrels, C*stl*r---gh!”
Or, “Hang me up those Papists, Eld---n,”
And 'twill be done—ay, faith, and well done.
With view to which, I've his command
To beg, Sir, from your travell'd hand,
(Round which the foreign graces swarm )
A Plan of radical Reform;
Compil'd and chos'n as best you can,
In Turkey or at Ispahan,
And quite upturning, branch and root,
Lords, Commons, and Burdétt to boot.
 

“The truth indeed seems to be, that having lived so long abroad as evidently to have lost, in a great degree, the use of his native language, Mr. Leckie has gradually come not only to speak, but to feel, like a foreigner.” —Edinburgh Review.

But, pray, whate'er you may impart, write
Somewhat more brief than Major C*rtwr*ght:
Else, though the Pr---e be long in rigging,
'Twould take, at least, a fortnight's wigging,—

105

Two wigs to every paragraph—
Before he well could get through half.
You'll send it also speedily—
As, truth to say, 'twixt you and me,
His Highness, heated by your work,
Already thinks himself Grand Turk!
And you'd have laugh'd, had you seen how
He scar'd the Ch*nc*ll*r just now,
When (on his Lordship's entering puff'd) he
Slapp'd his back and call'd him “Mufti!”
The tailors too have got commands,
To put directly into hands
All sorts of Dulimans and Pouches,
With Sashes, Turbans, and Paboutches,
(While Y*rm---th's sketching out a plan
Of new Moustaches à l'Ottomane)
And all things fitting and expedient
To turkify our gracious R*g*nt!
You therefore, have no time to waste—
So, send your System.—
Yours, in haste.

106

POSTSCRIPT.

Before I send this scrawl away,
I seize a moment, just to say,
There's some parts of the Turkish system
So vulgar, 'twere as well you miss'd 'em.
For instance—in Seraglio matters—
Your Turk, whom girlish fondness flatters,
Would fill his Haram (tasteless fool!)
With tittering, red-cheek'd things from school.
But here (as in that fairy land,
Where Love and Age went hand in hand ;
Where lips, till sixty, shed no honey,
And Grandams were worth any money,)

107

Our Sultan has much riper notions—
So, let your list of she-promotions
Include those only, plump and sage,
Who've reach'd the regulation-age;
That is, (as near as one can fix
From Peerage dates) full fifty-six.
This rule's for fav'rites—nothing more—
For, as to wives, a Grand Signor,
Though not decidedly without them,
Need never care one curse about them.
 

The learned Colonel must allude here to a description of the Mysterious Isle, in the History of Abdalla, Son of Hanif, where such inversions of the order of nature are said to have taken place.—“A score of old women and the same number of old men played here and there in the court, some at chuck-farthing, others at tip-cat or at cockles.”— And again, “There is nothing, believe me, more engaging than those lovely wrinkles,” &c. &c.—See Tales of the East, vol. iii. pp. 607, 608.


108

LETTER III. FROM G---GE PR---CE R*G---T TO THE E--- OF Y---TH.

We miss'd you last night at the “hoary old sinner's,”
Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners;
His soups scientific—his fishes quite prime
His pâtés superb—and his cutlets sublime!
In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a
Stomachic orgasm in my Lord El---b---gh,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous force,
And exclaim'd, between mouthfuls, “a He-Cook, of course!—
“While you live—(what's there under that cover? pray, look)—
“While you live—(I'll just taste it)—ne'er keep a She-Cook.

109

“'Tis a sound Salic Law—(a small bit of that toast)—
“Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;
“For Cookery's a secret—(this turtle's uncommon)—
“Like Masonry, never found out by a woman!”
The dinner, you know, was in gay celebration
Of my brilliant triumph and H---nt's condemnation;
A compliment, too, to his Lordship the Judge
For his Speech to the Jury—and zounds! who would grudge
Turtle soup, though it came to five guineas a bowl,
To reward such a loyal and complaisant soul?
We were all in high gig—Roman Punch and Tokay
Travell'd round, till our heads travell'd just the same way;
And we car'd not for Juries or Libels—no—damme! nor
Ev'n for the threats of last Sunday's Examiner!

110

More good things were eaten than said—but Tom T---rrh---t
In quoting Joe Miller, you know, has some merit;
And, hearing the sturdy Justiciary Chief
Say—sated with turtle—“ I'll now try the beef”—
Tommy whisper'd him (giving his Lordship a sly hit)
“I fear 'twill be hung-beef, my Lord, if you try it!”
And C---md---n was there, who, that morning, had gone
To fit his new Marquis's coronet on;
And the dish set before him—oh dish well-devis'd!—
Was, what old Mother Glasse calls, “a calf's head surpris'd!”
The brains were near Sh---ry, and once had been fine,
But, of late, they had lain so long soaking in wine,
That, though we, from courtesy, still chose to call
These brains very fine, they were no brains at all.
When the dinner was over, we drank, every one
In a bumper, “the venial delights of Crim. Con.;”

111

At which H---df---t with warm reminiscences gloated,
And E---b'r---h chuckled to hear himself quoted.
Our next round of toasts was a fancy quite new,
For we drank—and you'll own 'twas benevolent too—
To those well-meaning husbands, cits, parsons, or peers,
Whom we've, any time, honour'd by courting their dears:
This museum of wittols was comical rather;
Old H---df---t gave M*ss*y, and I gave your f*th*r.
In short, not a soul till this morning would budge—
We were all fun and frolic,—and even the J---e
Laid aside, for the time, his juridical fashion,
And through the whole night wasn't once in a passion!
I write this in bed, while my whiskers are airing,
And M*c has a sly dose of jalap preparing

112

For poor T*mmy T---rr---t at breakfast to quaff—
As I feel I want something to give me a laugh,
And there's nothing so good as old T*mmy, kept close
To his Cornwall accounts, after taking a dose.
 

This letter, as the reader will perceive, was written the day after a dinner given by the M*rq---s of H---d---t.

Colonel M'Mahon.


113

LETTER IV. FROM THE RIGHT HON. P*TR*CK D---GEN---N TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR J*HN N*CH*L.

Dublin.
Last week, dear N*ch*l, making merry
At dinner with our Secretary,
When all were drunk, or pretty near
(The time for doing business here),
Says he to me, “Sweet Bully Bottom!
“These Papist dogs—hiccup—'od rot 'em!—
“Deserve to be bespatter'd—hiccup—
“With all the dirt ev'n you can pick up.
“But, as the Pr---ce (here's to him—fill—
“Hip, hip, hurra!)—is trying still

114

“To humbug them with kind professions,
“And, as you deal in strong expressions—
Rogue”—“traitor”—hiccup—and all that—
“You must be muzzled, Doctor Pat!—
“You must indeed—hiccup—that's flat.”—
Yes—“muzzled” was the word, Sir John—
These fools have clapp'd a muzzle on
The boldest mouth that e'er ran o'er
With slaver of the times of yore! —
Was it for this that back I went
As far as Lateran and Trent,
To prove that they, who damn'd us then,
Ought now, in turn, be damn'd again?—
The silent victim still to sit
Of Gr---tt---n's fire and C*nn---g's wit,
To hear ev'n noisy M---th---w gabble on,
Nor mention once the W---e of Babylon!
Oh! 'tis too much—who now will be
The Nightman of No-Popery?

115

What Courtier, Saint, or even Bishop,
Such learned filth will ever fish up?
If there among our ranks be one
To take my place, 'tis thou, Sir John;
Thou, who, like me, art dubb'd Right Hon.
Like me too, art a Lawyer Civil
That wishes Papists at the devil.
To whom then but to thee, my friend,
Should Patrick his Port-folio send?
Take it—'tis thine—his learn'd Port-folio,
With all its theologic olio
Of Bulls, half Irish and half Roman—
Of Doctrines, now believ'd by no man—
Of Councils, held for men's salvation,
Yet always ending in damnation—
(Which shows that, since the world's creation,
Your Priests, whate'er their gentle shamming,
Have always had a taste for damning,)

116

And many more such pious scraps,
To prove (what we've long prov'd, perhaps,)
That, mad as Christians us'd to be
About the Thirteenth Century,
There still are Christians to be had
In this, the Nineteenth, just as mad!
Farewell—I send with this, dear N*ch*l,
A rod or two I've had in pickle
Wherewith to trim old Gr---tt---n's jacket.—
The rest shall go by Monday's packet.
P. D.

117

Among the Enclosures in the foregoing Letter was the following “Unanswerable Argument against the Papists.“

[OMITTED] We're told the ancient Roman nation
Made use of spittle in lustration ;
(Vide Lactantium ap. Gallæum—
i.e. you need not read but see 'em;)
Now, Irish Papists, fact surprising,
Make use of spittle in baptizing;
Which proves them all, O'Finns, O'Fagans,
Connors, and Tooles, all downright Pagans.
This fact's enough;—let no one tell us
To free such sad, salivous fellows.—
No, no—the man, baptiz'd with spittle,
Hath no truth in him—not a tittle!
 

This letter, which contained some very heavy enclosures, seems to have been sent to London by a private hand, and then put into the Twopenny Post-Office, to save trouble. See the Appendix.

In sending this sheet to the Press, however, I learn that the “muzzle” has been taken off, and the Right Hon. Doctor again let loose!

A bad name for poetry; but D---gen---n is still worse.— As Prudentius says upon a very different subject—

Torquetur Apollo
Nomine percussus.

------ Lustralibus antè salivis
Expiat.

Pers. sat. 2.

I have taken the trouble of examining the Doctor's reference here, and find him, for once, correct. The following are the words of his indignant referee Gallæus—“Asserere non veremur sacrum baptismum a Papistis profanari, et sputi usum in peccatorum expiatione a Paganis non a Christianis manâsse.”


141

APPENDIX.

Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. D---g---n---n's Letter, was found an Heroic Epistle in Latin verse, from Pope Joan to her Lover, of which, as it is rather a curious document, I shall venture to give some account. This female Pontiff was a native of England, (or, according to others, of Germany,) who, at an early age, disguised herself in male attire, and followed her lover, a young ecclesiastic, to Athens, where she studied with such effect, that upon her arrival at Rome, she was thought worthy of being raised to the Pontificate. This Epistle is addressed to her Lover (whom she had elevated to the dignity of Cardinal), soon after the fatal accouchement, by which her Fallibility was betrayed.


142

She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens—when, as she says,

------ “by Ilissus' stream
“We whispering walk'd along, and learn'd to speak
“The tenderest feelings in the purest Greek;—
“Ah, then how little did we think or hope,
“Dearest of men, that I should e'er be Pope!
“That I, the humble Joan, whose house-wife art
“Seem'd just enough to keep thy house and heart,
“(And those, alas, at sixes and at sevens,)
“Should soon keep all the keys of all the heavens!”

Still less (she continues to say) could they have foreseen, that such a catastrophe as had happened in Council would befall them—that she

“Should thus surprise the Conclave's grave decorum,
“And let a little Pope pop out before 'em—

143

“Pope Innocent! alas, the only one
“That name could e'er be justly fix'd upon.”

She then very pathetically laments the downfall of her greatness, and enumerates the various treasures to which she is doomed to bid farewell for ever:—

“But oh, more dear, more precious ten times over—
“Farewell my Lord, my Cardinal, my Lover!
“I made thee Cardinal—thou mad'st me—ah!
“Thou mad'st the Papa of the world Mamma!”

I have not time at present to translate any more of this Epistle; but I presume the argument which the Right Hon. Doctor and his friends mean to deduce from it, is (in their usual convincing strain) that Romanists must be unworthy of Emancipation now, because they had a Petticoat Pope in the Ninth Century. Nothing can be more logically clear, and I find that Horace had exactly the same views upon the subject.

Romanus (eheu posteri negabitis!)
Emancipatus Fœminæ
Fert vallum!

 

Spanheim attributes the unanimity, with which Joan was elected, to that innate and irresistible charm, by which her sex, though latent, operated upon the instinct of the Cardinals— “Non vi aliquâ, sed concorditer, omnium in se converso desiderio, quæ sunt blandientis sexus artes, latentes in hâc quanquam!”


118

LETTER V. FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF C*RK TO LADY ------.

My dear Lady ------! I've been just sending out
About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout—
(By the bye, you've seen Rokeby?—this moment got mine—
The Mail-Coach Edition —prodigiously fine!)
But I can't conceive how, in this very cold weather,
I'm ever to bring my five hundred together;
As, unless the thermometer's near boiling heat,
One can never get half of one's hundreds to meet.
(Apropos—you'd have laugh'd to see Townsend last night,
Escort to their chairs, with his staff, so polite,
The “three maiden Miseries,” all in a fright;

119

Poor Townsend, like Mercury, filling two posts,
Supervisor of thieves, and chief-usher of ghosts!)
But, my dear Lady ------, can't you hit on some notion,
At least for one night to set London in motion?—
As to having the R*g*nt, that show is gone by—
Besides, I've remark'd that (between you and I)
The Marchesa and he, inconvenient in more ways,
Have taken much lately to whispering in doorways;
Which—consid'ring, you know, dear, the size of the two—
Makes a block that one's company cannot get through;
And a house such as mine is, with doorways so small,
Has no room for such cumbersome love-work at all.—
(Apropos, though, of love-work—you've heard it, I hope,
That Napoleon's old mother's to marry the Pope,—
What a comical pair!)—but, to stick to my Rout,
'Twill be hard if some novelty can't be struck out.

120

Is there no Algerine, no Kamchatkan arriv'd?
No Plenipo Pacha, three-tail'd and ten-wiv'd?
No Russian, whose dissonant consonant name
Almost rattles to fragments the trumpet of fame?
I remember the time, three or four winters back,
When—provided their wigs were but decently black—
A few Patriot monsters, from Spain, were a sight
That would people one's house for one, night after night.
But—whether the Ministers paw'd them too much—
(And you know how they spoil whatsoever they touch)
Or, whether Lord G---rge (the young man about town)
Has, by dint of bad poetry, written them down,
One has certainly lost one's peninsular rage;
And the only stray Patriot seen for an age
Has been at such places (think, how the fit cools!)
As old Mrs. V---gh*n's or Lord L*v*rp---l's.

121

But, in short, my dear, names like Wintztschitstopschinzoudhoff
Are the only things now make an ev'ning go smooth off:
So, get me a Russian—till death I'm your debtor—
If he brings the whole Alphabet, so much the better.
And—Lord! if he would but, in character, sup
Off his fish-oil and candles, he'd quite set me up!
Au revoir, my sweet girl—I must leave you in haste—
Little Gunter has brought me the Liqueurs to taste.

POSTSCRIPT.

By the bye, have you found any friend that can construe
That Latin account, t'other day, of a Monster?
If we can't get a Russian, and that thing in Latin
Be not too improper, I think I'll bring that in.
 

See Mr. Murray's Advertisement about the Mail-Coach copies of Rokeby.

Alluding, I suppose, to the Latin Advertisement of a Lusus Naturæ in the Newspapers lately.


122

LETTER VI. FROM ABDALLAH , IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN.

Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!)
Dost daily bend thy loyal brow
Before our King—our Asia's treasure!
Nutmeg of Comfort; Rose of Pleasure!—
And bear'st as many kicks and bruises
As the said Rose and Nutmeg chooses;
Thy head still near the bowstring's borders,
And but left on till further orders—
Through London streets, with turban fair,
And caftan, floating to the air,

123

I saunter on, the admiration
Of this short-coated population—
This sew'd up race—this button'd nation—
Who, while they boast their laws so free,
Leave not one limb at liberty,
But live, with all their lordly speeches,
The slaves of buttons and tight breeches.
Yet, though they thus their knee-pans fetter
(They're Christians, and they know no better)
In some things they're a thinking nation;
And, on Religious Toleration,
I own I like their notions quite,
They are so Persian and so right!
You know our Sunnites ,—hateful dogs!
Whom every pious Shiite flogs

124

Or longs to flog —'tis true, they pray
To God, but in an ill-bred way;
With neither arms, nor legs, nor faces
Stuck in their right, canonic places.
'Tis true, they worship Ali's name
Their Heav'n and ours are just the same—
(A Persian's Heav'n is eas'ly made,
'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.)
Yet, though we've tried for centuries back—
We can't persuade this stubborn pack,
By bastinadoes, screws, or nippers,
To wear th' establish'd pea-green slippers.
Then, only think, the libertines!
They wash their toes—they comb their chins ,
With many more such deadly sins;

125

And what's the worst, though last I rank it)
Believe the Chapter of the Blanket!
 

“C'est un honnête homme,” said a Turkish governor of De Ruyter; “c'est grand dommage qu'il soit Chrétien.”.

Sunnites and Shiites are the two leading sects into which the Mahometan world is divided; and they have gone on cursing and persecuting each other, without any intermission, for about eleven hundred years. The Sunni is the established sect in Turkey, and the Shia in Persia; and the differences between them turn chiefly upon those important points, which our pious friend Abdallah, in the true spirit of Shiite Ascendency, reprobates in this Letter.

“Les Sunnites, qui étoient comme les Catholiques de Musulmanisme.” —D' Herbelot.

“In contradistinction to the Sounis, who in their prayers cross their hands on the lower part of the breast, the Schiahs drop their arms in straight lines; and as the Sounis, at certain periods of the prayer, press their foreheads on the ground or carpet, the Schiahs,” &c. &c. —Forster's Voyage.

“Les Tures ne détestent pas Ali réciproquement; au contraire, ils le reconnoissent,” &c. &c. —Chardin.

“The Shiites wear green slippers, which the Sunnites consider as a great abomination.” —Mariti.

For these points of difference, as well as for the Chapter of the Blanket, I must refer the reader (not having the book by me) to Picart's Account of the Mahometan Sects.

Yet, spite of tenets so flagitious,
(Which must, at bottom, be seditious;
Since no man living would refuse
Green slippers, but from treasonous views;
Nor wash his toes, but with intent
To overturn the government,)—
Such is our mild and tolerant way,
We only curse them twice a day
(According to a Form that's set),
And, far from torturing, only let
All orthodox believers beat 'em,
And twitch their beards, where'er they meet 'em.
As to the rest, they're free to do
Whate'er their fancy prompts them to,
Provided they make nothing of it
Tow'rds rank or honour, power or profit;
Which things, we nat'rally expect,
Belong to us, the Establish'd sect,

126

Who disbelieve (the Lord be thanked!)
Th' aforesaid Chapter of the Blanket.
The same mild views of Toleration
Inspire, I find, this button'd nation,
Whose Papists (full as giv'n to rogue,
And only Sunnites with a brogue)
Fare just as well, with all their fuss,
As rascal Sunnites do with us.
The tender Gazel I enclose
Is for my love, my Syrian Rose—
Take it when night begins to fall,
And throw it o'er her mother's wall.

GAZEL.

Rememberest thou the hour we past,—
That hour the happiest and the last?
Oh! not so sweet the Siha thorn
To summer bees, at break of morn,

127

Not half so sweet, through dale and dell,
To Camels' ears the tinkling bell,
As is the soothing memory
Of that one precious hour to me.
How can we live, so far apart?
Oh! why not rather, heart to heart,
United live and die—
Like those sweet birds, that fly together,
With feather always touching feather,
Link'd by a hook and eye!
 

This will appear strange to an English reader, but it is literally translated from Abdallah's Persian, and the curious bird to which he alludes is the Juftak, of which I find the following account in Richardson:—“A sort of bird, that is said to have but one wing; on the opposite side to which the male has a hook and the female a ring, so that, when they fly, they are fastened together.”

 

I have made many inquiries about this Persian gentleman, but cannot satisfactorily ascertain who he is. From his notions of Religious Liberty, however, I conclude that he is an importation of Ministers; and he has arrived just in time to assist the P---e and Mr. L---ck---e in their new Oriental Plan of Reform.—See the second of these Letters.— How Abdallah's epistle to Ispahan found its way into the Twopenny Post-Bag is more than I can pretend to account for.


128

LETTER VII. FROM MESSRS. L---CK---GT---N AND CO. TO ------, ESQ.

Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.—look'd it thro'—
Very sorry—but can't undertake—'twouldn't do.
Clever work, Sir!—would get up prodigiously well—
Its only defect is—it never would sell.
And though Statesmen may glory in being unbought,
In an Author 'tis not so desirable thought.
Hard times, Sir,—most books are too dear to be read—
Though the gold of Good-sense and Wit's small-change are fled,
Yet the paper we Publishers pass, in their stead,
Rises higher each day, and ('tis frightful to think it)
Not even such names as F*tzg*r---d's can sink it!

129

However, Sir—if you're for trying again,
And at somewhat that's vendible—we are your men.
Since the Chevalier C*rr took to marrying lately,
The Trade is in want of a Traveller greatly—
No job, Sir, more easy—your Country once plann'd,
A month aboard ship and a fortnight on land
Puts your Quarto of Travels, Sir, clean out of hand.
An East-India pamphlet's a thing that would tell—
And a lick at the Papists is sure to sell well.
Or—supposing you've nothing original in you—
Write Parodies, Sir, and such fame it will win you,
You'll get to the Blue-stocking Routs of Albinia!
(Mind—not to her dinners—a second-hand Muse
Mustn't think of aspiring to mess with the Blues.)

130

Or—in case nothing else in this world you can do—
The deuce is in't, Sir, if you cannot review!
Should you feel any touch of poetical glow,
We've a Scheme to suggest—Mr. Sc*tt, you must know,
(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row ,)
Having quitted the Borders, to seek new renown,
Is coming, by long Quarto stages, to Town;
And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay)
Means to do all the Gentlemen's Seats on the way.
Now, the Scheme is (though none of our hackneys can beat him)
To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him;
Who, by means of quick proofs—no revises—long coaches—
May do a few Villas, before Sc*tt approaches.
Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby,
He'll reach, without found'ring, at least Woburn-Abbey.

131

Such, Sir, is our plan—if you're up to the freak,
'Tis a match! and we'll put you in training next week.
At present, no more—in reply to this Letter, a
Line will oblige very much
Yours, et cetera.
Temple of the Muses.
 

From motives of delicacy, and, indeed, of fellow-feeling, I suppress the name of the Author, whose rejected manuscript was inclosed in this letter.—See the Appendix.

Sir John Carr, the author of “Tours in Ireland, Holland, Sweden,” &c. &c.

This alludes, I believe, to a curious correspondence, which is said to have passed lately between Alb*n*a, Countess of B*ck---gh*ms---e, and a certain ingenious Parodist.

Paternoster Row.


144

APPENDIX.

The Manuscript, found enclosed in the Bookseller's Letter, turns out to be a Melo-Drama, in two Acts, entitled “The Book ,” of which the Theatres, of course, had had the refusal, before it was presented to Messrs. L*ck*ngt*n and Co. This rejected Drama, however, possesses considerable merit, and I shall take the liberty of laying a sketch of it before my Readers.

The first Act opens in a very awful manner— Time, three o'clock in the morning—Scene, the


145

Bourbon Chamber in C*rl---t*n House— Enter the P---e R*g---t solus—After a few broken sentences, he thus exclaims:—

Away—Away—
Thou haunt'st my fancy so, thou devilish Book,
I meet thee—trace thee, wheresoe'er I look.
I see thy damned ink in Eld---n's brows—
I see thy foolscap on my H*rtf---d's Spouse—
V---ns---tt---t's head recalls thy leathern case,
And all thy blank-leaves stare from R---d---r's face!
While, turning here (laying his hand on his heart)
, I find, ah wretched elf,

Thy List of dire Errata in myself. (Walks the stage in considerable agitation.)

Oh Roman Punch! oh potent Curacoa!
Oh Mareschino! Mareschino oh!
Delicious drams! why have you not the art
To kill this gnawing Book-worm in my heart?

146

He is here interrupted in his Soliloquy by perceiving on the ground some scribbled fragments of paper, which he instantly collects, and “by the light of two magnificent candelabras” discovers the following unconnected words, “Wife neglected”—“the Book”—“Wrong Measures”—“the Queen”— “Mr. Lambert”—“the R*g---t.”

Ha! treason in my house!—Curst words, that wither
My princely soul, (shaking the papers violently)
what Demon brought you hither?

“My Wife;”—“the Book” too!—stay—a nearer look— (holding the fragments closer to the Candelabras)

Alas! too plain, B, double O, K, Book—
Death and destruction!

He here rings all the bells, and a whole legion of valets enter. A scene of cursing and swearing (very much in the German style) ensues, in the course of which messengers are despatched, in different directions, for the L*rd Ch*nc*ll*r, the D---e of C---b---l---d, &c. &c. The intermediate time is filled up by another Soliloquy, at


147

the conclusion of which the aforesaid Personages rush on alarmed; the D---ke with his stays only half-laced, and the Ch*nc*ll*r with his wig thrown hastily over an old red night-cap, “to maintain the becoming splendour of his office.” The R*g---t produces the appalling fragments, upon which the Ch*nc*ll*r breaks out into exclamations of loyalty and tenderness, and relates the following portentous dream.

'Tis scarcely two hours since
I had a fearful dream of thee, my P---e!—
Methought I heard thee, midst a courtly crowd,
Say from thy throne of gold, in mandate loud,
“Worship my whiskers!”— (weeps)
not a knee was there

But bent and worshipp'd the Illustrious Pair,
Which curl'd in conscious majesty! (pulls out his handkerchief)
—while cries

Of “Whiskers, whiskers!” shook the echoing skies.—

148

Just in that glorious hour, methought, there came,
With looks of injur'd pride, a Princely Dame,
And a young maiden, clinging by her side,
As if she fear'd some tyrant would divide
Two hearts that nature and affection tied!
The Matron came—within her right hand glow'd
A radiant torch; while from her left a load
Of Papers hung— (wipes his eyes)
collected in her veil—

The venal evidence, the slanderous tale,
The wounding hint, the current lies that pass
From Post to Courier, form'd the motley mass;
Which, with disdain, before the Throne she throws,
And lights the Pile beneath thy princely nose. (Weeps.)

Heav'ns, how it blaz'd!—I'd ask no livelier fire, (With animation)
To roast a Papist by, my gracious Sire!—

But ah! the Evidence— (weeps again)
I mourn'd to see—

Cast, as it burn'd, a deadly light on thee:
And Tales and Hints their random sparkles flung,
And hiss'd and crackled, like an old maid's tongue;

149

While Post and Courier, faithful to their fame,
Made up in stink for what they lack'd in flame.
When, lo, ye Gods! the fire ascending brisker,
Now singes one, now lights the other whisker.
Ah! where was then the Sylphid, that unfurls
Her fairy standard in defence of curls?
Throne, Whiskers, Wig soon vanish'd into smoke,
The watchman cried “Past One,” and—I awoke.

Here his Lordship weeps more profusely than ever, and the R*g---t (who has been very much agitated during the recital of the Dream) by a movement as characteristic as that of Charles XII. when he was shot, claps his hands to his whiskers to feel if all be really safe. A Privy Council is held—all the Servants, &c. are examined, and it appears that a Tailor, who had come to measure the R*g---t for a Dress (which takes three whole pages of the best superfine clinquant in describing) was the only person who had been in the Bourbon Chamber during the day. It is, accordingly, determined to seize the Tailor, and the Council breaks up with a unanimous resolution to be vigorous.


150

The commencement of the Second Act turns chiefly upon the Trial and Imprisonment of two Brothers —but as this forms the under plot of the Drama, I shall content myself with extracting from it the following speech, which is addressed to the two Brothers, as they “exeunt severally” to Prison:—

Go to your prisons—though the air of Spring
No mountain coolness to your cheeks shall bring;
Though Summer flowers shall pass unseen away,
And all your portion of the glorious day
May be some solitary beam that falls,
At morn or eve, upon your dreary walls—
Some beam that enters, trembling as if aw'd,
To tell how gay the young world laughs abroad!
Yet go—for thoughts as blessed as the air
Of Spring or Summer flowers await you there;
Thoughts, such as He, who feasts his courtly crew
In rich conservatories, never knew;
Pure self-esteem—the smiles that light within—
The Zeal, whose circling charities begin

151

With the few lov'd-ones Heaven has plac'd it near,
And spread, till all Mankind are in its sphere;
The Pride, that suffers without vaunt or plea,
And the fresh Spirit, that can warble free,
Through prison-bars, its hymn to Liberty!

The Scene next changes to a Tailor's Work-shop, and a fancifully-arranged group of these Artists is discovered upon the Shop-board—Their task evidently of a royal nature, from the profusion of gold-lace, frogs, &c. that lie about—They all rise and come forward, while one of them sings the following Stanzas to the tune of “Derry Down.”

My brave brother Tailors, come, straighten your knees,
For a moment, like gentlemen, stand up at ease,
While I sing of our P---e (and a fig for his railers)
The Shop-board's delight! the Mæcenas of Tailors!
Derry down, down, down derry down.
Some monarchs take roundabout ways into note,
While His short cut to fame is—the cut of his coat;

152

Philip's Son thought the World was too small for his Soul,
But our R*g---t's finds room in a lac'd button-hole.
Derry down, &c.
Look through all Europe's Kings—those, at least, who go loose—
Not a King of them all's such a friend to the Goose.
So, God keep him increasing in size and renown,
Still the fattest and best fitted P---e about town!
Derry down, &c.

During the “Derry down” of this last verse, a messenger from the S*c---t---y of S---e's Office rushes on, and the singer (who, luckily for the effect of the scene, is the very Tailor suspected of the mysterious fragments) is interrupted in the midst of his laudatory exertions, and hurried away, to the no small surprise and consternation of his comrades. The Plot now hastens rapidly in its developement—the management of the Tailor's examination is highly skilful, and the alarm, which he is made to betray, is natural without being ludicrous. The explanation, too, which he finally gives is not


153

more simple than satisfactory. It appears that the said fragments formed part of a self-exculpatory note, which he had intended to send to Colonel M'M---n upon subjects purely professional, and the corresponding bits (which still lie luckily in his pocket) being produced, and skilfully laid beside the others, the following billet-doux is the satisfactory result of their juxta-position.

Honour'd Colonel—my Wife, who's the Queen of all slatterns,
Neglected to put up the Book of new Patterns.
She sent the wrong Measures too—shamefully wrong—
They're the same us'd for poor Mr. Lambert, when young;
But, bless you! they wouldn't go half round the R*g---t—
So, hope you'll excuse yours till death, most obedient.

This fully explains the whole mystery—the R*g---t resumes his wonted smiles, and the Drama terminates as usual, to the satisfaction of all parties.

 

There was, in like manner, a mysterious Book, in the 16th Century, which employed all the anxious curiosity of the Learned of that time. Every one spoke of it; many wrote against it; though it does not appear that any body had ever seen it; and Grotius is of opinion that no such Book ever existed. It was entitled “Liber de tribus impostoribus.” (See Morhof. Cap. de Libris damnatis.)—Our more modern mystery of “the Book” resembles this in many particulars; and, if the number of Lawyers employed in drawing it up be stated correctly, a slight alteration of the title into “à tribus impostoribus” would produce a coincidence altogether very remarkable.

The same Chamber, doubtless, that was prepared for the reception of the Bourbons at the first Grand Fête, and which was ornamented (all “for the Deliverance of Europe”) with fleurs-de-lys.

“To enable the individual, who holds the office of Chancellor, to maintain it in becoming splendour.” (A loud laugh.) —Lord Castlereagh's Speech upon the Vice-Chancellor's Bill.

Mr. Leigh Hunt and his brother.


132

LETTER VIII. FROM COLONEL TH*M*S TO ------ SK*FF*NGT*N, ESQ.

Come to our Fête , and bring with thee
Thy newest, best embroidery.
Come to our Fête, and show again
That pea-green coat, thou pink of men,
Which charm'd all eyes, that last survey'd it;
When Br*mm*l's self inquir'd “who made it?”—
When Cits came wond'ring, from the East,
And thought thee Poet Pye at least!
Oh! come, (if haply 'tis thy week
For looking pale,) with paly cheek;
Though more we love thy roseate days,
When the rich rouge-pot pours its blaze

133

Full o'er thy face, and, amply spread,
Tips ev'n thy whisker-tops with red—
Like the last tints of dying Day
That o'er some darkling grove delay.
Bring thy best lace, thou gay Philander,
(That lace, like H*rry Al*x*nd*r,
Too precious to be wash'd,)—thy rings,
Thy seals—in short, thy prettiest things!
Put all thy wardrobe's glories on,
And yield in frogs and fringe, to none
But the great R*g---t's self alone;
Who—by particular desire—
For that night only, means to hire
A dress from Romeo C---tes, Esquire.
Hail, first of Actors! best of R*g---ts!
Born for each other's fond allegiance!

134

Both gay Lotharios—both good dressers—
Of serious Farce both learn'd Professors—
Both circled round, for use or show,
With cock's combs, wheresoe'er they go!
Thou know'st the time, thou man of lore!
It takes to chalk a ball-room floor—
Thou know'st the time, too, well-a-day!
It takes to dance that chalk away.
The Ball-room opens—far and nigh
Comets and suns beneath us lie;
O'er snow-white moons and stars we walk,
And the floor seems one sky of chalk!
But soon shall fade that bright deceit,
When many a maid, with busy feet
That sparkle in the lustre's ray,
O'er the white path shall bound and play
Like Nymphs along the Milky Way:—

135

With every step a star hath fled,
And suns grow dim beneath their tread!
So passeth life—(thus Sc*tt would write,
And spinsters read him with delight,)—
Hours are not feet, yet hours trip on,
Time is not chalk, yet time's soon gone!
But, hang this long digressive flight!—
I meant to say, thou'lt see, that night,
What falsehood rankles in their hearts,
Who say the Pr---e neglects the arts—
Neglects the arts?—no, Str---hl---g , no;
Thy Cupids answer “'tis not so;”
And every floor, that night, shall tell
How quick thou daubest, and how well.
Shine as thou may'st in French vermilion,
Thou'rt best, beneath a French cotillion;
And still com'st off, whate'er thy faults,
With flying colours in a Waltz.

136

Nor need'st thou mourn the transient date
To thy best works assign'd by fate.
While some chef-d'œuvres live to weary one,
Thine boast a short life and a merry one;
Their hour of glory past and gone
With “Molly put the kettle on!”
But, bless my soul! I've scarce a leaf
Of paper left—so, must be brief.
This festive Fête, in fact, will be
The former Fête's fac-simile ;
The same long Masquerade of Rooms,
All trick'd up in such odd costumes,
(These, P*rt*r , are thy glorious works!)
You'd swear Egyptians, Moors, and Turks,
Bearing Good-Taste some deadly malice,
Had clubb'd to raise a Pic-Nic Palace;

137

And each to make the olio pleasant
Had sent a State-Room as a present.
The same fauteuils and girondoles—
The same gold Asses , pretty souls!
That, in this rich and classic dome,
Appear so perfectly at home.
The same bright river 'mong the dishes,
But not—ah! not the same dear fishes—
Late hours and claret kill'd the old ones—
So 'stead of silver and of gold ones,
(It being rather hard to raise
Fish of that specie now-a-days)
Some sprats have been by Y*rm---th's wish,
Promoted into Silver Fish,
And Gudgeons (so V---ns---tt---t told
The R*g---t) are as good as Gold!
So, prithee, come—our Fête will be
But half a Fête if wanting thee.
 

This Letter enclosed a Card for the Grand Fête on the 5th of February.

An amateur actor of much risible renown.

Quem tu, Melpomene, semel
Nascentem placido lumine, videris, &c.

Horat.

The Man, upon whom thou hast deign'd to look funny,
Oh Tragedy's Muse! at the hour of his birth—
Let them say what they will, that's the Man for my money,
Give others thy tears, but let me have thy mirth!

The crest of Mr. C---tes, the very amusing amateur tragedian here alluded to, was a cock; and most profusely were his liveries, harness, &c., covered with this ornament.

To those, who neither go to balls nor read the Morning Post, it may be necessary to mention, that the floors of Ball-rooms, in general, are chalked, for safety and for ornament, with various fanciful devices.

Hearts are not flint, yet flints are rent,
Hearts are not steel, yet steel is bent.
After all, however, Mr. Sc*tt may well say to the Colonel, (and, indeed, to much better wags than the Colonel,) ραον μωμεισθαι η μιμεισθαι

A foreign artist much patronized by the Prince Regent.

The name of a popular country-dance.

“C*rl---t*n H---e will exhibit a complete fac-simile, in respect to interior ornament, to what it did at the last Fête. The same splendid draperies,” &c. &c. —Morning Post.

Mr. Walsh Porter, to whose taste was left the furnishing of the rooms of Carlton House.

The salt-cellars on the Pr---e's own table were in the form of an Ass with panniers.



SATIRICAL AND HUMOROUS POEMS.

ΣΧΟΛΑΖΟΝΤΟΣ ΑΣΧΟΛΙΑ.


157

THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.

A DREAM.

“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, April 14. 1812.

Last night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep—at length I said,
“I'll think of Viscount C*stl*r---gh,
“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 dreamt—so dread a dream!
Fuseli has no such theme;

158

Lewis never wrote or borrow'd
Any horror, half so horrid!
Methought the Pr---e, in whisker'd 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,
Advanc'd, oh 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 threaten'd worst of all the bevy.

159

Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R*g---t's well-dress'd head,
As if determin'd to be read.
Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly,
And Tradesmen's Bills, we know, mount high;
Nay ev'n 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!
Shock'd 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 wak'd—and pray'd, with lifted hand,
“Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
“Though paper overwhelms the land,
“Let it not crush the Sovereign too!”

160

PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.

At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is nigh,
When, with P*rc*v*l'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.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Y*rm---th and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided—
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,

161

With all due appearance of thought and digestion)—
For, though H*rtf---rd 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 straight waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd 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;

162

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 spoil'd any favourite adviser—
That R---se was grown honest, or W*stm*rel---nd wiser—
That R---d---r was, ev'n by one twinkle, the brighter—
Or L*v*rp---l'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 call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y*rm---th's red whiskers grew redder for joy.

163

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 sooth'd 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 K*ng ever will die.
A new era's arriv'd —though you'd hardly believe it—
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.

164

New villas, new fêtes (which ev'n Waithman attends)—
New saddles, new helmets, and—why not new friends?
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
I repeat it, “New Friends”—for I cannot describe
The delight I am in with this P*rc*v*l 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.
When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my chains,
'Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains.
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we find our Allies in new breeches!
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,

165

To put the last lingering few who remain,
Of the Walcheren warriors, out of their pain.
Then how Wellington fights! and how squabbles his brother!
For Papists the one, and with Papists the other;
One crushing Napoleon by taking a City,
While t'other lays waste a whole Cath'lic Committee.
Oh deeds of renown!—shall I boggle or flinch,
With such prospects before me? by Jove, not an inch.
No—let England's affairs go to rack, if they will,
We'll look after th' affairs of the Continent still;
And, with nothing at home but starvation and riot,
Find Lisbon in bread, and keep Sicily quiet.
I am proud to declare I have no predilections ,
My heart is a sieve, where some scatter'd affections
Are just danc'd about for a moment or two,
And the finer they are, the more sure to run through:
Neither feel I resentments, nor wish there should come ill
To mortal—except (now I think on't) Beau Br*mm*l,

166

Who threaten'd last year, in a superfine passion,
To cut me, and bring the old K*ng into fashion.
This is all I can lay to my conscience at present;
When such is my temper, so neutral, so pleasant,
So royally free from all troublesome feelings,
So little encumber'd by faith in my dealings
(And that I'm consistent the world will allow,
What I was at Newmarket the same I am now).
When such are my merits (you know I hate cracking),
I hope, like the Vender of Best Patent Blacking,
“To meet with the gen'rous and kind approbation
“Of a candid, enlighten'd, and liberal nation.”
By the bye, ere I close this magnificent Letter,
(No man, except Pole, could have writ you a better,)
'Twould please me if those, whom I've humbug'd so long
With the notion (good men!) that I knew right from wrong,

167

Would a few of them join me—mind, only a few—
To let too much light in on me never would do;
But even Grey's brightness shan't make me afraid,
While I've C---md---n and Eld---n to fly to for shade;
Nor will Holland's clear intellect do us much harm,
While there's W*stm*rel---nd near him to weaken the charm.
As for Moira's high spirit, if aught can subdue it,
Sure joining with H*rtf---rd and Y*rm---th will do it!
Between R---d---r and Wh*rt*n let Sheridan sit,
And the fogs will soon quench even Sheridan's wit:
And against all the pure public feeling that glows
Ev'n in Whitbread himself we've a Host in G---rge R---se!
So, in short, if they wish to have Places, they may,
And I'll thank you to tell all these matters to Grey ,
Who, I doubt not, will write (as there's no time to lose)
By the twopenny post to tell Grenville the news;

168

And now, dearest Fred (though I've no predilection),
Believe me yours always with truest affection.
P.S. A copy of this is to P*rc---l going —
Good Lord, how St. Stephen's will ring with his crowing!
 

Letter from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent to the Duke of York, Feb. 13. 1812.

“I think it hardly necessary to call your recollection to the recent circumstances under which I assumed the authority delegated to me by Parliament.” —Prince's Letter.

“My sense of duty to our Royal father solely decided that choice.” —Ibid.

The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turned out to be only an old sconce.

“I waved any personal gratification, in order that his Majesty might resume, on his restoration to health, every power and prerogative,” &c. —Prince's Letter.

“And I have the satisfaction of knowing that such was the opinion of persons for whose judgment,” &c. &c. —Ibid.

The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.

“I certainly am the last person in the kingdom to whom it can be permitted to despair of our royal father's recovery.” —Prince's Letter.

“A new era is now arrived, and I cannot but reflect with satisfaction,” &c. —Ibid.

“I have no predilections to indulge,—no resentments to gratify.” —Prince's Letter.

“I cannot conclude without expressing the gratification I should feel if some of those persons with whom the early habits of my public life were formed would strengthen my hands, and constitute a part of my government.” —Prince's Letter.

“You are authorized to communicate these sentiments to Lord Grey, who, I have no doubt, will make them known to Lord Grenville.” —Prince's Letter.

“I shall send a copy of this letter immediately to Mr. Perceval.” —Prince's Letter.


169

ANACREONTIC TO A PLUMASSIER.

Fine and feathery artisan,
Best of Plumists (if you can
With your art so far presume)
Make for me a Pr---ce's Plume—
Feathers soft and feathers rare,
Such as suits a Pr---ce to wear.
First, thou downiest of men,
Seek me out a fine Pea-hen;
Such a Hen, so tall and grand,
As by Juno's side might stand,
If there were no cocks at hand.
Seek her feathers, soft as down,
Fit to shine on Pr---ce's crown;
If thou canst not find them, stupid!
Ask the way of Prior's Cupid.

170

Ranging these in order due,
Pluck me next an old Cuckoo;
Emblem of the happy fates
Of easy, kind, cornuted mates.
Pluck him well—be sure you do—
Who wouldn't be an old Cuckoo,
Thus to have his plumage blest,
Beaming on a R*y*l crest?
Bravo, Plumist!—now what bird
Shall we find for Plume the third?
You must get a learned Owl,
Bleakest of black-letter fowl—
Bigot bird, that hates the light ,
Foe to all that's fair and bright.
Seize his quills, (so form'd to pen
Books , that shun the search of men;
Books, that, far from every eye,
In “swelter'd venom sleeping” lie,)
Stick them in between the two,
Proud Pea-hen and Old Cuckoo.

171

Now you have the triple feather,
Bind the kindred stems together
With a silken tie, whose hue
Once was brilliant Buff and Blue;
Sullied now—alas, how much!
Only fit for Y*rm---th's touch.
There—enough—thy task is done;
Present, worthy G---ge's Son;
Now, beneath, in letters neat,
Write “I serve,” and all's complete.
 

See Prior's poem, entitled “The Dove.”

P*rc*v*l.

In allusion to “the Book” which created such a sensation at that period.


172

EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

Wednesday.
Through M*nch*st*r Square took a canter just now—
Met the old yellow chariot , and made a low bow.
This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
But got such a look—oh 'twas black as the devil!
How unlucky!—incog. he was trav'lling about,
And I like a noodle, must go find him out.
Mem.
—when next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
To remember there is nothing princely inside.

Thursday.
At Levee to day made another sad blunder—
What can be come over me lately, I wonder?
The Pr---ce was as cheerful, as if, all his life,
He had never been troubled with Friends or a Wife—

173

“Fine weather,” says he—to which I, who must prate,
Answered, “Yes, Sir, but changeable rather, of late.”
He took it, I fear, for he look'd somewhat gruff,
And handled his new pair of whiskers so rough,
That before all the courtiers I fear'd they'd come off,
And then, Lord, how Geramb would triumphantly scoff!
Mem.
—to buy for son Dicky some unguent or lotion
To nourish his whiskers—sure road to promotion!

Saturday.
Last night a Concert—vastly gay—
Given by Lady C*stl*r---gh.
My Lord loves music, and, we know,
Has “two strings always to his bow.”

174

In choosing songs, the R*g---t nam'd
“Had I a heart for falsehood fram'd.”
While gentle H*rtf---d begg'd and pray'd
For “Young I am, and sore afraid.”
 

The incog. vehicle of the Pr---ce.

Baron Geramb, the rival of his R. H. in whiskers.

England is not the only country where merit of this kind is noticed and rewarded. “I remember,” says Tavernier, “to have seen one of the King of Persia's porters, whose mustaches were so long that he could tie them behind his neck, for which reason he had a double pension.”

A rhetorical figure used by Lord C*stl*r---gh, in one of his speeches.

EPIGRAM.

What news to-day?—“Oh! worse and worse—
“Mac is the Pr---ce's Privy Purse!”—
The Pr---ce's Purse! no, no, you fool,
You mean the Pr---ce's Ridicule.
 

Colonel M---cm---h---n.


175

KING CRACK AND HIS IDOLS.

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW M*N*STRY.

King Crack was the best of all possible Kings,
(At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)
But Crack now and then would do het'rodox things,
And, at last, took to worshipping Images sadly.
Some broken-down Idols, that long had been plac'd
In his father's old Cabinet, pleas'd him so much,
That he knelt down and worshipp'd, though—such was his taste!—
They were monstrous to look at, and rotten to touch.

176

And these were the beautiful Gods of King Crack!—
But his People, disdaining to worship such things,
Cried aloud, one and all, “Come, your Godships must pack—
“You'll not do for us, though you may do for Kings.”
Then, trampling these images under their feet,
They sent Crack a petition, beginning “Great Cæsar!
“We're willing to worship; but only entreat
“That you'll find us some decenter Godheads than these are.”
“I'll try,” says King Crack—so they furnish'd him models
Of better shap'd Gods, but he sent them all back;
Some were chisell'd too fine, some had heads 'stead of noddles,
In short, they were all much too godlike for Crack.

177

So he took to his darling old Idols again,
And, just mending their legs and new bronzing their faces,
In open defiance of Gods and of man,
Set the monsters up grinning once more in their places.
 

One of those antediluvian Princes, with whom Manetho and Whiston seem so intimately acquainted. If we had the Memoirs of Thoth, from which Manetho compiled his History, we should find, I dare say, that Crack was only a Regent, and that he, perhaps, succeeded Typhon, who (as Whiston says) was the last King of the Antediluvian Dynasty.

WHAT'S MY THOUGHT LIKE?

Quest.

Why is a Pump like V*sc---nt C*stl*r---gh?

Answ.

Because it is a slender thing of wood,
That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,
And coolly spout and spout and spout away,
In one weak, washy, everlasting flood!

178

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A CATHOLIC DELEGATE AND HIS R*Y*L H*GHN*SS THE D---E OF C---B---L---D.

EPIGRAM.

Said his Highness to Ned , with that grim face of his,
“Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?”
“Because, Sir,” said Ned, looking full in his phiz,
“You're forbidding enough, in all conscience, already!”
 

Edward Byrne, the head of the Delegates of the Irish Catholics.


179

WREATHS FOR THE MINISTERS.

AN ANACREONTIC.

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers!
Haste thee from Old Brompton's bowers—
Or, (if sweeter that abode)
From the King's well-odour'd Road,
Where each little nursery bud
Breathes the dust and quaffs the mud.
Hither come and gaily twine
Brightest herbs and flowers of thine
Into wreaths for those, who rule us,
Those, who rule and (some say) fool us—
Flora, sure, will love to please
England's Household Deities!
First you must then, willy-nilly,
Fetch me many an orange lily—

180

Orange of the darkest dye
Irish G*ff*rd can supply;—
Choose me out the longest sprig,
And stick it in old Eld---n's wig
Find me next a Poppy posy,
Type of his harangues so dozy,
Garland gaudy, dull and cool,
To crown the head of L*v*rp---l.
'Twill console his brilliant brows
For that loss of laurel boughs,
Which they suffer'd (what a pity!)
On the road to Paris City.
Next, our C*stl*r---gh to crown,
Bring me from the County Down,
Wither'd Shamrocks, which have been
Gilded o'er, to hide the green—
(Such as H---df---t brought away
From Pall-Mall last Patrick's Day )—

181

Stitch the garland through and through
With shabby threads of every hue;—
And as, Goddess!—entre nous
His Lordship loves (though best of men)
A little torture, now and then,
Crimp the leaves, thou first of Syrens,
Crimp them with thy curling-irons.
That's enough—away, away—
Had I leisure, I could say
How the oldest rose that grows
Must be pluck'd to deck Old Rose—
How the Doctor's brow should smile
Crown'd with wreaths of camomile.
But time presses—to thy taste
I leave the rest, so, prithee, haste!
 

The ancients, in like manner, crowned their Lares, or Household Gods. See Juvenal, Sat. 9. v. 138.—Plutarch, too, tells us that Household Gods were then, as they are now, “much given to War and penal Statutes.”—εριννυωδεις και ποινιμους δαιμονας.

Certain tinsel imitations of the Shamrock which are distributed by the Servants of C---n House every Patrick's Day.

The sobriquet given to Lord Sidmouth.


182

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A DOWAGER AND HER MAID ON THE NIGHT OF LORD Y*RM---TH'S FÊTE.

EPIGRAM.

I want the Court Guide,” said my lady, “to look
“If the House, Seymour Place, be at 30. or 20.”—
“We've lost the Court Guide, Ma'am, but here's the Red Book,
“Where you'll find, I dare say, Seymour Places in plenty!”

183

HORACE, ODE XI. LIB. II.

FREELY TRANSLATED BY THE PR---CE R*G---T.

Come, Y*rm---th, my boy, never trouble your brains,
About what your old crony,
The Emperor Boney,
Is doing or brewing on Muscovy's plains;

184

Nor tremble, my lad, at the state of our granaries:
Should there come famine,
Still plenty to cram in
You always shall have, my dear Lord of the Stannaries.
Brisk let us revel, while revel we may;
For the gay bloom of fifty soon passes away,
And then people get fat,
And infirm, and—all that,
And a wig (I confess it) so clumsily sits,
That it frightens the little Loves out of their wits;
Thy whiskers, too, Y*rm---t!—alas, even they,
Though so rosy they burn,
Too quickly must turn
(What a heart-breaking change for thy whiskers!) to Grey.

185

Then why, my Lord Warden, oh! why should you fidget
Your mind about matters you don't understand?
Or why should you write yourself down for an idiot,
Because “you,” forsooth, “have the pen in your hand!
Think, think how much better
Than scribbling a letter,
(Which both you and I
Should avoid by the bye,)
How much pleasanter 'tis to sit under the bust
Of old Charley , my friend here, and drink like a new one;
While Charley looks sulky and frowns at me, just
As the Ghost in the Pantomime frowns at Don Juan.

186

To crown us, Lord Warden,
In C*mb*rl---nd's garden
Grows plenty of monk's hood in venomous sprigs:
While Otto of Roses
Refreshing all noses
Shall sweetly exhale from our whiskers and wigs.
What youth of the Household will cool our Noyau
In that streamlet delicious,
That down 'midst the dishes,
All full of gold fishes,
Romantic doth flow?—
Or who will repair
Unto M---ch---r Sq---e,
And see if the gentle Marchesa be there?

187

Go—bid her haste hither,
And let her bring with her
The newest No-Popery Sermon that's going—
Oh! let her come, with her dark tresses flowing,
All gentle and juvenile, curly and gay,
In the manner of—Ackermann's Dresses for May!
 

This and the following are extracted from a Work, which may, some time or other, meet the eye of the Public—entitled “Odes of Horace, done into English by several Persons of Fashion.”

Quid bellicosus Cantaber, et Scythes,
Hirpine Quincti, cogitet, Hadria
Divisus objecto, remittas
Quærere.
Nec trepides in usum
Poscentis ævi pauca.
Fugit retro
Levis juventas et decor.
Pellente lascivos amores
Canitie.
Neque uno Luna rubens nitet
Vultu.
Quid æternis minorem
Consiliis animum fatigas?
Cur non sub alta vel platano, vel hac
Pinu jacentes sic temere.

Charles Fox.

Rosâ
Canos odorati capillos,
Dum licet, Assyriaque nardo
Potamus uncti.
Quis puer ocius
Restinguet ardentis Falerni
Pocula prætereunte lympha?
Quis ------ eliciet domo
Lyden?
Eburna, dic age, cum lyra (qu. liar-a)
Maturet.
Incomtam Lacænæ
More comam religata nodo.

188

HORACE, ODE XXII. LIB. I.

[_]

FREELY TRANSLATED BY LORD ELD---N.

The man who keeps a conscience pure,
(If not his own, at least his Prince's,)
Through toil and danger walks secure,
Looks big and black, and never winces.
No want has he of sword or dagger,
Cock'd hat or ringlets of Geramb;
Though Peers may laugh, and Papists swagger,
He doesn't care one single d*mn.

189

Whether midst Irish chairmen going,
Or through St. Giles's alleys dim,
'Mid drunken Sheelahs, blasting, blowing,
No matter, 'tis all one to him.
For instance, I, one evening late,
Upon a gay vacation sally,
Singing the praise of Church and State,
Got (God knows how) to Cranbourne Alley.

190

When lo! an Irish Papist darted
Across my path, gaunt, grim, and big—
I did but frown, and off he started,
Scar'd at me, even without my wig.
Yet a more fierce and raw-bon'd dog
Goes not to Mass in Dublin City,
Nor shakes his brogue o'er Allen's Bog,
Nor spouts in Catholic Committee.
Oh! place me midst O'Rourkes, O'Tooles,
The ragged royal-blood of Tara;

191

Or place me where Dick M*rt*n rules
The houseless wilds of Connemara;
Of Church and State I'll warble still
Though ev'n Dick M*rt*n's self should grumble;
Sweet Church and State, like Jack and Jill,
So lovingly upon a hill—
Ah! ne'er like Jack and Jill to tumble!
 
Integer vitæ scelerisque purus.
Non eget Mauri jaculis, neque arcu,
Nec venenatis gravida sagittis,
Fusce, pharetra.
Sive per Syrtes iter æstuosas,
Sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum, vel quæ loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.?

The Noble Translator had, at first, laid the scene of these imagined dangers of his Man of Conscience among the Papists of Spain, and had translated the words “quæ loca fabulosus lambit Hydaspes” thus—“The fabling Spaniard licks the French;” but, recollecting that it is our interest just now to be respectful to Spanish Catholics (though there is certainly no earthly reason for our being even commonly civil to Irish ones), he altered the passage as it stands at present.

Namque me silvâ lupus in Sabinâ,
Dum meam canto Lalagen, et ultra
Terminum curis vagor expeditis,
Fugit inermem.

I cannot help calling the reader's attention to the peculiar ingenuity with which these lines are paraphrased. Not to mention the happy conversion of the Wolf into a Papist, (seeing that Romulus was suckled by a wolf, that Rome was founded by Romulus, and that the Pope has always reigned at Rome,) there is something particularly neat in supposing “ultra terminum” to mean vacation-time; and then the modest consciousness with which the Noble and Learned Translator has avoided touching upon the words “curis expeditis,” (or, as it has been otherwise read, “causis expeditis,”) and the felicitous idea of his being “inermis” when “without his wig,” are altogether the most delectable specimens of paraphrase in our language.

Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunias latis alit æsculetis,
Nec Jubæ tellus generat leonum
Arida nutrix.
Pone me pigris ubi nulla campis
Arbor æstiva recreatur aura:
Quod latus mundi, nebulæ, malusque
Jupiter urget.

I must here remark, that the said Dick M*rt*n being a very good fellow, it was not at all fair to make a “malus Jupiter” of him.

Dulce ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulce loquentem.

There cannot be imagined a more happy illustration of the inseparability of Church and State, and their (what is called) “standing and falling together,” than this ancient apologue of Jack and Jill. Jack, of course, represents the State in this ingenious little Allegory.

Jack fell down,
And broke his Crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.


192

THE NEW COSTUME OF THE MINISTERS.

------ Nova monstra creavit.
Ovid. Metamorph. l. i. v. 437.

Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,
With a swinging horse-tail at each valorous back,
And such helmets, God bless us! as never deck'd any
Male creature before, except Signor Giovanni—
“Let's see,” said the R*g---t (like Titus, perplex'd
With the duties of empire,) “whom shall I dress next?”
He looks in the glass—but perfection is there,
Wig, whiskers, and chin-tufts all right to a hair ;

193

Not a single ex-curl on his forehead he traces—
For curls are like Ministers, strange as the case is,
The falser they are, the more firm in their places.
His coat he next views—but the coat who could doubt?
For his Y*rm---th's own Frenchified hand cut it out;
Every pucker and seam were made matters of state,
And a Grand Household Council was held on each plait.
Then whom shall he dress? shall he new-rig his brother,
Great C*mb*rl---d's Duke, with some kickshaw or other?
And kindly invent him more Christian-like shapes
For his feather-bed neckcloths and pillory capes.
Ah! no—here his ardour would meet with delays,
For the Duke had been lately pack'd up in new Stays,

194

So complete for the winter, he saw very plain
'Twould be devilish hard work to unpack him again.
So, what's to be done?—there's the Ministers, bless' em!—
As he made the puppets, why shouldn't he dress 'em?
“An excellent thought!—call the tailors—be nimble—
“Let Cum bring his spy-glass, and H*rtf---d her thimble;
“While Y*rm---th shall give us, in spite of all quizzers,
“The last Paris cut with his true Gallic scissors.”
So saying, he calls C*stl*r---gh, and the rest
Of his heaven-born statesmen, to come and be drest.
While Y*rm---th, with snip-like and brisk expedition,
Cuts up, all at once, a large Cath'lic Petition
In long tailors' measures, (the P---e crying “Well-done!”)
And first puts in hand my Lord Chancellor Eld---n.
[OMITTED]
 

That model of Princes, the Emperor Commodus, was particularly luxurious in the dressing and ornamenting of his hair. His conscience, however, would not suffer him to trust himself with a barber, and he used, accordingly, to burn off his beard.—“timore tonsoris,” says Lampridius. (Hist. August. Scriptor.) The dissolute Ælius Verus, too, was equally attentive to the decoration of his wig. (See Jul. Capitolin.)— Indeed, this was not the only princely trait in the character of Verus, as he had likewise a most hearty and dignified contempt for his Wife.—See his insulting answer to her in Spartianus.


195

CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN A LADY AND GENTLEMAN,

UPON THE ADVANTAGE OF (WHAT IS CALLED) “HAVING LAW ON ONE'S SIDE.”

The Gentleman's Proposal.

“Legge aurea,
S'ei piace, ei lice.”

Come, fly to these arms, nor let beauties so bloomy
To one frigid owner be tied;
Your prudes may revile, and your old ones look gloomy,
But, dearest, we've Law on our side.
Oh! think the delight of two lovers congenial,
Whom no dull decorums divide;
Their error how sweet, and their raptures how venial,
When once they've got Law on their side.

196

'Tis a thing, that in every King's reign has been done, too:
Then why should it now be decried?
If the Father has done it, why shouldn't the Son, too?
For so argues Law on our side.
And, ev'n should our sweet violation of duty
By cold-blooded jurors be tried,
They can but bring it in “a misfortune,” my beauty,
As long as we've Law on our side.

The Lady's Answer.

Hold, hold, my good Sir, go a little more slowly;
For, grant me so faithless a bride,
Such sinners as we, are a little too lowly,
To hope to have Law on our side.
Had you been a great Prince, to whose star shining o'er 'em
The People should look for their guide,
Then your Highness (and welcome!) might kick down decorum—
You'd always have Law on your side.

197

Were you ev'n an old Marquis, in mischief grown hoary,
Whose heart, though it long ago died
To the pleasures of vice, is alive to its glory
You still would have Law on your side.
But for you, Sir, Crim. Con. is a path full of troubles;
By my advice therefore abide,
And leave the pursuit to those Princes and Nobles
Who have such a Law on their side.
 

In allusion to Lord Ell---nb---gh.


198

OCCASIONAL ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE NEW THEATRE OF ST. ST*PH*N,

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY THE PROPRIETOR IN FULL COSTUME, ON THE 24TH OF NOVEMBER, 1812.

This day a New House, for your edification,
We open, most thinking and right-headed nation!
Excuse the materials—though rotten and bad,
They're the best that for money just now could be had;
And, if echo the charm of such houses should be,
You will find it shall echo my speech to a T.
As for actors, we've got the old Company yet,
The same motley, odd, tragi-comical set;
And consid'ring they all were but clerks t'other day,
It is truly surprising how well they can play.
Our Manager , (he, who in Ulster was nurst,
And sung Erin go Brah for the galleries first,

199

But, on finding Pitt-interest a much better thing,
Chang'd his note of a sudden, to God save the King,)
Still wise as he's blooming, and fat as he's clever,
Himself and his speeches as lengthy as ever,
Here offers you still the full use of his breath,
Your devoted and long-winded proser till death.
You remember last season, when things went perverse on,
We had to engage (as a block to rehearse on)
One Mr. V---ns---tt---t, a good sort of person,
Who's also employ'd for this season to play,
In “Raising the Wind,” and “the Devil to Pay.”
We expect too—at least we've been plotting and planning—
To get that great actor from Liverpool, C*nn*g;
And, as at the Circus there's nothing attracts
Like a good single combat brought in 'twixt the acts,
If the Manager should, with the help of Sir P---ph---m,
Get up new diversions, and C*nn---g should stop 'em,

200

Who knows but we'll have to announce in the papers,
“Grand fight—second time—with additional capers.”
Be your taste for the ludicrous, humdrum, or sad,
There is plenty of each in this House to be had.
Where our Manager ruleth, there weeping will be,
For a dead hand at tragedy always was he;
And there never was dealer in dagger and cup,
Who so smilingly got all his tragedies up.
His powers poor Ireland will never forget,
And the widows of Walcheren weep o'er them yet.
So much for the actors;—for secret machinery,
Traps, and deceptions, and shifting of scenery,
Y*rm---th and Cum are the best we can find,
To transact all that trickery business behind.
The former's employ'd too to teach us French jigs,
Keep the whiskers in curl, and look after the wigs.
In taking my leave now, I've only to say,
A few Seats in the House, not as yet sold away,
May be had of the Manager, Pat C*stl*r---gh.
 

Lord C*stl*r---gh.

He had recently been appointed Chancellor of the Exchequer.


201

THE SALE OF THE TOOLS.

Instrumenta regni. —Tacitus.

Here's a choice set of Tools for you, Ge'mmen and Ladies,
They'll fit you quite handy, whatever your trade is;
(Except it be Cabinet-making;—no doubt,
In that delicate service they're rather worn out;
Though their owner, bright youth! if he'd had his own will,
Would have bungled away with them joyously still.)
You can see they've been pretty well hack'd—and alack!
What tool is there job after job will not hack?
Their edge is but dullish, it must be confess'd,
And their temper, like E---nb'r---h's, none of the best;
But you'll find them good hard-working Tools, upon trying,
Wer't but for their brass, they are well worth the buying;

202

They're famous for making blinds, sliders, and screens,
And are, some of them, excellent turning machines.
The first Tool I'll put up (they call it a Chancellor)
Heavy concern to both purchaser and seller.
Though made of pig iron, yet worthy of note 'tis,
'Tis ready to melt at a half minute's notice.
Who bids? Gentle buyer! 'twill turn as thou shapest;
'Twill make a good thumb-screw to torture a Papist;
Or else a cramp-iron, to stick in the wall
Of some church that old women are fearful will fall;
Or better, perhaps, (for I'm guessing at random,)
A heavy drag-chain for some Lawyer's old Tandem.
Will nobody bid? It is cheap, I am sure, Sir—
Once, twice,—going, going,—thrice, gone!—it is yours, Sir.
To pay ready money you sha'n't be distrest,
As a bill at long date suits the Chancellor best.

203

Come, where's the next Tool?—Oh! 'tis here in a trice—
This implement, Ge'mmen, at first was a Vice;
(A tenacious and close sort of tool, that will let
Nothing out of its grasp it once happens to get;)
But it since has received a new coating of Tin,
Bright enough for a Prince to behold himself in.
Come, what shall we say for it? briskly! bid on,
We'll the sooner get rid of it—going—quite gone.
God be with it, such tools, if not quickly knock'd down,
Might at last cost their owner—how much? why, a Crown!
The next Tool I'll set up has hardly had handsel or
Trial as yet, and is also a Chancellor—
Such dull things as these should be sold by the gross;
Yet, dull as it is, 'twill be found to shave close,
And like other close shavers, some courage to gather,
This blade first began by a flourish on leather.

204

You shall have it for nothing—then, marvel with me
At the terrible tinkering work there must be,
Where a Tool such as this is (I'll leave you to judge it)
Is placed by ill luck at the top of the Budget!
 

An allusion to Lord Eld---n's lachrymose tendencies.

“Of the taxes proposed by Mr. Vansittart, that principally opposed in Parliament was the additional duty on leather.” Ann. Register.


205

LITTLE MAN AND LITTLE SOUL.

A BALLAD.
[_]

To the tune of “There was a little man, and he woo'd a little maid.”

DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CH*RL*S ABB*T.

Arcades ambo
Et cant-are pares.

1813.

There was a little Man, and he had a little Soul,
And he said, “Little Soul, let us try, try, try,
“Whether it's within our reach
“To make up a little Speech,
“Just between little you and little I, I, I,
“Just between little you and little I!”—
Then said his little Soul,
Peeping from her little hole,

206

“I protest, little Man, you are stout, stout, stout,
“But, if it's not uncivil,
“Pray tell me what the devil
“Must our little, little speech be about, bout, bout,
“Must our little, little speech be about?”
The little Man look'd big,
With th' assistance of his wig,
And he call'd his little Soul to order, order, order,
Till she fear'd he'd make her jog in
To gaol, like Thomas Croggan,
(As she wasn't Duke or Earl) to reward her, ward her, ward her,
As she wasn't Duke or Earl, to reward her.
The little Man then spoke,
“Little soul, it is no joke,
“For as sure as J*cky F---ll---r loves a sup, sup, sup,
“I will tell the Prince and People
“What I think of Church and Steeple,
“And my little patent plan to prop them up, up, up,
“And my little patent plan to prop them up.”

207

Away then, cheek by jowl,
Little Man and little Soul
Went and spoke their little speech to a tittle, tittle, tittle,
And the world all declare
That this priggish little pair
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little, little, little,
Never yet in all their lives look'd so little!

208

REINFORCEMENTS FOR LORD WELLINGTON.

Suosque tibi commendat Troja Penates
Hos cape fatorum comites.
Virgil.

1813.
As recruits in these times are not easily got,
And the Marshal must have them—pray, why should we not,
As the last and, I grant it, the worst of our loans to him,
Ship off the Ministry, body and bones to him?
There's not in all England, I'd venture to swear,
Any men we could half so conveniently spare;
And, though they've been helping the French for years past,
We may thus make them useful to England at last.
C*stl*r---gh in our sieges might save some disgraces,
Being us'd to the taking and keeping of places;
And Volunteer C*nn---g, still ready for joining,
Might show off his talent for sly undermining.

209

Could the Household but spare us its glory and pride,
Old H---df---t at horn-works again might be tried,
And the Ch---f J---st---e make a bold charge at his side:
While V---ns---tt---t could victual the troops upon tick,
And the Doctor look after the baggage and sick.
Nay, I do not see why the great R*g---t himself
Should, in times such as these, stay at home on the shelf:
Though through narrow defiles he's not fitted to pass,
Yet who could resist, if he bore down en masse?
And though oft, of an evening, perhaps he might prove,
Like our Spanish confed'rates, “unable to move ,”
Yet there's one thing in war of advantage unbounded,
Which is, that he could not with ease be surrounded.
In my next I shall sing of their arms and equipment;
At present no more, but—good luck to the shipment!
 

The character given to the Spanish soldier, in Sir John Murray's memorable despatch.


210

HORACE, ODE I. LIB. III.

A FRAGMENT.

Odi profanum vulgus et arceo:
Favete linguis: carmina non prius
Audita Musarum sacerdos
Virginibus puerisque canto.
Regum timendorum in proprios greges,
Reges in ipsos imperium est Jovis.

1813.
I hate thee, oh, Mob, as my Lady hates delf;
To Sir Francis I'll give up thy claps and thy hisses,
Leave old Magna Charta to shift for itself,
And, like G---dw---n, write books for young masters and misses.
Oh! it is not high rank that can make the heart merry,
Even monarchs themselves are not free from mishap:
Though the Lords of Westphalia must quake before Jerry,
Poor Jerry himself has to quake before Nap.
[OMITTED]

211

HORACE, ODE XXXVIII. LIB. I.

A FRAGMENT TRANSLATED BY A TREASURY CLERK, WHILE WAITING DINNER FOR THE RIGHT HON. G---RGE R---SE.

Persicos odi, puer, adparatus;
Displicent nexæ philyra coronæ;
Mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum
Sera moretur.

Boy, tell the Cook that I hate all nick-nackeries,
Fricassees, vol-au-vents, puffs, and gim-crackeries—
Six by the Horse-Guards!—old Georgy is late—
But come—lay the table cloth—zounds! do not wait,
Nor stop to inquire, while the dinner is staying,
At which of his places Old R---e is delaying!
[OMITTED]
 

The literal closeness of the version here cannot but be admired. The Translator has added a long, erudite, and flowery note upon Roses, of which I can merely give a specimen at present. In the first place, he ransacks the Rosarium Politicum of the Persian poet Sadi, with the hope of finding some Political Roses, to match the gentleman in the text— but in vain: he then tells us that Cicero accused Verres of reposing upon a cushion “Melitensi rosâ fartum,” which, from the odd mixture of words, he supposes to be a kind of Irish Bed of Roses, like Lord Castlereagh's. The learned Clerk next favours us with some remarks upon a well-known punning epitaph on fair Rosamond, and expresses a most loyal hope, that, if “Rosa munda” mean “A Rose with clean hands” it may be found applicable to the Right Honourable Rose in question. He then dwells at some length upon the “Rosa aurea,” which, though descriptive, in one sense, of the old Treasury Statesman, yet, as being consecrated and worn by the Pope, must, of course, not be brought into the same atmosphere with him. Lastly, in reference to the words “old Rose,” he winds up with the pathetic lamentation of the Poet “consenuisse Rosas.” The whole note indeed shows a knowledge of Roses, that is quite edifying.


213

IMPROMPTU UPON BEING OBLIGED TO LEAVE A PLEASANT PARTY, FROM THE WANT OF A PAIR OF BREECHES TO DRESS FOR DINNER IN.

1810.
Between Adam and me the great difference is,
Though a paradise each has been forc'd to resign,
That he never wore breeches, till turn'd out of his,
While, for want of my breeches, I'm banish'd from mine.

214

LORD WELLINGTON AND THE MINISTERS.

1813.
So gently in peace Alcibiades smil'd,
While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand,
That the emblem they grav'd on his seal, was a child
With a thunderbolt plac'd in its innocent hand.
Oh Wellington, long as such Ministers wield
Your magnificent arm, the same emblem will do;
For while they're in the Council and you in the Field,
We've the babies in them, and the thunder in you!


IRISH MELODIES.



DEDICATION.

TO THE MARCHIONESS DOWAGER OF DONEGAL.


GO WHERE GLORY WAITS THEE.

Go where glory waits thee,
But while fame elates thee,
Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetest
To thine ear is sweetest,
Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee,
Dearer friends caress thee,
All the joys that bless thee,
Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest,
And when joys are dearest,
Oh! then remember me!

222

When, at eve, thou rovest
By the star thou lovest,
Oh! then remember me.
Think, when home returning,
Bright we've seen it burning,
Oh! thus remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes
On its ling'ring roses,
Once so lov'd by thee,
Think of her who wove them,
Her who made thee love them,
Oh! then remember me.
When, around thee dying,
Autumn leaves are lying,
Oh! then remember me.
And, at night, when gazing
On the gay hearth blazing,
Oh! still remember me.
Then should music, stealing
All the soul of feeling,
To thy heart appealing,

223

Draw one tear from thee;
Then let memory bring thee
Strains I us'd to sing thee,—
Oh! then remember me.

224

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OF BRIEN THE BRAVE.

WAR SONG.

Remember the glories of Brien the brave,
Tho' the days of the hero are o'er;
Tho' lost to Mononia and cold in the grave,
He returns to Kinkora no more.
That star of the field, which so often hath pour'd
Its beam on the battle, is set;
But enough of its glory remains on each sword,
To light us to victory yet.
Mononia! when Nature embellish'd the tint
Of thy fields, and thy mountains so fair,

225

Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print
The footstep of slavery there?
No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign,
Go, tell our invaders, the Danes,
That 'tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine,
Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood
In the day of distress by our side;
While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood,
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died.
That sun which now blesses our arms with his light,
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain;—
Oh! let him not blush, when he leaves us to-night,
To find that they fell there in vain.
 

Brien Boromhe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 11th century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty-five engagements.

Munster.

The palace of Brien.

This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the Dalgais, the favourite troops of Brien, when they were interrupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf, by Fitzpatrick, prince of Ossory. The wounded men entreated that they might be allowed to fight with the rest.—Let stakes (they said) be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in his rank by the side of a sound man.” “Between seven and eight hundred wounded men (adds O'Halloran) pale, emaciated, and supported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost of the troops;—never was such another sight exhibited.”—History of Ireland, book xii. chap. i.


226

ERIN! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE IN THINE EYES.

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes,
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies!
Shining through sorrow's stream,
Saddening through pleasure's beam,
Thy suns with doubtful gleam,
Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease,
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase,
Till, like the rainbow's light,
Thy various tints unite,
And form in heaven's sight
One arch of peace!

227

OH! BREATHE NOT HIS NAME.

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade,
Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid:
Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps,
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps;
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls,
Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.

228

WHEN HE, WHO ADORES THEE.

When he, who adores thee, has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,
Oh! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resign'd?
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.
With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine;
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above,
Thy name shall be mingled with mine.
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give
Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

229

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.

The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.—
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells;
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives,
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.

230

FLY NOT YET.

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay,—Oh! stay,—
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.
Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,

231

Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay,—Oh! stay,—
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?
 

Solis Fons, near the Temple of Ammon.


232

OH! THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE ALWAYS AS LIGHT.

Oh! think not my spirits are always as light,
And as free from a pang as they seem to you now;
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of to-night
Will return with to-morrow to brighten my brow.
No:—life is a waste of wearisome hours,
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.
But send round the bowl, and be happy awhile—
May we never meet worse, in our pilgrimage here,
Than the tear that enjoyment may gild with a smile,
And the smile that compassion can turn to a tear.
The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven knows!
If it were not with friendship and love intertwin'd;
And I care not how soon I may sink to repose,
When these blessings shall cease to be dear to my mind.

233

But they who have lov'd the fondest, the purest,
Too often have wept o'er the dream they believ'd;
And the heart that has slumber'd in friendship securest,
Is happy indeed if 'twas never deceiv'd.
But send round the bowl; while a relic of truth
Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall be mine,—
That the sunshine of love may illumine our youth,
And the moonlight of friendship console our decline.

234

THO' THE LAST GLIMPSE OF ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE.

Tho' the last glimpse of Erin with sorrow I see,
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me;
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home,
And thine eyes make my climate wherever we roam.
To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky shore,
Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us no more,
I will fly with my Coulin, and think the rough wind
Less rude than the foes we leave frowning behind.
And I'll gaze on thy gold hair as graceful it wreathes,
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it breathes;
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will tear
One chord from that harp, or one lock from that hair.

235

 

“In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIII. an Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing Glibbes, or Coulins (long locks), on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing locks) to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those who wore their habits. Of this song, the air alone has reached us, and is universally admired.”—Walker's Historical Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us also, that, about the same period, there were some harsh measures taken against the Irish Minstrels.


236

RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.
“Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
“So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
“Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
“As not to be tempted by woman or gold?”

237

“Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
“No son of Erin will offer me harm:—
“For though they love woman and golden store,
“Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!”
On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour, and Erin's pride.
 

This ballad is founded upon the following anecdote:— “The people were inspired with such a spirit of honour, virtue, and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his excellent administration, that, as a proof of it, we are informed that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a costly dress, undertook a journey alone, from one end of the kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her hand, at the top of which was a ring of exceeding great value; and such an impression had the laws and government of this Monarch made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt was made upon her honour, nor was she robbed of her clothes or jewels.” —Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book x.


238

AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE WATERS MAY GLOW.

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below,
So the cheek may be ting'd with a warm sunny smile,
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,
To which life nothing darker or brighter can bring
For which joy has no balm and affliction no sting—
Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay,
Like a dead, leafless branch in the summer's bright ray;
The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain,
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.

239

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
Yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
'Twas not her soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no,—it was something more exquisite still.
'Twas that friends, the belov'd of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,

240

And who felt how the best charms of nature improve,
When we see them reflected from looks that we love.
Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best,
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.
 

“The Meeting of the Waters” forms a part of that beautiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in the county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a visit to this romantic spot, in the summer of the year 1807.

The rivers Avon and Avoca.


241

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,
For then sweet dreams of other days arise,
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.
And, as I watch the line of light, that plays
Along the smooth wave tow'rd the burning west,
I long to tread that golden path of rays,
And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest.

242

TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK.

Take back the virgin page,
White and unwritten still;
Some hand, more calm and sage,
The leaf must fill.
Thoughts come, as pure as light,
Pure as even you require:
But, oh! each word I write
Love turns to fire.
Yet let me keep the book:
Oft shall my heart renew,
When on its leaves I look,
Dear thoughts of you.
Like you, 'tis fair and bright;
Like you, too bright and fair
To let wild passion write
One wrong wish there.

243

Haply, when from those eyes
Far, far away I roam,
Should calmer thoughts arise
Tow'rds you and home;
Fancy may trace some line,
Worthy those eyes to meet,
Thoughts that not burn, but shine,
Pure, calm, and sweet.
And as, o'er ocean far,
Seamen their records keep,
Led by some hidden star
Through the cold deep;
So may the words I write
Tell thro' what storms I stray—
You still the unseen light,
Guiding my way.

244

THE LEGACY.

When in death I shall calmly recline,
O bear my heart to my mistress dear;
Tell her it liv'd upon smiles and wine
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here.
Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow
To sully a heart so brilliant and light;
But balmy drops of the red grape borrow,
To bathe the relic from morn till night.
When the light of my song is o'er,
Then take my harp to your ancient hall;
Hang it up at that friendly door,
Where weary travellers love to call.
Then if some bard, who roams forsaken,
Revive its soft note in passing along,
Oh! let one thought of its master waken
Your warmest smile for the child of song.

245

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing,
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest;
Never, oh! never its balm bestowing
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest.
But when some warm devoted lover
To her he adores shall bathe its brim,
Then, then my spirit around shall hover,
And hallow each drop that foams for him.
 

“In every house was one or two harps, free to all travellers, who were the more caressed, the more they excelled in music.” —O'Halloran.


246

HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED.

How oft has the Benshee cried,
How oft has death untied
Bright links that Glory wove,
Sweet bonds entwin'd by Love!
Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth;
Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth;
Long may the fair and brave
Sigh o'er the hero's grave.
We're fall'n upon gloomy days!
Star after star decays,
Every bright name, that shed
Light o'er that land, is fled.

247

Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth;
But brightly flows the tear,
Wept o'er a hero's bier.
Quench'd are our beacon lights—
Thou, of the Hundred Fights!
Thou, on whose burning tongue
Truth, peace, and freedom hung!
Both mute,—but long as valour shineth,
Or mercy's soul at war repineth,
So long shall Erin's pride
Tell how they liv'd and died.
 

I have endeavoured here, without losing that Irish character, which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to allude to the sad and ominous fatality, by which England has been deprived of so many great and good men, at a moment when she most requires all the aids of talent and integrity.

This designation, which has been before applied to Lord Nelson, is the title given to a celebrated Irish Hero, in a Poem by O'Guive, the bard of O'Niel, which is quoted in the “Philosophical Survey of the South of Ireland,” page 433. “Con, of the hundred Fights, sleep in thy grass—grown tomb, and upbraid not our defeats with thy victories.”

Fox, “Romanorum ultimus.”


248

WE MAY ROAM THROUGH THIS WORLD.

We may roam thro' this world, like a child at a feast,
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to the rest;
And, when pleasure begins to grow dull in the east,
We may order our wings and be off to the west;
But if hearts that feel, and eyes that smile,
Are the dearest gifts that heaven supplies,
We never need leave our own green isle,
For sensitive hearts, and for sun-bright eyes.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile which adorns her at home.
In England, the garden of Beauty is kept
By a dragon of prudery placed within call;
But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept,
That the gardens but carelessly watch'd after all.

249

Oh! they want the wild sweet-briery fence,
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells;
Which warns the touch, while winning the sense,
Nor charms us least when it most repels.
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.
In France, when the heart of a woman sets sail,
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try,
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail,
But just pilots her off, and then bids her good-bye.
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy,
Ever smiling beside his faithful oar,
Through billows of woe, and beams of joy,
The same as he look'd when he left the shore,
Then remember, wherever your goblet is crown'd,
Thro' this world, whether eastward or westward you roam,
When a cup to the smile of dear woman goes round,
Oh! remember the smile that adorns her at home.

250

EVELEEN'S BOWER.

Oh! weep for the hour,
When to Eveleen's bower
The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;
The moon hid her light
From the heavens that night,
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.
The clouds pass'd soon
From the chaste cold moon,
And heaven smil'd again with her vestal flame;
But none will see the day,
When the clouds shall pass away,
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.
The white snow lay
On the narrow path-way,
When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;
And many a deep print
On the white snow's tint
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's door.

251

The next sun's ray
Soon melted away
Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;
But there's a light above,
Which alone can remove
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame.

252

LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DAYS OF OLD.

Let Erin remember the days of old,
Ere her faithless sons betray'd her;
When Malachi wore the collar of gold ,
Which he won from her proud invader,
When her kings, with standard of green unfurl'd,
Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;—
Ere the emerald gem of the western world
Was set in the crown of a stranger.

253

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman strays,
When the clear cold eve's declining,
He sees the round towers of other days
In the wave beneath him shining;
Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime,
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over;
Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time
For the long-faded glories they cover.
 

“This brought on an encounter between Malachi (the Monarch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encountered successively, hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as trophies of his victory.” —Warner's History of Ireland, vol. i. book ix.

“Military orders of knights were very early established in Ireland: long before the birth of Christ we find an hereditary order of Chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhe na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in Emania, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kings, called Teagh na Craiobhe ruadh, or the Academy of the Red Branch; and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the sick knights and soldiers, called Bronbhearg, or the House of the Sorrowful Soldier.” —O'Halloran's Introduction, &c., part i. chap. 5.

It was an old tradition, in the time of Giraldus, that Lough Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden overflowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, like the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says that the fishermen, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall ecclesiastical towers under the water. Piscatores aquæ illius turres ecclesiasticas, quæ more patriæ arctæ sunt et altæ, necnon et rotundæ, sub undis manifeste sereno tempore conspiciunt, et extraneis transeuntibus, reique causas admirantibus, frequenter ostendunt. —Topogr. Hib. dist. 2. c. 9.


254

THE SONG OF FIONNUALA.

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water,
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose,
While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes.
When shall the swan, her death-note singing,
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit from this stormy world?

255

Sadly, oh Moyle, to thy winter-wave weeping,
Fate bids me languish long ages away;
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping,
Still doth the pure light its dawning delay.
When will that day-star, mildly springing,
Warm our isle with peace and love?
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing,
Call my spirit to the fields above?
 

To make this story intelligible in a song would require a much greater number of verses than any one is authorised to inflict upon an audience at once; the reader must therefore be content to learn, in a note, that Fionnuala, the daughter of Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed into a swan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, over certain lakes and rivers in Ireland, till the coming of Christianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to be the signal of her release.—I found this fanciful fiction among some manuscript translations from the Irish, which were begun under the direction of that enlightened friend of Ireland, the late Countess of Moira.


256

COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE.

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are fill'd from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valour, or love, by a standard like this!

257

SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING.

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west—
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!
If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia, our cause is the same!
And oh! may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!

258

Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resign'd
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sigh'd for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause!—oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive,
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave,
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!

259

BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING YOUNG CHARMS.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be ador'd, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,
And thy cheeks unprofan'd by a tear,
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known,
To which time will but make thee more dear;
No, the heart that has truly lov'd never forgets,
But as truly loves on to the close,
As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,
The same look which she turn'd when he rose.

260

ERIN, OH ERIN.

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane ,
And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm,
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in vain,
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and warm.
Erin, oh Erin, thus bright thro' the tears
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears.
The nations have fallen, and thou still art young,
Thy sun is but rising, when others are set;
And tho' slavery's cloud o'er thy morning hath hung
The full noon of freedom shall beam round thee yet.

261

Erin, oh Erin, tho' long in the shade,
Thy star will shine out when the proudest shall fade.
Unchill'd by the rain, and unwak'd by the wind,
The lily lies sleeping thro' winter's cold hour,
Till Spring's light touch her fetters unbind,
And daylight and liberty bless the young flower.
Thus Erin, oh Erin, thy winter is past,
And the hope that liv'd thro' it shall blossom at last.
 

The inextinguishable fire of St. Bridget, at Kildare, which Giraldus mentions:—“Apud Kildariam occurrit Ignis Sanctæ Brigidæ, quem inextinguibilem vocant; non quod extingui non possit, sed quod tam solicite moniales et sanctæ mulieres ignem, suppetente materia, fovent et nutriunt, ut a tempore virginis per tot annorum curricula semper mansit inextinctus.” —Girald. Camb. de Mirabil. Hibern. dist. 2. c. 34.

Mrs. H. Tighe, in her exquisite lines on the lily, has applied this image to a still more important object.


262

DRINK TO HER.

Drink to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
Oh! woman's heart was made
For minstrel hands alone;
By other fingers play'd,
It yields not half the tone.
Then here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
At Beauty's door of glass,
When Wealth and Wit once stood,
They ask'd her, “which might pass?”
She answer'd, “he, who could.”

263

With golden key Wealth thought
To pass—but 'twould not do:
While Wit a diamond brought,
Which cut his bright way through.
So here's to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.
The love that seeks a home
Where wealth or grandeur shines,
Is like the gloomy gnome,
That dwells in dark gold mines.
But oh! the poet's love
Can boast a brighter sphere;
Its native home's above,
Tho' woman keeps it here.
Then drink to her, who long
Hath wak'd the poet's sigh,
The girl, who gave to song
What gold could never buy.

264

OH! BLAME NOT THE BARD.

Oh! blame not the bard, if he fly to the bowers,
Where Pleasure lies, carelessly smiling at Fame;
He was born for much more, and in happier hours
His soul might have burn'd with a holier flame.
The string, that now languishes loose o'er the lyre,
Might have bent a proud bow to the warrior's dart ;
And the lip, which now breathes but the song of desire,
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patriot's heart.

265

But alas for his country!—her pride is gone by,
And that spirit is broken, which never would bend;
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh,
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to defend.
Unpriz'd are her sons, till they've learned to betray;
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame not their sires;
And the torch, that would light them thro' dignity's way,
Must be caught from the pile, where their country expires.
Then blame not the bard, if in pleasure's soft dream,
He should try to forget, what he never can heal:
Oh! give but a hope—let a vista but gleam
Through the gloom of his country, and mark how he'll feel!

266

That instant, his heart at her shrine would lay down
Every passion it nurs'd, every bliss it ador'd;
While the myrtle, now idly entwin'd with his crown,
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should cover his sword.
But tho' glory be gone, and tho' hope fade away,
Thy name, loved Erin, shall live in his songs;
Not ev'n in the hour, when his heart is most gay,
Will he lose the remembrance of thee and thy wrongs.
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his plains;
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the deep,
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet thy chains,
Shall pause at the song of their captive, and weep!
 

We may suppose this apology to have been uttered by one of those wandering bards, whom Spenser so severely, and, perhaps, truly, describes in his State of Ireland, and whose poems, he tells us, “were sprinkled with some pretty flowers of their natural device, which have good grace and comeliness unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gracing of wickedness and vice, which, with good usage, would serve to adorn and beautify virtue.”

It is conjectured by Wormius, that the name of Ireland is derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of which weapon the Irish were once very expert. This derivation is certainly more creditable to us than the following: “So that Ireland, called the land of Ire, from the constant broils therein for 400 years, was now become the land of concord.” —Lloyd's State Worthies, art. The Lord Grandison.

See the Hymn, attributed to Alcæus, Εν μυρτου κλαδι το ξιφος φορησω—“I will carry my sword, hidden in myrtles, like Harmodius, and Aristogiton,” &c.


267

WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S LIGHT.

While gazing on the moon's light,
A moment from her smile I turn'd,
To look at orbs, that, more bright,
In lone and distant glory burn'd.
But too far
Each proud star,
For me to feel its warming flame;
Much more dear
That mild sphere,
Which near our planet smiling came ;
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own;
While brighter eyes unheeded play,
I'll love those moonlight looks alone,
That bless my home and guide my way.

268

The day had sunk in dim showers,
But midnight now, with lustre meet,
Illumin'd all the pale flowers,
Like hope upon a mourner's cheek.
I said (while
The moon's smile
Play'd o'er a stream, in dimpling bliss,)
“The moon looks
“On many brooks,
“The brook can see no moon but this;”
And thus, I thought, our fortunes run,
For many a lover looks to thee,
While oh! I feel there is but one,
One Mary in the world for me.
 

“Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the sun excepted, the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put together.” —Whiston's Theory, &c.

In the Entretiens d'Ariste, among other ingenious emblems, we find a starry sky without a moon, with these words, Non mille, quod absens.

This image was suggested by the following thought, which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: “The moon looks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower sees but one moon.”


269

ILL OMENS.

When daylight was yet sleeping under the billow,
And stars in the heavens still lingering shone,
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her pillow,
The last time she e'er was to press it alone.
For the youth whom she treasured her heart and her soul in,
Had promised to link the last tie before noon;
And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen
The maiden herself will steal after it soon.
As she look'd in the glass, which a woman ne'er misses,
Nor ever wants time for a sly glance or two,
A butterfly , fresh from the night-flower's kisses,
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her view.

270

Enrag'd with the insect for hiding her graces,
She brush'd him—he fell, alas; never to rise:
“Ah! such,” said the girl, “is the pride of our faces,
“For which the soul's innocence too often dies.”
While she stole thro' the garden, where hearts-ease was growing,
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night-fallen dew;
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting and glowing,
That, spite of her haste, she must gather it too:
But while o'er the roses too carelessly leaning,
Her zone flew in two, and the hearts-ease was lost:
“Ah! this means,” said the girl (and she sigh'd at its meaning),
“That love is scarce worth the repose it will cost!”
 

An emblem of the soul.


271

BEFORE THE BATTLE.

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun, whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life—
Oh! remember life can be
No charm for him, who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave,
Sinks a hero in his grave,
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.
Happy is he o'er whose decline
The smiles of home may soothing shine
And light him down the steep of years:—
But oh, how blest they sink to rest,
Who close their eyes on victory's breast!
O'er his watch-fire's fading embers
Now the foeman's cheek turns white,
When his heart that field remembers,
Where we tamed his tyrant might.

272

Never let him bind again
A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls—
Ere the golden evening falls,
May we pledge that horn in triumph round!
Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,
Nor waken even at victory's sound:—
But oh, how blest that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wond'ring world shall weep!
 

“The Irish Corna was not entirely devoted to martial purposes. In the heroic ages, our ancestors quaffed Meadh out of them, as the Danish hunters do their beverage at this day.” —Walker.


273

AFTER THE BATTLE.

Night clos'd around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day,
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost—
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?
The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss;—
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?

274

'TIS SWEET TO THINK.

'Tis sweet to think, that, where'er we rove,
We are sure to find something blissful and dear,
And that, when we're far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling,
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone,
But will lean to the nearest, and loveliest thing,
It can twine with itself, and make closely its own.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.

275

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise,
To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there;
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes,
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair.
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike,
They are both of them bright, but they're changeable too,
And, wherever a new beam of beauty can strike,
It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue.
Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove,
To be sure to find something, still, that is dear,
And to know, when far from the lips we love,
We've but to make love to the lips we are near.
 

I believe it is Marmontel who says, “Quand on n'a pas ce que l'on aime, il faut aimer ce que l'on a.”—There are so many matter-of-fact people, who take such jeux d'esprit as this defence of inconstancy, to be the actual and genuine sentiments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self-defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind them, that Democritus was not the worse physiologist, for having playfully contended that snow was black; nor Erasmus, in any degree, the less wise, for having written an ingenious encomium of folly.


276

THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS MISTRESS.

Through grief and through danger thy smile hath cheer'd my way,
Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn that round me lay;
The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burn'd,
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal was turn'd;
Yes, slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit felt free,
And bless'd even the sorrows that made me more dear to thee.
Thy rival was honour'd, while thou wert wrong'd and scorn'd,
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her brows adorn'd;

277

She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st hid in caves,
Her friends were all masters, while thine, alas! were slaves;
Yet cold in the earth, at thy feet, I would rather be,
Than wed what I lov'd not, or turn one thought from thee.
They slander thee sorely, who say thy vows are frail—
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had look'd less pale.
They say, too, so long thou hast worn those lingering chains,
That deep in thy heart they have printed their servile stains—
Oh! foul is the slander,—no chain could that soul subdue—
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty shineth too!
 

Meaning, allegorically, the ancient Church of Ireland.

“Where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty.” —St. Paul, 2 Corinthians, iii. 17.


278

ON MUSIC.

When thro' life unblest we rove,
Losing all that made life dear,
Should some notes we used to love,
In days of boyhood, meet our ear,
Oh! how welcome breathes the strain!
Wakening thoughts that long have slept;
Kindling former smiles again
In faded eyes that long have wept.
Like the gale, that sighs along
Beds of oriental flowers,
Is the grateful breath of song,
That once was heard in happier hours;
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on,
Though the flowers have sunk in death;
So, when pleasure's dream is gone,
Its memory lives in Music's breath.

279

Music, oh how faint, how weak,
Language fades before thy spell!
Why should Feeling ever speak,
When thou canst breathe her soul so well?
Friendship's balmy words may feign,
Love's are ev'n more false than they;
Oh! 'tis only music's strain
Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

280

IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS MOMENT SHED.

It is not the tear at this moment shed,
When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him,
That can tell how belov'd was the friend that's fled,
Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him.
'Tis the tear, thro' many a long day wept,
'Tis life's whole path o'ershaded;
'Tis the one remembrance, fondly kept,
When all lighter griefs have faded.
Thus his memory, like some holy light,
Kept alive in our hearts, will improve them,
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more bright,
When we think how he liv'd but to love them.
And, as fresher flowers the sod perfume
Where buried saints are lying,
So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom
From the image he left there in dying!
 

These lines were occasioned by the loss of a very near and dear relative, who had died lately at Madeira.


281

THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP.

'Tis believ'd that this Harp, which I wake now for thee,
Was a Siren of old, who sung under the sea;
And who often, at eve, thro' the bright waters rov'd,
To meet, on the green shore, a youth whom she lov'd.
But she lov'd him in vain, for he left her to weep,
And in tears, all the night, her gold tresses to steep;
Till heav'n look'd with pity on true-love so warm,
And chang'd to this soft Harp the sea-maiden's form.
Still her bosom rose fair—still her cheeks smil'd the same—
While her sea-beauties gracefully form'd the light frame;
And her hair, as, let loose, o'er her white arm it fell,
Was chang'd to bright chords utt'ring melody's spell.

282

Hence it came, that this soft Harp so long hath been known
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad tone;
Till thou didst divide them, and teach the fond lay
To speak love when I'm near thee, and grief when away.

283

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come,
Of milder calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:
No, there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream.
Tho' the bard to purer fame may soar,
When wild youth's past;
Tho' he win the wise, who frown'd before,
To smile at last;
He'll never meet
A joy so sweet,
In all his noon of fame,

284

As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame,
And, at every close, she blush'd to hear
The one lov'd name.
No,—that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot
Which first love trac'd;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled
As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream;
'Twas a light, that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream:
Oh! 'twas light that ne'er can shine again
On life's dull stream.

285

THE PRINCE'S DAY.

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them,
And smile through our tears, like a sunbeam in showers:
There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,
More form'd to be grateful and blest than ours.
But just when the chain
Has ceas'd to pain,
And hope has enwreath'd it round with flowers,
There comes a new link
Our spirits to sink—
Oh! the joy that we taste, like the light of the poles,
Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant to stay;
But, though 'twere the last little spark in our souls,
We must light it up now, on our Prince's Day.

286

Contempt on the minion, who calls you disloyal!
Tho' fierce to your foe, to your friends you are true;
And the tribute most high to a head that is royal,
Is love from a heart that loves liberty too.
While cowards, who blight
Your fame, your right,
Would shrink from the blaze of the battle array,
The Standard of Green
In front would be seen,—
Oh, my life on your faith! were you summon'd this minute,
You'd cast every bitter remembrance away,
And show what the arm of old Erin has in it,
When rous'd by the foe, on her Prince's Day.
He loves the Green Isle, and his love is recorded
In hearts, which have suffer'd too much to forget;
And hope shall be crown'd, and attachment rewarded,
And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet.
The gem may be broke
By many a stroke,
But nothing can cloud its native ray;
Each fragment will cast
A light, to the last,—

287

And thus, Erin, my country tho' broken thou art,
There's a lustre within thee, that ne'er will decay;
A spirit, which beams through each suffering part,
And now smiles at all pain on the Prince's Day.
 

This song was written for a fête in honour of the Prince of Wales's Birthday, given by my friend, Major Bryan, at his seat in the country of Kilkenny.


288

WEEP ON, WEEP ON.

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past;
Your dreams of pride are o'er;
The fatal chain is round you cast,
And you are men no more.
In vain the hero's heart hath bled;
The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain;—
Oh, Freedom! once thy flame hath fled,
It never lights again.
Weep on—perhaps in after days,
They'll learn to love your name;
When many a deed may wake in praise
That long hath slept in blame.
And when they tread the ruin'd isle,
Where rest, at length, the lord and slave,
They'll wondering ask, how hands so vile
Could conquer hearts so brave?

289

“'Twas fate,” they'll say, “a wayward fate
“Your web of discord wove;
“And while your tyrants join'd in hate,
“You never join'd in love.
“But hearts fell off, that ought to twine,
“And man profan'd what God had given;
“Till some were heard to curse the shrine,
“Where others knelt to heaven!”

290

LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE.

Lesbia hath a beaming eye,
But no one knows for whom it beameth;
Right and left its arrows fly,
But what they aim at no one dreameth.
Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon
My Nora's lid that seldom rises;
Few its looks, but every one,
Like unexpected light, surprises!
Oh, my Nora Creina, dear,
My gentle, bashful Nora Creina,
Beauty lies
In many eyes,
But Love in yours, my Nora Creina.
Lesbia wears a robe of gold,
But all so close the nymph hath lac'd it,
Not a charm of beauty's mould
Presumes to stay where nature plac'd it.

291

Oh! my Nora's gown for me,
That floats as wild as mountain breezes,
Leaving every beauty free
To sink or swell as Heaven pleases.
Yes, my Nora Creina, dear,
My simple, graceful Nora Creina,
Nature's dress
Is loveliness—
The dress you wear, my Nora Creina.
Lesbia hath a wit refin'd,
But, when its points are gleaming round us,
Who can tell if they're design'd
To dazzle merely, or to wound us?
Pillow'd on my Nora's heart,
In safer slumber Love reposes—
Bed of peace! whose roughest part
Is but the crumpling of the roses.
Oh! my Nora Creina dear,
My mild, my artless Nora Creina!
Wit, tho' bright,
Hath no such light,
As warms your eyes, my Nora Creina.

292

I SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL PRIME.

I saw thy form in youthful prime,
Nor thought that pale decay
Would steal before the steps of Time,
And waste its bloom away, Mary!
Yet still thy features wore that light,
Which fleets not with the breath;
And life ne'er look'd more truly bright
Than in thy smile of death, Mary!
As streams that run o'er golden mines,
Yet humbly, calmly glide,
Nor seem to know the wealth that shines
Within their gentle tide, Mary!
So veil'd beneath the simplest guise,
Thy radiant genius shone,
And that, which charm'd all other eyes,
Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary!

293

If souls could always dwell above,
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere;
Or could we keep the souls we love,
We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary!
Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet,
Than to remember thee, Mary!
 

I have here made a feeble effort to imitate that exquisite inscription of Shenstone's, “Hue! quanto minus est cum reliquis versari quam tui meminisse!”


294

BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY SHORE.

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore
Sky-lark never warbles o'er ,
Where the cliff hangs high and steep,
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep.
“Here, at least,” he calmly said,
“Woman ne'er shall find my bed.”
Ah! the good Saint little knew
What that wily sex can do.
'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew,—
Eyes of most unholy blue!

295

She had lov'd him well and long,
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong.
Wheresoe'er the Saint would fly,
Still he heard her light foot nigh;
East or west, where'er he turn'd,
Still her eyes before him burn'd.
On the bold cliff's bosom cast,
Tranquil now he sleeps at last;
Dreams of heav'n, nor thinks that e'er
Woman's smile can haunt him there.
But nor earth nor heaven is free
From her power, if fond she be:
Even now, while calm he sleeps,
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps.
Fearless she had track'd his feet
To this rocky, wild retreat;
And when morning met his view,
Her mild glances met it too.
Ah, your Saints have cruel hearts!
Sternly from his bed he starts,
And with rude, repulsive shock,
Hurls her from the beetling rock.

296

Glendalough, thy gloomy wave
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave!
Soon the saint (yet ah! too late,)
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate.
When he said, “Heav'n rest her soul!”
Round the Lake light music stole;
And her ghost was seen to glide,
Smiling o'er the fatal tide.
 

This ballad is founded upon one of the many stories related of St. Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county of Wicklow.

There are many other curious traditions concerning this Lake, which may be found in Giraldus, Colgan, &c.


297

SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her, sighing:
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov'd awaking;—
Ah! little they think who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had liv'd for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin'd him;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.

298

NAY, TELL ME NOT, DEAR.

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns
One charm of feeling, one fond regret;
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns
Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet.
Ne'er hath a beam
Been lost in the stream
That ever was shed from thy form or soul;
The spell of those eyes,
The balm of thy sighs,
Still float on the surface, and hallow my bowl.
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.
They tell us that Love in his fairy bower
Had two blush-roses, of birth divine;
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's shower,
But bath'd the other with mantling wine.

299

Soon did the buds
That drank of the floods
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade;
While those which the tide
Of ruby had dy'd
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet maid!
Then fancy not, dearest, that wine can steal
One blissful dream of the heart from me;
Like founts, that awaken the pilgrim's zeal,
The bowl but brightens my love for thee.

300

AVENGING AND BRIGHT.

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin
On him who the brave sons of Usna betray'd!—
For ev'ry fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in,
A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep o'er her blade.

301

By the red cloud that hung over Conor's dark dwelling ,
When Ulad's three champions lay sleeping in gore—
By the billows of war, which so often, high swelling,
Have wafted these heroes to victory's shore—
We swear to revenge them!—no joy shall be tasted,
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed,
Our halls shall be mute and our fields shall lie wasted,
Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murderer's head.
Yes, monarch! tho' sweet are our home recollections,
Though sweet are the tears that from tenderness fall;
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, our affections,
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all!
 

The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient Irish story called “Deirdri, or the Lamentable Fate of the Sons of Usnach,” which has been translated literally from the Gaelic, by Mr. O'Flanagan (see vol. i. of Transactions of the Gaelic Society of Dublin), and upon which it appears that the “Darthula of Macpherson” is founded. The treachery of Conor, King of Ulster, in putting to death the three sons of Usna, was the cause of a desolating war against Ulster, which terminated in the destruction of Eman. “This story (says Mr. O'Flanagan) has been, from time immemorial, held in high repute as one of the three tragic stories of the Irish. These are, ‘The death of the children of Touran;’ ‘The death of the children of Lear’ (both regarding Tuatha de Danans), and this, ‘The death of the children of Usnach,’ which is a Milesian story.” It will be recollected, that in the Second Number of these Melodies, there is a ballad upon the story of the children of Lear or Lir; “Silent, oh Moyle!” &c.

Whatever may be thought of those sanguine claims to antiquity, which Mr. O'Flanagan and others advance for the literature of Ireland, it would be a lasting reproach upon our nationality, if the Gaelic researches of this gentleman did not meet with all the liberal encouragement they so well merit.

“Oh Nasi! view that cloud that I here see in the sky! I see over Eman-green a chilling cloud of blood-tinged red.” —Deirdri's Song.

Ulster.


302

WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE FLOWERET.

He.—
What the bee is to the floweret,
When he looks for honey-dew,
Through the leaves that close embower it,
That, my love, I'll be to you.

She.—
What the bank, with verdure glowing,
Is to waves that wander near,
Whispering kisses, while they're going,
That I'll be to you, my dear.

She.—
But they say, the bee's a rover,
Who will fly, when sweets are gone;
And, when once the kiss is over,
Faithless brooks will wander on.

He.—
Nay, if flowers will lose their looks,
If sunny banks will wear away,
'Tis but right, that bees and brooks
Should sip and kiss them, while they may.


303

LOVE AND THE NOVICE.

Here we dwell, in holiest bowers,
“Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;
“Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
“To heaven in mingled odour ascend.
“Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!
“So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
“It well might deceive such hearts as ours.”
Love stood near the Novice and listen'd,
And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glisten'd;
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint.
“Who would have thought,” the urchin cries,
“That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
“His wandering wings, and wounding eyes?”
Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.

304

He tinges the heavenly fount with his weeping,
He brightens the censer's flame with his sighs.
Love is the Saint enshrin'd in thy breast,
And angels themselves would admit such a guest,
If he came to them cloth'd in Piety's vest.

305

THIS LIFE IS ALL CHEQUER'D WITH PLEASURES AND WOES.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and woes,
That chase one another like waves of the deep,—
Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,
Reflecting our eyes, as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awak'd ere the tear can be dried;
And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,
The goose-plumage of Folly can turn it aside.
But pledge me the cup—if existence would cloy,
With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light Sorrow, half-sister to Joy,
And the light, brilliant Folly that flashes and dies.
When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Thro' fields full of light, and with heart full of play,

306

Light rambled the boy, over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the way.
Thus many, like me, who in youth should have tasted
The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine,
Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,
And left their light urns all as empty as mine.
But pledge me the goblet;—while Idleness weaves
These flowerets together, should Wisdom but see
One bright drop or two that has fall'n on the leaves
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me.
 
Proposito florem prætulit officio.

Propert. lib. i. eleg. 20.


307

OH THE SHAMROCK.

Through Erin's Isle,
To sport awhile,
As Love and Valour wander'd,
With Wit, the sprite,
Whose quiver bright
A thousand arrows squander'd.
Where'er they pass,
A triple grass
Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming,
As softly green
As emeralds seen
Thro' purest crystal gleaming.

308

Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf,
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
Says Valour, “See,
“They spring for me,
“Those leafy gems of morning!”—
Says Love, “No, no,
“For me they grow,
“My fragrant path adorning.”
But Wit perceives
The triple leaves,
And cries, “Oh! do not sever
“A type, that blends
“Three godlike friends,
“Love, Valour, Wit, for ever!”
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
So firmly fond
May last the bond,

309

They wove that morn together,
And ne'er may fall
One drop of gall
On Wit's celestial feather.
May Love, as twine
His flowers divine,
Of thorny falsehood weed 'em;
May Valour ne'er
His standard rear
Against the cause of Freedom!
Oh the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!
Chosen leaf
Of Bard and Chief,
Old Erin's native Shamrock!
 

It is said that St. Patrick, when preaching the Trinity to the Pagan Irish, used to illustrate his subject by reference to that species of trefoil called in Ireland by the name of the Shamrock; and hence, perhaps, the Island of Saints adopted this plant as her national emblem. Hope, among the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child, standing upon tip-toes, and a trefoil or three-coloured grass in her hand.


310

AT THE MID HOUR OF NIGHT.

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly
To the lone vale we lov'd, when life shone warm in thine eye;
And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt come to me there,
And tell me our love is remember'd, even in the sky.
Then I sing the wild song 'twas once such pleasure to hear!
When our voices commingling breath'd, like one, on the ear;

311

And, as Echo far off through the vale my sad orison rolls,
I think, oh my love! 'tis thy voice from the Kingdom of Souls ,
Faintly answering still the notes that once were so dear.
 

“There are countries,” says Montaigne, “where they believe the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty, in delightful fields; and that it is those souls, repeating the words we utter, which we call Echo.”


312

ONE BUMPER AT PARTING.

One bumper at parting!—tho' many
Have circled the board since we met,
The fullest, the saddest of any
Remains to be crown'd by us yet.
The sweetness that pleasure hath in it,
Is always so slow to come forth,
That seldom, alas, till the minute
It dies, do we know half its worth.
But come,—may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
As onward we journey, how pleasant
To pause and inhabit awhile
Those few sunny spots, like the present,
That 'mid the dull wilderness smile!

313

But Time, like a pitiless master,
Cries “Onward!” and spurs the gay hours—
Ah, never doth Time travel faster,
Than when his way lies among flowers.
But come—may our life's happy measure
Be all of such moments made up;
They're born on the bosom of Pleasure,
They die 'midst the tears of the cup.
We saw how the sun look'd in sinking,
The waters beneath him how bright;
And now, let our farewell of drinking
Resemble that farewell of light.
You saw how he finish'd, by darting
His beam o'er a deep billow's brim—
So, fill up, let's shine at our parting,
In full liquid glory, like him.
And oh! may our life's happy measure
Of moments like this be made up,
'Twas born on the bosom of Pleasure,
It dies 'mid the tears of the cup.

314

'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.

'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rose-bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

315

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie wither'd,
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

316

THE YOUNG MAY MOON.

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love,
How sweet to rove
Through Morna's grove ,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear,
And the best of all ways
To lengthen our days,
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!
Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

317

And I, whose star,
More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,
Or, in watching the flight
Of bodies of light,
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.
 

“Steals silently to Morna's grove.”—See, in Mr. Bunting's collection, a poem translated from the Irish, by the late John Brown, one of my earliest college companions and friends, whose death was as singularly melancholy and unfortunate as his life had been amiable, honourable, and exemplary.


318

THE MINSTREL-BOY.

The Minstrel-Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.—
“Land of song!” said the warrior-bard,
“Tho' all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!”
The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he lov'd ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, “No chains shall sully thee,
“Thou soul of love and bravery!
“Thy songs were made for the pure and free,
“They shall never sound in slavery.”

319

THE SONG OF O'RUARK, PRINCE OF BREFFNI.

The valley lay smiling before me,
Where lately I left her behind;
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,
That saddened the joy of my mind.

320

I look'd for the lamp which, she told me,
Should shine, when her Pilgrim return'd;
But, though darkness began to infold me,
No lamp from the battlements burn'd!
I flew to her chamber—'twas lonely,
As if the lov'd tenant lay dead;—
Ah, would it were death, and death only!
But no, the young false one had fled.
And there hung the lute that could soften
My very worst pains into bliss;
While the hand, that had wak'd it so often,
Now throbb'd to a proud rival's kiss.
There was a time, falsest of women,
When Breffni's good sword would have sought
That man, thro' a million of foemen,
Who dar'd but to wrong thee in thought!

321

While now—oh degenerate daughter
Of Erin, how fall'n is thy fame!
And thro' ages of bondage and slaughter,
Our country shall bleed for thy shame.
Already, the curse is upon her,
And strangers her valleys profane;
They come to divide, to dishonour,
And tyrants they long will remain.
But onward!—the green banner rearing,
Go, flesh every sword to the hilt;
On our side is Virtue and Erin,
On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt.
 

These stanzas are founded upon an event of most melancholy importance to Ireland; if, as we are told by our Irish historians, it gave England the first opportunity of profiting by our divisions and subduing us. The following are the circumstances, as related by O'Halloran:—“The king of Leinster had long conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, daughter to the king of Meath, and though she had been for some time married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni, yet it could not restrain his passion. They carried on a private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark intended soon to go on a pilgrimage (an act of piety frequent in those days), and conjured him to embrace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she detested to a lover she adored. Mac Murchad too punctually obeyed the summons, and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns.”—The monarch Roderick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while Mac Murchad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry II.

“Such,” adds Giraldus Cambrensis (as I find him in an old translation), “is the variable and fickle nature of woman, by whom all mischief in the world (for the most part) do happen and come, as may appear by Marcus Antonius, and by the destruction of Troy.”


322

OH! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUR OWN.

Oh! had we some bright little isle of our own,
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone,
Where a leaf never dies in the still blooming bowers,
And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers;
Where the sun loves to pause
With so fond a delay,
That the night only draws
A thin veil o'er the day;
Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live,
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give.
There, with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime,
We should love, as they lov'd in the first golden time;
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air,
Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there.

323

With affection as free
From decline as the bowers,
And, with hope, like the bee,
Living always on flowers,
Our life should resemble a long day of light,
And our death come on, holy and calm as the night.

324

FAREWELL!—BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour,
That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcom'd it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return, not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brighten'd his pathway of pain,
But he ne'er will forget the short vision, that threw
Its enchantment around him, while ling'ring with you.
And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night;

325

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles—
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer
Some kind voice had murmur'd, “I wish he were here!”
Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories fill'd!
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill'd—
You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

326

OH! DOUBT ME NOT.

Oh! doubt me not—the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.
Altho' this heart was early blown,
And fairest hands disturb'd the tree,
They only shook some blossoms down,
Its fruit has all been kept for thee.
Then doubt me not—the season
Is o'er, when Folly made me rove,
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall watch the fire awak'd by Love.
And tho' my lute no longer
May sing of Passion's ardent spell,
Yet, trust me, all the stronger
I feel the bliss I do not tell.

327

The bee through many a garden roves,
And hums his lay of courtship o'er,
But when he finds the flower he loves,
He settles there, and hums no more.
Then doubt me not—the season
Is o'er, when Folly kept me free.
And now the vestal, Reason,
Shall guard the flame awak'd by thee.

328

YOU REMEMBER ELLEN.

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride,
How meekly she blessed her humble lot,
When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,
And love was the light of their lowly cot.
Together they toil'd through winds and rains,
Till William, at length, in sadness said,
“We must seek our fortune on other plains;”—
Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed.
They roam'd a long and a weary way,
Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease,
When now, at close of one stormy day,
They see a proud castle among the trees.
“To-night,” said the youth, “we'll shelter there;
“The wind blows cold, the hour is late:”
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air,
And the Porter bow'd, as they pass'd the gate.

329

“Now, welcome, Lady,” exclaim'd the youth,—
“This castle is thine, and these dark woods all!”
She believ'd him crazed, but his words were truth,
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall!
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves
What William the stranger woo'd and wed;
And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves,
Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed.
 

This ballad was suggested by a well-known and interesting story told of a certain noble family in England.


330

I'D MOURN THE HOPES.

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me,
If thy smiles had left me too;
I'd weep when friends deceive me,
If thou wert, like them, untrue.
But while I've thee before me,
With heart so warm and eyes so bright,
No clouds can linger o'er me,
That smile turns them all to light.
'Tis not in fate to harm me,
While fate leaves thy love to me;
'Tis not in joy to charm me,
Unless joy be shared with thee.
One minute's dream about thee
Were worth a long, an endless year
Of waking bliss without thee,
My own love, my only dear!

331

And tho' the hope be gone, love,
That long sparkled o'er our way,
Oh! we shall journey on, love,
More safely, without its ray.
Far better lights shall win me
Along the path I've yet to roam:—
The mind that burns within me,
And pure smiles from thee at home.
Thus, when the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out,
He feels awhile benighted,
And looks round in fear and doubt.
But soon, the prospect clearing,
By cloudless starlight on he treads,
And thinks no lamp so cheering
As that light which Heaven sheds.

332

COME O'ER THE SEA.

Come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows:
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.

333

Was not the sea
Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,
But, on the waves,
Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us—
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.

334

HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED.

Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
Too fast have those young days faded,
That, even in sorrow, were sweet?
Does Time with his cold wing wither
Each feeling that once was dear?—
Then, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul, so tender,
Been like our Lagenian mine ,
Where sparkles of golden splendour
All over the surface shine—
But, if in pursuit we go deeper,
Allur'd by the gleam that shone,
Ah! false as the dream of the sleeper,
Like Love, the bright ore is gone.

335

Has Hope, like the bird in the story ,
That flitted from tree to tree
With the talisman's glittering glory—
Has Hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
The gem did she still display,
And, when nearest and most inviting,
Then waft the fair gem away?
If thus the young hours have fleeted,
When sorrow itself looked bright;
If thus the fair hope hath cheated,
That led thee along so light;
If thus the cold world now wither
Each feeling that once was dear:—
Come, child of misfortune, come hither,
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
 

Our Wicklow Gold Mines, to which this verse alludes, deserve, I fear, but too well the character here given of them.

“The bird, having got its prize, settled not far off, with the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping it would drop it; but, as he approached, the bird took wing, and settled again,” &c. —Arabian Nights.


336

NO, NOT MORE WELCOME.

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers
Of music fall on the sleeper's ear,
When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,
He thinks the full quire of heaven is near,—
Than came that voice, when, all forsaken,
This heart long had sleeping lain,
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken
To such benign, blessed sounds again.
Sweet voice of comfort! 'twas like the stealing
Of summer wind thro' some wreathed shell—
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling
Of all my soul echoed to its spell.
'Twas whisper'd balm—'twas sunshine spoken!—
I'd live years of grief and pain
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken
By such benign, blessed sounds again.

337

WHEN FIRST I MET THEE.

When first I met thee, warm and young,
There shone such truth about thee,
And on thy lip such promise hung,
I did not dare to doubt thee.
I saw thee change, yet still relied,
Still clung with hope the fonder,
And thought, tho' false to all beside,
From me thou couldst not wander.
But go, deceiver! go,
The heart, whose hopes could make it
Trust one so false, so low,
Deserves that thou shouldst break it.
When every tongue thy follies nam'd,
I fled the unwelcome story;
Or found, in ev'n the faults they blam'd,
Some gleams of future glory.
I still was true, when nearer friends
Conspired to wrong, to slight thee;

338

The heart that now thy falsehood rends,
Would then have bled to right thee.
But go, deceiver! go,—
Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken
From pleasure's dream, to know
The grief of hearts forsaken.
Even now, tho' youth its bloom has shed,
No lights of age adorn thee:
The few, who lov'd thee once, have fled,
And they who flatter scorn thee.
Thy midnight cup is pledg'd to slaves,
No genial ties enwreath it;
The smiling there, like light on graves,
Has rank cold hearts beneath it.
Go—go—tho' worlds were thine,
I would not now surrender
One taintless tear of mine
For all thy guilty splendour!
And days may come, thou false one! yet,
When even those ties shall sever;
When thou wilt call, with vain regret,
On her thou'st lost for ever;

339

On her who, in thy fortune's fall,
With smiles had still receiv'd thee,
And gladly died to prove thee all
Her fancy first believ'd thee.
Go—go—'tis vain to curse,
'Tis weakness to upbraid thee;
Hate cannot wish thee worse
Than guilt and shame have made thee.

340

WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE.

While History's Muse the memorial was keeping
Of all that the dark hand of Destiny weaves,
Beside her the Genius of Erin stood weeping,
For hers was the story that blotted the leaves.
But oh! how the tear in her eyelids grew bright,
When, after whole pages of sorrow and shame,
She saw History write,
With a pencil of light
That illum'd the whole volume, her Wellington's name.
“Hail, Star of my Isle!” said the Spirit, all sparkling
With beams, such as break from her own dewy skies—
“Thro' ages of sorrow, deserted and darkling,
“I've watch'd for some glory like thine to arise.

341

“For, tho' Heroes I've number'd, unblest was their lot,
“And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross-ways of Fame;—
“But oh! there is not
“One dishonouring blot
“On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's name.
“Yet still the last crown of thy toils is remaining,
“The grandest, the purest, ev'n thou hast yet known;
“Tho' proud was thy task, other nations unchaining,
“Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of thy own.
“At the foot of that throne, for whose weal thou hast stood,
“Go, plead for the land that first cradled thy fame,
“And, bright o'er the flood
“Of her tears and her blood,
“Let the rainbow of Hope be her Wellington's name!”

342

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING.

The time I've lost in wooing,
In watching and pursuing
The light, that lies
In woman's eyes,
Has been my heart's undoing.
Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me,
I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
My only books
Were woman's looks,
And folly's all they've taught me.
Her smile when Beauty granted,
I hung with gaze enchanted,
Like him the Sprite ,
Whom maids by night
Oft meet in glen that's haunted.

343

Like him, too, Beauty won me,
But while her eyes were on me,
If once their ray
Was turn'd away,
O! winds could not outrun me.
And are those follies going?
And is my proud heart growing
Too cold or wise
For brilliant eyes
Again to set it glowing?
No, vain, alas! th' endeavour
From bonds so sweet to sever;
Poor Wisdom's chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.
 

This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as you keep your eyes upon him, he is fixed, and in your power;—but the moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some inducement) he vanishes. I had thought that this was the sprite which we call the Leprechaun; but a high authority upon such subjects, Lady Morgan, (in a note upon her national and interesting novel, O'Donnel,) has given a very different account of that goblin.


344

WHERE IS THE SLAVE.

Oh, where's the slave so lowly,
Condemn'd to chains unholy,
Who, could he burst
His bonds at first,
Would pine beneath them slowly?
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it,
Would wait till time decay'd it,
When thus its wing
At once may spring
To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing,
Alive, untouch'd and blowing,
Than that, whose braid
Is pluck'd to shade
The brows with victory glowing.

345

We tread the land that bore us,
Her green flag glitters o'er us,
The friends we've tried
Are by our side,
And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin,—farewell, all,
Who live to weep our fall!

346

COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast call'd me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of this,—
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,—or perish there too!

347

'TIS GONE, AND FOR EVER.

'Tis gone, and for ever, the light we saw breaking,
Like Heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of the dead—
When Man, from the slumber of ages awaking,
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray, ere it fled.
'Tis gone, and the gleams it has left of its burning
But deepen the long night of bondage and mourning,
That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is returning,
And darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee.
For high was thy hope, when those glories were darting
Around thee, thro' all the gross clouds of the world;
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly starting,
At once, like a Sun-burst, her banner unfurl'd.

348

Oh! never shall earth see a moment so splendid!
Then, then—had one Hymn of Deliverance blended
The tongues of all nations—how sweet had ascended
The first note of Liberty, Erin, from thee!
But, shame on those tyrants, who envied the blessing!
And shame on the light race, unworthy its good,
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furies, caressing
The young hope of Freedom, baptiz'd it in blood.
Then vanish'd for ever that fair, sunny vision,
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's derision,
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and elysian,
As first it arose, my lost Erin, on thee.
 

“The Sun-burst” was the fanciful name given by the ancient Irish to the Royal Banner.


349

I SAW FROM THE BEACH.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining,
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on;
I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining,
The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
And such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known;
Each wave, that we danc'd on at morning, ebbs from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone.
Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning
The close of our day, the calm eve of our night;—
Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of Morning,
Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light.

350

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning,
When passion first wak'd a new life thro' his frame,
And his soul, like the wood, that grows precious in burning,
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame.

351

FILL THE BUMPER FAIR.

Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Wit's electric flame
Ne'er so swiftly passes,
As when thro' the frame
It shoots from brimming glasses.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.
Sages can, they say,
Grasp the lightning's pinions,
And bring down its ray
From the starr'd dominions:—

352

So we, Sages, sit,
And, 'mid bumpers bright'ning,
From the Heaven of Wit
Draw down all its lightning.
Would'st thou know what first
Made our souls inherit
This ennobling thirst
For wine's celestial spirit?
It chanc'd upon that day,
When, as bards inform us,
Prometheus stole away
The living fires that warm us:
The careless Youth, when up
To Glory's fount aspiring,
Took nor urn nor cup
To hide the pilfer'd fire in.—
But oh his joy, when, round
The halls of Heaven spying,
Among the stars he found
A bowl of Bacchus lying!

353

Some drops were in that bowl,
Remains of last night's pleasure,
With which the Sparks of Soul
Mix'd their burning treasure.
Hence the goblet's shower
Hath such spells to win us;
Hence its mighty power
O'er that flame within us.
Fill the bumper fair!
Every drop we sprinkle
O'er the brow of Care
Smooths away a wrinkle.

354

DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY.

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee,
The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long ,
When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,
And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song!
The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness
Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill;
But, so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of sadness,
That ev'n in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.

355

Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers,
This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine!
Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers,
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy than mine;
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover,
Have throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone;
I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over,
And all the wild sweetness I wak'd was thy own.
END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.
 

In that rebellious but beautiful song, “When Erin first rose,” there is, if I recollect right, the following line:—

“The dark chain of Silence was thrown o'er the deep.”

The chain of Silence was a sort of practical figure of rhetoric among the ancient Irish. Walker tells us of “a celebrated contention for precedence between Finn and Gaul, near Finn's palace at Almhaim, where the attending Bards, anxious, if possible, to produce a cessation of hostilities, shook the chain of Silence, and flung themselves among the ranks.” See also the Ode to Gaul, the Son of Morni, in Miss Brooke's Reliques of Irish Poetry.



MY GENTLE HARP.

My gentle Harp, once more I waken
The sweetness of thy slumbering strain;
In tears our last farewell was taken,
And now in tears we meet again.
No light of joy hath o'er thee broken,
But, like those Harps whose heav'nly skill
Of slavery, dark as thine, hath spoken,
Thou hang'st upon the willows still.
And yet, since last thy chord resounded,
An hour of peace and triumph came,
And many an ardent bosom bounded
With hopes—that now are turn'd to shame.

4

Yet even then, while Peace was singing
Her halcyon song o'er land and sea,
Tho' joy and hope to others bringing,
She only brought new tears to thee.
Then, who can ask for notes of pleasure,
My drooping Harp, from chords like thine?
Alas, the lark's gay morning measure
As ill would suit the swan's decline!
Or how shall I, who love, who bless thee,
Invoke thy breath for Freedom's strains,
When ev'n the wreaths in which I dress thee,
Are sadly mix'd—half flow'rs, half chains?
But come—if yet thy frame can borrow
One breath of joy, oh, breathe for me,
And show the world, in chains and sorrow,
How sweet thy music still can be;
How gaily, ev'n mid gloom surounding,
Thou yet canst wake at pleasure's thrill—
Like Memnon's broken image sounding,
'Mid desolation tuneful still!
 
Dimidio magicæ resonant ubi Memnone chordæ.

—Juvenal.


5

IN THE MORNING OF LIFE.

In the morning of life, when its cares are unknown,
And its pleasures in all their new lustre begin,
When we live in a bright-beaming world of our own,
And the light that surrounds us is all from within;
Oh 'tis not, believe me, in that happy time
We can love, as in hours of less transport we may;—
Of our smiles, of our hopes, 'tis the gay sunny prime,
But affection is truest when these fade away.
When we see the first glory of youth pass us by,
Like a leaf on the stream that will never return;
When our cup, which had sparkled with pleasure so high,
First tastes of the other, the dark-flowing urn;
Then, then is the time when affection holds sway
With a depth and a tenderness joy never knew;
Love, nursed among pleasures, is faithless as they,
But the love born of Sorrow, like Sorrow, is true.

6

In climes full of sunshine, though splendid the flowers,
Their sighs have no freshness, their odour no worth;
'Tis the cloud and the mist of our own Isle of showers,
That call the rich spirit of fragrancy forth.
So it is not mid splendour, prosperity, mirth,
That the depth of Love's generous spirit appears;
To the sunshine of smiles it may first owe its birth,
But the soul of its sweetness is drawn out by tears.

7

AS SLOW OUR SHIP.

As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still look'd back
To that dear isle 'twas leaving.
So loath we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts as on we rove,
To those we've left behind us.
When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years
We talk, with joyous seeming,—
With smiles that might as well be tears,
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While mem'ry brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then
To those we've left behind us.

8

And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle, or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flow'ry, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heav'n had but assign'd us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we've left behind us!
As trav'llers oft look back at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing,—
So, when the close of pleasure's day
To gloom hath near consign'd us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that's left behind us.

9

WHEN COLD IN THE EARTH.

When cold in the earth lies the friend thou hast loved,
Be his faults and his follies forgot by thee then;
Or, if from their slumber the veil be removed,
Weep o'er them in silence, and close it again.
And oh! if 'tis pain to remember how far
From the pathways of light he was tempted to roam,
Be it bliss to remember that thou wert the star
That arose on his darkness, and guided him home.
From thee and thy innocent beauty first came
The revealings, that taught him true love to adore,
To feel the bright presence, and turn him with shame
From the idols he blindly had knelt to before.
O'er the waves of a life, long benighted and wild,
Thou camest, like a soft golden calm o'er the sea;
And if happiness purely and glowingly smiled
On his ev'ning horizon, the light was from thee.

10

And tho', sometimes, the shades of past folly might rise,
And tho' falsehood again would allure him to stray,
He but turn'd to the glory that dwelt in those eyes,
And the folly, the falsehood, soon vanish'd away.
As the Priests of the Sun, when their altar grew dim,
At the day-beam alone could its lustre repair,
So, if virtue a moment grew languid in him,
He but flew to that smile and rekindled it there.

11

REMEMBER THEE.

Remember thee? yes, while there's life in this heart,
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art;
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy showers,
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest hours.
Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious, and free,
First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird's nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.

12

WREATH THE BOWL.

Wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Tow'rds heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Should Love amid
The wreaths be hid,
That joy, th' enchanter, brings us,
No danger fear,
While wine is near,
We'll drown him if he stings us.
Then, wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Tow'rds heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

13

'Twas nectar fed
Of old, 'tis said,
Their Junos, Joves, Apollos;
And man may brew
His nectar too,
The rich receipt's as follows:
Take wine like this,
Let looks of bliss
Around it well be blended,
Then bring Wit's beam
To warm the stream,
And there's your nectar, splendid!
So wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul,
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Tow'rds heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.
Say, why did Time
His glass sublime
Fill up with sands unsightly,
When wine, he knew,
Runs brisker through,
And sparkles far more brightly?

14

Oh, lend it us,
And, smiling thus,
The glass in two we'll sever,
Make pleasure glide
In double tide,
And fill both ends for ever!
Then wreath the bowl
With flowers of soul
The brightest Wit can find us;
We'll take a flight
Tow'rds heaven to-night,
And leave dull earth behind us.

15

WHENE'ER I SEE THOSE SMILING EYES.

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes,
So full of hope, and joy, and light,
As if no cloud could ever rise,
To dim a heav'n so purely bright—
I sigh to think how soon that brow
In grief may lose its every ray,
And that light heart, so joyous now,
Almost forget it once was gay.
For time will come with all its blights,
The ruined hope, the friend unkind,
And love, that leaves, where'er it lights,
A chill'd or burning heart behind:—
While youth, that now like snow appears,
Ere sullied by the dark'ning rain,
When once 'tis touch'd by sorrow's tears
Can never shine so bright again.

16

IF THOU'LT BE MINE.

If thou'lt be mine, the treasures of air,
Of earth, and sea, shall lie at thy feet;
Whatever in Fancy's eye looks fair,
Or in Hope's sweet music sounds most sweet,
Shall be ours—if thou wilt be mine, love!
Bright flowers shall bloom wherever we rove,
A voice divine shall talk in each stream;
The stars shall look like worlds of love,
And this earth be all one beautiful dream
In our eyes—if thou wilt be mine, love!
And thoughts, whose source is hidden and high,
Like streams, that come from heaven-ward hills,
Shall keep our hearts, like meads, that lie
To be bathed by those eternal rills,
Ever green, if thou wilt be mine, love!

17

All this and more the Spirit of Love
Can breathe o'er them, who feel his spells;
That heaven, which forms his home above,
He can make on earth, wherever he dwells,
As thou'lt own,—if thou wilt be mine, love!

18

TO LADIES' EYES.

To Ladies' eyes around, boy,
We can't refuse, we can't refuse,
Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,
'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose.
For thick as stars that lighten
Yon airy bow'rs, yon airy bow'rs,
The countless eyes that brighten
This earth of ours, this earth of ours.
But fill the cup—where'er, boy,
Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,
We're sure to find Love there, boy,
So drink them all! so drink them all!
Some looks there are so holy,
They seem but giv'n, they seem but giv'n,
As shining beacons, solely,
To light to heav'n, to light to heav'n.

19

While some—oh! ne'er believe them—
With tempting ray, with tempting ray,
Would lead us (God forgive them!)
The other way, the other way.
But fill the cup—where'er, boy,
Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,
We're sure to find Love there, boy,
So drink them all! so drink them all!
In some, as in a mirror,
Love seems pourtray'd, Love seems pourtray'd,
But shun the flattering error,
'Tis but his shade, 'tis but his shade.
Himself has fix'd his dwelling
In eyes we know, in eyes we know,
And lips—but this is telling—
So here they go! so here they go!
Fill up, fill up—where'er, boy,
Our choice may fall, our choice may fall,
We're sure to find Love there, boy,
So drink them all! so drink them all!

20

FORGET NOT THE FIELD.

Forget not the field where they perish'd,
The truest, the last of the brave,
All gone—and the bright hope we cherish'd
Gone with them, and quench'd in their grave!
Oh! could we from death but recover
Those hearts as they bounded before,
In the face of high heav'n to fight over
That combat for freedom once more;—
Could the chain for an instant be riven
Which Tyranny flung round us then,
No, 'tis not in Man, nor in Heaven,
To let Tyranny bind it again!
But 'tis past—and, tho' blazon'd in story
The name of our Victor may be,
Accurst is the march of that glory
Which treads o'er the hearts of the free.

21

Far dearer the grave or the prison,
Illumed by one patriot name,
Than the trophies of all, who have risen
On Liberty's ruins to fame.

22

THEY MAY RAIL AT THIS LIFE.

They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it,
I found it a life full of kindness and bliss;
And, until they can show me some happier planet,
More social and bright, I'll content me with this.
As long as the world has such lips and such eyes,
As before me this moment enraptured I see,
They may say what they will of their orbs in the skies,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In Mercury's star, where each moment can bring them
New sunshine and wit from the fountain on high,
Tho' the nymphs may have livelier poets to sing them ,
They've none, even there, more enamour'd than I.

23

And, as long as this harp can be waken'd to love,
And that eye its divine inspiration shall be,
They may talk as they will of their Edens above,
But this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
In that star of the west, by whose shadowy splendour,
At twilight so often we've roam'd through the dew,
There are maidens, perhaps, who have bosoms as tender,
And look, in their twilights, as lovely as you.
But tho' they were even more bright than the queen
Of that isle they inhabit in heaven's blue sea,
As I never those fair young celestials have seen,
Why—this earth is the planet for you, love, and me.
As for those chilly orbs on the verge of creation,
Where sunshine and smiles must be equally rare,
Did they want a supply of cold hearts for that station,
Heav'n knows we have plenty on earth we could spare.

24

Oh! think what a world we should have of it here,
If the haters of peace, of affection and glee,
Were to fly up to Saturn's comfortless sphere,
And leave earth to such spirits as you, love, and me.
 

Tous les habitans de Mercure sont vifs. —Pluralité des Mondes.

La Terre pourra être pour Vénus l'étoile du berger et la mère des amours, comme Vénus l'est pour nous. —Pluralité des Mondes.


25

OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER TIME!

Oh for the swords of former time!
Oh for the men who bore them,
When arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,
And tyrants crouch'd before them:
When free yet, ere courts began
With honours to enslave him,
The best honours worn by Man
Were those which Virtue gave him.
Oh for the swords, &c. &c.
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them.
When, safe built on bosoms true,
The throne was but the centre,
Round which Love a circle drew,
That Treason durst not enter.

26

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then!
Oh for the pomp that crown'd them,
When hearts and hands of freeborn men
Were all the ramparts round them!

27

ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY.

ST. SENANUS.
Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle,
“Unholy bark, ere morning smile;
“For on thy deck, though dark it be,
“A female form I see;
“And I have sworn this sainted sod
“Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod.”


28

THE LADY.
“Oh! Father, send not hence my bark,
“Through wintry winds and billows dark:
“I come with humble heart to share
“Thy morn and evening prayer;
“Nor mine the feet, oh! holy Saint,
“The brightness of thy sod to taint.”
The Lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd;
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd;
But legends hint, that had the maid
Till morning's light delay'd,
And given the saint one rosy smile,
She ne'er had left his lonely isle.

 

In a metrical life of St. Senanus, which is taken from an old Kilkenny MS., and may be found among the Acta Sanctorum Hiberniæ, we are told of his flight to the island of Scattery, and his resolution not to admit any woman of the party; he refused to receive even a sister saint, St. Cannera, whom an angel had taken to the island for the express purpose of introducing her to him. The following was the ungracious answer of Senanus, according to his poetical biographer:

Cui Præsul, quid fœminis
Commune est cum monachis?
Nec te nec ullam aliam
Admittemus in insulam.

See the Acta Sanct. Hib., page 610.

According to Dr. Ledwich, St. Senanus was no less a personage than the river Shannon; but O'Connor and other antiquarians deny the metamorphose indignantly.


29

NE'ER ASK THE HOUR.

Ne'er ask the hour—what is it to us
How Time deals out his treasures?
The golden moments lent us thus,
Are not his coin, but Pleasure's.
If counting them o'er could add to their blisses,
I'd number each glorious second:
But moments of joy are, like Lesbia's kisses,
Too quick and sweet to be reckon'd.
Then fill the cup—what is it to us
How time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.
Young Joy ne'er thought of counting hours,
Till Care, one summer's morning,
Set up, among his smiling flowers,
A dial, by way of warning.

30

But Joy loved better to gaze on the sun,
As long as its light was glowing,
Than to watch with old Care how the shadow stole on,
And how fast that light was going.
So fill the cup—what is it to us
How Time his circle measures?
The fairy hours we call up thus,
Obey no wand but Pleasure's.

31

SAIL ON, SAIL ON.

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark—
Wherever blows the welcome wind,
It cannot lead to scenes more dark,
More sad than those we leave behind.
Each wave that passes seems to say,
“Though death beneath our smile may be,
“Less cold we are, less false than they,
“Whose smiling wreck'd thy hopes and thee.”
Sail on, sail on,—through endless space—
Through calm—through tempest—stop no more:
The stormiest sea's a resting place
To him who leaves such hearts on shore.
Or—if some desert land we meet,
Where never yet false-hearted men
Profaned a world, that else were sweet,—
Then rest thee, bark, but not till then.

32

THE PARALLEL.

Yes, sad one of Sion , if closely resembling,
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up heart—
If drinking deep, deep, of the same “cup of trembling”
Could make us thy children, our parent thou art.
Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and broken,
And fall'n from her head is the once royal crown;
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath spoken,
And “while it is day yet, her sun hath gone down.”
Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of returning,
Die far from the home it were life to behold;
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their mourning,
Remember the bright things that bless'd them of old.

33

Ah, well may we call her, like thee “the Forsaken ,”
Her boldest are vanquish'd, her proudest are slaves;
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest they waken,
Have tones mid their mirth like the wind over graves!
Yet hadst thou thy vengeance—yet came there the morrow,
That shines out, at last, on the longest dark night,
When the sceptre, that smote thee with slavery and sorrow,
Was shiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy sight.
When that cup, which for others the proud Golden City
Had brimm'd full of bitterness, drench'd her own lips;
And the world she had trampled on heard, without pity,
The howl in her halls, and the cry from her ships.

34

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty came over
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust,
And, a ruin, at last, for the earthworm to cover ,
The Lady of Kingdoms lay low in the dust.
 

These verses were written after the perusal of a treatise by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were originally Jews.

“Her sun is gone down while it was yet day.” —Jer. xv. 9.

“Thou shalt no more be termed Forsaken.” —Isaiah, lxii. 4.

“How hath the oppressor ceased! the golden city ceased!” —Isaiah, xiv. 11.

“Thy pomp is brought down to the grave ------ and the worms cover thee.” —Isaiah, xiv. 4.

“Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdoms.” —Isaiah, xlvii. 5.


35

DRINK OF THIS CUP.

Drink of this cup;—you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Would you forget the dark world we are in,
Just taste of the bubble that gleams on the top of it;
But would you rise above earth, till akin
To Immortals themselves, you must drain every drop of it;
Send round the cup—for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
Never was philter form'd with such power
To charm and bewilder as this we are quaffing;
Its magic began when, in Autumn's rich hour,
A harvest of gold in the fields it stood laughing.

36

There having, by Nature's enchantment, been fill'd
With the balm and the bloom of her kindliest weather,
This wonderful juice from its core was distill'd
To enliven such hearts as are here brought together.
Then drink of the cup—you'll find there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.
And though, perhaps—but breathe it to no one—
Like liquor the witch brews at midnight so awful,
This philter in secret was first taught to flow on,
Yet 'tis n't less potent for being unlawful.
And, ev'n though it taste of the smoke of that flame,
Which in silence extracted its virtue forbidden—
Fill up—there's a fire in some hearts I could name,
Which may work too its charm, though as lawless and hidden.
So drink of the cup—for oh there's a spell in
Its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality;
Talk of the cordial that sparkled for Helen!
Her cup was a fiction, but this is reality.

37

THE FORTUNE-TELLER.

Down in the valley come meet me to-night,
And I'll tell you your fortune truly
As ever 'twas told, by the new-moon's light,
To a young maiden, shining as newly.
But, for the world, let no one be nigh,
Lest haply the stars should deceive me;
Such secrets between you and me and the sky
Should never go farther, believe me.
If at that hour the heav'ns be not dim,
My science shall call up before you
A male apparition,—the image of him
Whose destiny 'tis to adore you.
And if to that phantom you'll be kind,
So fondly around you he'll hover,
You'll hardly, my dear, any difference find
'Twixt him and a true living lover.

38

Down at your feet, in the pale moonlight,
He'll kneel, with a warmth of devotion—
An ardour, of which such an innocent sprite
You'd scarcely believe had a notion.
What other thoughts and events may arise,
As in destiny's book I've not seen them,
Must only be left to the stars and your eyes
To settle, ere morning, between them.

39

OH, YE DEAD!

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead! whom we know by the light you give
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you move like men who live,
Why leave you thus your graves,
In far off fields and waves,
Where the worm and the sea-bird only know your bed,
To haunt this spot where all
Those eyes that wept your fall,
And the hearts that wail'd you, like your own, lie dead?
It is true, it is true, we are shadows cold and wan;
And the fair and the brave whom we lov'd on earth are gone;

40

But still thus ev'n in death,
So sweet the living breath
Of the fields and the flow'rs in our youth we wander'd o'er,
That ere, condemn'd, we go
To freeze 'mid Hecla's snow,
We would taste it awhile, and think we live once more!
 

Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in foreign lands walk about and converse with those they meet, like living people. If asked why they do not return to their homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and disappear immediately.


41

O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS.

Of all the fair months, that round the sun
In light-link'd dance their circles run,
Sweet May, shine thou for me;
For still, when thy earliest beams arise,
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies,
Sweet May, returns to me.
Of all the bright haunts, where daylight leaves
Its lingering smile on golden eves,
Fair Lake, thou'rt dearest to me;
For when the last April sun grows dim,
Thy Naïads prepare his steed for him
Who dwells, bright Lake, in thee.

42

Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore,
White Steed, most joy to thee;
Who still, with the first young glance of spring,
From under that glorious lake dost bring
My love, my chief, to me.
While, white as the sail some bark unfurls,
When newly launch'd, thy long mane curls,
Fair Steed, as white and free;
And spirits, from all the lake's deep bowers,
Glide o'er the blue wave scattering flowers,
Around my love and thee.

43

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die,
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie,
Most sweet that death will be,
Which, under the next May evening's light,
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight,
Dear love, I'll die for thee.
 

The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of Killarney, or more fully detailed in Derrick's Letters. For many years after his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the lake on his favourite white horse, to the sound of sweet unearthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maidens, who flung wreaths of delicate spring flowers in his path.

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw herself into the lake.

The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come on a windy day, crested with foam, “O'Donohue's white horses.”


44

ECHO.

How sweet the answer Echo makes
To music at night,
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,
And far away, o'er lawns and lakes,
Goes answering light.
Yet Love hath echoes truer far,
And far more sweet,
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star,
Of horn or lute, or soft guitar,
The songs repeat.
'Tis when the sigh, in youth sincere,
And only then,—
The sigh that's breath'd for one to hear,
Is by that one, that only dear,
Breathed back again!

45

OH BANQUET NOT.

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers,
Where Youth resorts, but come to me:
For mine's a garden of faded flowers,
More fit for sorrow, for age, and thee.
And there we shall have our feast of tears,
And many a cup in silence pour;
Our guests, the shades of former years,
Our toasts, to lips that bloom no more.
There, while the myrtle's withering boughs
Their lifeless leaves around us shed,
We'll brim the bowl to broken vows,
To friends long lost, the changed, the dead.
Or, while some blighted laurel waves
Its branches o'er the dreary spot,
We'll drink to those neglected graves,
Where valour sleeps, unnamed, forgot

46

THEE, THEE, ONLY THEE.

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking,
The night's long hours still find me thinking
Of thee, thee, only thee.
When friends are met, and goblets crown'd,
And smiles are near, that once enchanted,
Unreach'd by all that sunshine round,
My soul, like some dark spot, is haunted
By thee, thee, only thee.
Whatever in fame's high path could waken
My spirit once, is now forsaken
For thee, thee, only thee.
Like shores, by which some headlong bark
To th' ocean hurries, resting never,
Life's scenes go by me, bright or dark,
I know not, heed not, hastening ever
To thee, thee, only thee.

47

I have not a joy but of thy bringing,
And pain itself seems sweet when springing
From thee, thee, only thee.
Like spells, that nought on earth can break,
Till lips, that know the charm, have spoken,
This heart, howe'er the world may wake
Its grief, its scorn, can but be broken
By thee, thee, only thee.

48

SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT.

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who first gave
To our country a name, is withdrawn from all eyes?
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the grave,
Where the first—where the last of her Patriots lies?
No—faint tho' the death-song may fall from his lips,
Tho' his Harp, like his soul, may with shadows be crost,
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse,
And proclaim to the world what a star hath been lost ;—
What a union of all the affections and powers
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, refined,
Was embraced in that spirit—whose centre was ours,
While its mighty circumference circled mankind.

49

Oh, who that loves Erin, or who that can see,
Through the waste of her annals, that epoch sublime—
Like a pyramid raised in the desert—where he
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all time;
That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the gloom
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with his soul,
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her doom,
And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liberty's goal?
Who, that ever hath heard him—hath drank at the source
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own,
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, and the force,
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit are shown?
An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave
Wander'd free and triumphant, with thoughts that shone through,
As clear as the brook's “stone of lustre,” and gave,
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too.

50

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free from the crowd,
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread
'Mong the trees which a nation had giv'n, and which bow'd,
As if each brought a new civic crown for his head—
Is there one, who hath thus, through his orbit of life
But at distance observed him—through glory, through blame,
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of strife,
Whether shining or clouded, still high and the same,—
Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but mourns
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such glory is shrined—
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong the urns
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of mankind!
 

These lines were written on the death of our great patriot, Grattan, in the year 1820. It is only the two first verses that are either intended or fitted to be sung.


51

OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING.

Oh, the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing!
When hearts are all high beating,
And the trumpet's voice repeating
That song, whose breath
May lead to death,
But never to retreating.
Oh the sight entrancing,
When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing.
Yet, 'tis not helm or feather—
For ask yon despot, whether

52

His plumed bands
Could bring such hands
And hearts as ours together.
Leave pomps to those who need 'em—
Give man but heart and freedom,
And proud he braves
The gaudiest slaves
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em.
The sword may pierce the beaver,
Stone walls in time may sever,
'Tis mind alone,
Worth steel and stone,
That keeps men free for ever.
Oh that sight entrancing,
When the morning's beam is glancing,
O'er files array'd
With helm and blade,
And in Freedom's cause advancing!

53

SWEET INNISFALLEN.

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,—
To feel how fair shall long be mine.
Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.
'Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care—
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tost,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

54

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.
For, though unrivall'd still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But thus in shadow, seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest—
Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,
Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.
Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears—
For tho' but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heav'n's own glance when it appears.
Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine—
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

55

'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS.

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought—
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glenà's wooded shore.
He listen'd—while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
And the echoes sung back from their full mountain quire,
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire.

56

It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died here,
Was again brought to life in some airier sphere,
Some heav'n in those hills, where the soul of the strain
That had ceased upon earth was awaking again!
Oh forgive, if, while listening to music, whose breath
Seem'd to circle his name with a charm against death,
He should feel a proud Spirit within him proclaim,
“Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of Fame:
“Even so, tho' thy memory should now die away,
“'Twill be caught up again in some happier day,
“And the hearts and the voices of Erin prolong,
“Through the answering Future, thy name and thy song.”
 

Written during a visit to Lord Kenmare, at Killarney.


57

FAIREST! PUT ON AWHILE.

Fairest! put on awhile
These pinions of light I bring thee,
And o'er thy own green isle
In fancy let me wing thee.
Never did Ariel's plume,
At golden sunset hover
O'er scenes so full of bloom,
As I shall waft thee over.
Fields, where the Spring delays
And fearlessly meets the ardour
Of the warm Summer's gaze,
With only her tears to guard her.
Rocks, through myrtle boughs
In grace majestic frowning,
Like some bold warrior's brows
That Love hath just been crowning.

58

Islets, so freshly fair,
That never hath bird come nigh them,
But from his course thro' air
He hath been won down by them ;—
Types, sweet maid, of thee,
Whose look, whose blush inviting,
Never did Love yet see
From Heav'n, without alighting.
Lakes, where the pearl lies hid ,
And caves, where the gem is sleeping,
Bright as the tears thy lid
Lets fall in lonely weeping.
Glens , where Ocean comes,
To 'scape the wild wind's rancour,

59

And Harbours, worthiest homes
Where Freedom's fleet can anchor.
Then, if, while scenes so grand,
So beautiful, shine before thee,
Pride for thy own dear land
Should haply be stealing o'er thee,
Oh, let grief come first,
O'er pride itself victorious—
Thinking how man hath curst
What Heaven had made so glorious!
 

In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), Dr. Keating says, “There is a certain attractive virtue in the soil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over it, and obliges them to light upon the rock.”

“Nennius, a British writer of the ninth century, mentions the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he says, hung them behind their ears: and this we find confirmed by a present made A. C. 1094, by Gilbert Bishop of Limerick, to Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quantity of Irish pearls.” —O'Halloran.

Glengariff.


60

QUICK! WE HAVE BUT A SECOND.

Quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!
Grasp the pleasure that's flying,
For oh, not Orpheus' strain
Could keep sweet hours from dying,
Or charm them to life again.
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round the cup, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!
See the glass, how it flushes,
Like some young Hebe's lip,
And half meets thine, and blushes
That thou shouldst delay to sip.

61

Shame, oh shame unto thee,
If ever thou see'st that day,
When a cup or lip shall woo thee,
And turn untouch'd away!
Then, quick! we have but a second,
Fill round, fill round, while you may;
For Time, the churl, hath beckon'd,
And we must away, away!

62

AND DOTH NOT A MEETING LIKE THIS.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends,
For all the long years I've been wand'ring away—
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day?
Though haply o'er some of your brows, as o'er mine,
The snow-fall of time may be stealing—what then?
Like Alps in the sunset, thus lighted by wine,
We'll wear the gay tinge of youth's roses again.
What soften'd remembrances come o'er the heart,
In gazing on those we've been lost to so long!
The sorrows, the joys, of which once they were part,
Still round them, like visions of yesterday, throng,
As letters some hand hath invisibly traced,
When held to the flame will steal out on the sight,
So many a feeling, that long seem'd effaced,
The warmth of a moment like this brings to light.

63

And thus, as in memory's bark we shall glide,
To visit the scenes of our boyhood anew,
Tho' oft we may see, looking down on the tide,
The wreck of full many a hope shining through;
Yet still, as in fancy we point to the flowers,
That once made a garden of all the gay shore,
Deceived for a moment, we'll think them still ours,
And breathe the fresh air of life's morning once more.
So brief our existence, a glimpse, at the most,
Is all we can have of the few we hold dear;
And oft even joy is unheeded and lost,
For want of some heart, that could echo it, near.
Ah, well may we hope, when this short life is gone,
To meet in some world of more permanent bliss,
For a smile, or a grasp of the hand, hast'ning on,
Is all we enjoy of each other in this.

64

But, come, the more rare such delights to the heart,
The more we should welcome and bless them the more;
They're ours, when we meet,—they are lost when we part,
Like birds that bring summer, and fly when 'tis o'er.
Thus circling the cup, hand in hand, ere we drink,
Let Sympathy pledge us, thro' pleasure, thro' pain,
That, fast as a feeling but touches one link,
Her magic shall send it direct thro' the chain.
 
Jours charmans, quand je songe à vos heureux instans,
Je pense remonter le fleuve de mes ans;
Et mon cœur enchanté sur sa rive fleurie
Respire encore l'air pur du matin de la vie.

The same thought has been happily expressed by my friend Mr. Washington Irving, in his Bracebridge Hall, vol. i. p. 213. The sincere pleasure which I feel in calling this gentleman my friend, is much enhanced by the reflection that he is too good an American, to have admitted me so readily to such a distinction, if he had not known that my feelings towards the great and free country that gave him birth, have been long such as every real lover of the liberty and happiness of the human race must entertain.


65

THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone,
A youth, whose moments had calmly flown,
Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,
He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite.
As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er
The golden sands of that island shore,
A foot-print sparkled before his sight—
'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite!
Beside a fountain, one sunny day,
As bending over the stream he lay,
There peep'd down o'er him two eyes of light,
And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite.
He turn'd, but, lo, like a startled bird,
That spirit fled!—and the youth but heard
Sweet music, such as marks the flight
Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite.

66

One night, still haunted by that bright look,
The boy, bewilder'd, his pencil took,
And, guided only by memory's light,
Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite.
“Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” cried
A voice, low whisp'ring by his side,
“Now turn and see,”—here the youth's delight
Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite.
“Of all the Spirits of land and sea,”
Then rapt he murmur'd, “there's none like thee,
“And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light
“In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite!”

67

AS VANQUISH'D ERIN.

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside
The Boyne's ill-fated river,
She saw where Discord, in the tide,
Had dropp'd his loaded quiver.
“Lie hid,” she cried, “ye venom'd darts,
“Where mortal eye may shun you;
“Lie hid—the stain of manly hearts,
“That bled for me, is on you.”
But vain her wish, her weeping vain,—
As Time too well hath taught her—
Each year the Fiend returns again,
And dives into that water;
And brings, triumphant, from beneath
His shafts of desolation,
And sends them, wing'd with worse than death,
Through all her madd'ning nation.

68

Alas for her who sits and mourns,
Ev'n now, beside that river—
Unwearied still the Fiend returns,
And stored is still his quiver.
“When will this end, ye Powers of Good?”
She weeping asks for ever;
But only hears, from out that flood,
The Demon answer, “Never!”

69

DESMOND'S SONG.

By the Feal's wave benighted,
No star in the skies,
To thy door by Love lighted,
I first saw those eyes.
Some voice whisper'd o'er me,
As the threshold I crost,
There was ruin before me,
If I loved, I was lost.
Love came, and brought sorrow
Too soon in his train;
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow
'Twere welcome again.

70

Though misery's full measure
My portion should be,
I would drain it with pleasure,
If pour'd out by thee.
You, who call it dishonour
To bow to this flame,
If you've eyes, look but on her,
And blush while you blame.
Hath the pearl less whiteness
Because of its birth?
Hath the violet less brightness
For growing near earth?
No—Man for his glory
To ancestry flies;
But Woman's bright story
Is told in her eyes.
While the Monarch but traces
Thro' mortals his line,
Beauty, born of the Graces,
Ranks next to Divine!
 

“Thomas, the heir of the Desmond family, had accidentally been so engaged in the chase, that he was benighted near Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Feal, in the house of one of his dependents, called Mac Cormac. Catherine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the Earl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his followers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love as an unpardonable degradation of his family.” —Leland, vol. ii.


71

THEY KNOW NOT MY HEART.

They know not my heart, who believe there can be
One stain of this earth in its feelings for thee;
Who think, while I see thee in beauty's young hour,
As pure as the morning's first dew on the flow'r,
I could harm what I love,—as the sun's wanton ray
But smiles on the dew-drop to waste it away.
No—beaming with light as those young features are,
There's a light round thy heart which is lovelier far:
It is not that cheek—'tis the soul dawning clear
Thro' its innocent blush makes thy beauty so dear;
As the sky we look up to, though glorious and fair,
Is look'd up to the more, because Heaven lies there!

72

I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE.

I wish I was by that dim Lake ,
Where sinful souls their farewell take
Of this vain world, and half-way lie
In death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
Deceitful world, my home should be;

73

Where, come what might of gloom and pain,
False hope should ne'er deceive again.
The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
Of unseen waters falling round;
The dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,
Like man, unquiet ev'n when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
My soul from life's deluding scene,
And turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,
Like willows, downward tow'rds the tomb.
As they, who to their couch at night
Would win repose, first quench the light,
So must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
Unmoved by either joy or woe,
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
Within their current turns to stone.
 

These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. “In the midst of these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay a lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands; but one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Purgatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims from almost every country in Europe.”

“It was,” as the same writer tells us, “one of the most dismal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind, however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriate to such gloomy scenes.”

—Strictures on the Ecclesiastical and Literary History of Ireland.

74

SHE SUNG OF LOVE.

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre
The rosy rays of evening fell,
As if to feed with their soft fire
The soul within that trembling shell.
The same rich light hung o'er her cheek,
And play'd around those lips that sung
And spoke, as flowers would sing and speak,
If Love could lend their leaves a tongue.
But soon the West no longer burn'd,
Each rosy ray from heav'n withdrew;
And, when to gaze again I turn'd,
The minstrel's form seem'd fading too.
As if her light and heav'n's were one,
The glory all had left that frame;
And from her glimmering lips the tone,
As from a parting spirit, came.

The thought here was suggested by some beautiful lines in Mr. Rogers's Poem of Human Life, beginning—

”Now in the glimmering, dying light she grows
Less and less earthly.”

I would quote the entire passage, did I not fear to put my own humble imitation of it out of countenance.



75

Who ever loved, but had the thought
That he and all he loved must part?
Fill'd with this fear, I flew and caught
The fading image to my heart—
And cried, “Oh Love! is this thy doom?
“Oh light of youth's resplendent day!
“Must ye then lose your golden bloom,
“And thus, like sunshine, die away?”

76

SING—SING—MUSIC WAS GIVEN.

Sing—sing—Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
Beauty may boast of her eyes and her cheeks,
But Love from the lips his true archery wings;
And she, who but feathers the dart when she speaks,
At once sends it home to the heart when she sings.
Then sing—sing—Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.
When Love, rock'd by his mother,
Lay sleeping as calm as slumber could make him,
“Hush, hush,” said Venus, “no other
“Sweet voice but his own is worthy to wake him.”

77

Dreaming of music he slumber'd the while
Till faint from his lip a soft melody broke,
And Venus, enchanted, look'd on with a smile,
While Love to his own sweet singing awoke.
Then sing—sing—Music was given,
To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving;
Souls here, like planets in Heaven,
By harmony's laws alone are kept moving.

78

THOUGH HUMBLE THE BANQUET.

Though humble the banquet to which I invite thee,
Thou'lt find there the best a poor bard can command:
Eyes, beaming with welcome, shall throng round, to light thee,
And Love serve the feast with his own willing hand.
And though Fortune may seem to have turn'd from the dwelling
Of him thou regardest her favouring ray,
Thou wilt find there a gift, all her treasures excelling,
Which, proudly he feels, hath ennobled his way.
'Tis that freedom of mind, which no vulgar dominion
Can turn from the path a pure conscience approves;
Which, with hope in the heart, and no chain on the pinion,
Holds upwards its course to the light which it loves.

79

'Tis this makes the pride of his humble retreat,
And, with this, though of all other treasures bereaved,
The breeze of his garden to him is more sweet
Than the costliest incense that Pomp e'er received.
Then, come,—if a board so untempting hath power
To win thee from grandeur, its best shall be thine;
And there's one, long the light of the bard's happy bower,
Who, smiling, will blend her bright welcome with mine.

80

SING, SWEET HARP.

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me
Some song of ancient days,
Whose sounds, in this sad memory,
Long buried dreams shall raise;—
Some lay that tells of vanish'd fame,
Whose light once round us shone;
Of noble pride, now turn'd to shame,
And hopes for ever gone.—
Sing, sad Harp, thus sing to me;
Alike our doom is cast,
Both lost to all but memory,
We live but in the past.
How mournfully the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh,
As if it sought some echo there
Of voices long gone by;—

81

Of Chieftains, now forgot, who seem'd
The foremost then in fame;
Of Bards who, once immortal deem'd,
Now sleep without a name.—
In vain, sad Harp, the midnight air
Among thy chords doth sigh;
In vain it seeks an echo there
Of voices long gone by.
Could'st thou but call those spirits round,
Who once, in bower and hall,
Sate listening to thy magic sound,
Now mute and mouldering all;—
But, no; they would but wake to weep
Their children's slavery;
Then leave them in their dreamless sleep,
The dead, at least, are free!—
Hush, hush, sad Harp, that dreary tone,
That knell of Freedom's day;
Or, listening to its death-like moan,
Let me, too, die away.

82

SONG OF THE BATTLE EVE.

Time—the Ninth Century.
To-morrow, comrade, we
On the battle-plain must be,
There to conquer, or both lie low!
The morning star is up,—
But there's wine still in the cup,
And we'll take another quaff, ere we go, boy, go;
We'll take another quaff, ere we go.
'Tis true, in manliest eyes
A passing tear will rise,
When we think of the friends we leave lone;
But what can wailing do?
See, our goblet's weeping too!
With its tears we'll chase away our own, boy, our own;
With its tears we'll chase away our own.

83

But daylight's stealing on;—
The last that o'er us shone
Saw our children around us play;
The next—ah! where shall we
And those rosy urchins be?
But—no matter—grasp thy sword and away, boy, away;
No matter—grasp thy sword and away!
Let those, who brook the chain
Of Saxon or of Dane,
Ignobly by their fire-sides stay;
One sigh to home be given,
One heartfelt prayer to heaven,
Then, for Erin and her cause, boy, hurra! hurra! hurra!
Then, for Erin and her cause, hurra!

84

THE WANDERING BARD.

What life like that of the bard can be,—
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,—
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some play-ground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;—
If dimm'd the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!
Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long pass'd and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.—

85

Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him,
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,—
Young stars that never die!
Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,—
For, though he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,—
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!

86

ALONE IN CROWDS TO WANDER ON.

Alone in crowds to wander on,
And feel that all the charm is gone
Which voices dear and eyes beloved
Shed round us once, where'er we roved—
This, this the doom must be
Of all who've loved, and lived to see
The few bright things they thought would stay
For ever near them, die away.
Tho' fairer forms around us throng.
Their smiles to others all belong,
And want that charm which dwells alone
Round those the fond heart calls its own.
Where, where the sunny brow?
The long-known voice—where are they now?
Thus ask I still, nor ask in vain,
The silence answers all too plain.

87

Oh, what is Fancy's magic worth,
If all her art cannot call forth
One bliss like those we felt of old
From lips now mute, and eyes now cold?
No, no,—her spell is vain,—
As soon could she bring back again
Those eyes themselves from out the grave,
As wake again one bliss they gave.

88

I'VE A SECRET TO TELL THEE.

I've a secret to tell thee, but hush! not here,—
Oh! not where the world its vigil keeps:
I'll seek, to whisper it in thine ear,
Some shore where the Spirit of Silence sleeps;
Where summer's wave unmurmuring dies,
Nor fay can hear the fountain's gush;
Where, if but a note her night-bird sighs,
The rose saith, chidingly, “Hush, sweet, hush!”
There, amid the deep silence of that hour,
When stars can be heard in ocean dip,
Thyself shall, under some rosy bower,
Sit mute, with thy finger on thy lip:
Like him, the boy , who born among
The flowers that on the Nile-stream blush,
Sits ever thus,—his only song
To earth and heaven, “Hush, all, hush!”
 

The God of Silence, thus pictured by the Egyptians.


89

SONG OF INNISFAIL.

They came from a land beyond the sea,
And now o'er the western main
Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,
From the sunny land of Spain.
“Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams,
“Our destin'd home or grave?”
Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams,
They swept the Atlantic wave.
And, lo, where afar o'er ocean shines
A sparkle of radiant green,
As though in that deep lay emerald mines,
Whose light thro' the wave was seen.

90

“'Tis Innisfail —'tis Innisfail!”
Rings o'er the echoing sea;
While, bending to heav'n, the warriors hail
That home of the brave and free.
Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave,
Where now their Day-God's eye
A look of such sunny omen gave
As lighted up sea and sky.
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea,
Nor tear o'er leaf or sod,
When first on their Isle of Destiny
Our great forefathers trod.
 

“Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was Ireland), and there inhabit.” —Keating.

The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland.


91

THE NIGHT DANCE.

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
Obey the mute call, and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes—the gayest, the lightest,
That ever took wing, when heav'n look'd brightest!
Again! Again!
Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirr'd,
And statues themselves all start into dancers!
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,—
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And list'ning to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!—to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding—
Again! Again!

92

Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!

93

THERE ARE SOUNDS OF MIRTH.

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say “Come,” in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at the sweet lay:
Nor paus'd to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.
And, see—the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard, whom not the world in arms
Could bend to tyranny's rude controul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

94

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And,—their laughing eyes, the while, concealing,—
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race ,
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.
 

The Rocking Stones of the Druids, some of which no force is able to dislodge from their stations.


95

OH! ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRANMORE.

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore,
How oft I dream of thee,
And of those days when, by thy shore,
I wander'd young and free.
Full many a path I've tried, since then,
Through pleasure's flowery maze,
But ne'er could find the bliss again
I felt in those sweet days.
How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs
At sunny morn I've stood,
With heart as bounding as the skiffs
That danced along thy flood;
Or, when the western wave grew bright
With daylight's parting wing,
Have sought that Eden in its light
Which dreaming poets sing ;—

96

That Eden where th' immortal brave
Dwell in a land serene,—
Whose bow'rs beyond the shining wave,
At sunset, oft are seen.
Ah dream too full of sadd'ning truth!
Those mansions o'er the main
Are like the hopes I built in youth,—
As sunny and as vain!
 

“The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, in a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they relate a number of romantic stories.” —Beaufort's Ancient Topography of Ireland.


97

LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE.

Lay his sword by his side ,—it hath served him too well
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.
Fellow-lab'rers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave,—
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.
Yet pause—for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;—
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, “Burst your chains!”

98

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
“Tho' the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
“Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep,—
“It hath victory's life in it yet!
“Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
“Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
“Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,
“Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.
“But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use
“Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,—
“Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
“Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!”
 

It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroes along with them.


99

OH, COULD WE DO WITH THIS WORLD OF OURS.

Oh, could we do with this world of ours
As thou dost with thy garden bowers,
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,
What a heaven on earth we'd make it!
So bright a dwelling should be our own,
So warranted free from sigh or frown,
That angels soon would be coming down,
By the week or month to take it.
Like those gay flies that wing thro' air,
And in themselves a lustre bear,
A stock of light, still ready there,
Whenever they wish to use it;
So, in this world I'd make for thee,
Our hearts should all like fire-flies be,
And the flash of wit or poesy
Break forth whenever we choose it.

100

While ev'ry joy that glads our sphere
Hath still some shadow hovering near,
In this new world of ours, my dear,
Such shadows will all be omitted:—
Unless they're like that graceful one,
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun,
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon
Each spot where it hath flitted!

101

THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING.

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall ,
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining,
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall,
Where his sword hangs idly shining.
When, hark! that shout
From the vale without,—
“Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is nigh!”
Ev'ry Chief starts up
From his foaming cup,
And “To battle, to battle!” is the Finian's cry.

102

The minstrels have seized their harps of gold,
And they sing such thrilling numbers,—
'Tis like the voice of the Brave, of old,
Breaking forth from their place of slumbers!
Spear to buckler rang,
As the minstrels sang,
And the Sun-burst o'er them floated wide;
While rememb'ring the yoke
Which their fathers broke,
“On for liberty, for liberty!” the Finians cried.
Like clouds of the night the Northmen came,
O'er the valley of Almhin lowering;
While onward moved, in the light of its fame,
That banner of Erin, towering.
With the mingling shock
Rung cliff and rock,
While, rank on rank, the invaders die:
And the shout, that last
O'er the dying pass'd,
Was “victory! victory!”—the Finian's cry.
 

The Palace of Fin Mac-Cumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) in Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has retained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the county of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated National Militia of Ireland, which this Chief commanded. The introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism common to most of the Finian and Ossianic legends.

The name given to the banner of the Irish.


103

THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er,
Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sorrows then wore;
And ev'n of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,
Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom remains.
Say, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy heart,
That still the dark brand is there, tho' chainless thou art;
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy spirit long burn'd,
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath turn'd?
Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence led,
With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud was thy tread!
Ah, better thou ne'er had'st lived that summit to gain,
Or died in the porch, than thus dishonour the fane.

104

FROM THIS HOUR THE PLEDGE IS GIVEN.

From this hour the pledge is given,
From this hour my soul is thine:
Come what will, from earth or heaven,
Weal or woe, thy fate be mine.
When the proud and great stood by thee,
None dared thy rights to spurn;
And if now they're false and fly thee,
Shall I, too, basely turn?
No;—whate'er the fires that try thee,
In the same this heart shall burn.
Tho' the sea, where thou embarkest,
Offers now no friendly shore,
Light may come where all looks darkest,
Hope hath life, when life seems o'er.
And, of those past ages dreaming,
When glory deck'd thy brow,

105

Oft I fondly think, though seeming
So fall'n and clouded now,
Thou'lt again break forth, all beaming,—
None so bright, so blest as thou!

106

SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS.

Silence is in our festal halls,—
Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;
In vain on thee sad Erin calls,
Her minstrel's voice responds no more;—
All silent as th' Eolian shell
Sleeps at the close of some bright day,
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell
At sunny morn, hath died away.
Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long,
Awaked by music's spell, shall rise;
For, name so link'd with deathless song
Partakes its charm and never dies:
And ev'n within the holy fane,
When music wafts the soul to heaven,
One thought to him, whose earliest strain
Was echoed there, shall long be given.

107

But, where is now the cheerful day,
The social night, when, by thy side,
He, who now weaves this parting lay,
His skilless voice with thine allied;
And sung those songs whose every tone,
When bard and minstrel long have past,
Shall still, in sweetness all their own,
Embalm'd by fame, undying last.
Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame,—
Or, if thy bard have shared the crown,
From thee the borrow'd glory came,
And at thy feet is now laid down.
Enough, if Freedom still inspire
His latest song, and still there be,
As evening closes round his lyre,
One ray upon its chords from thee.
 

It is hardly necessary, perhaps, to inform the reader, that these lines are meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the memory of an old and valued colleague in this work, Sir John Stevenson.


147

NATIONAL AIRS.


151

A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP.

[_]

(Spanish Air.)

A Temple to Friendship,” said Laura, enchanted,
“I'll build in this garden,—the thought is divine!”
Her temple was built, and she now only wanted
An image of Friendship to place on the shrine.
She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her
A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent;
But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer
Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

152

“Oh! never,” she cried, “could I think of enshrining
“An image, whose looks are so joyless and dim;—
“But yon little god, upon roses reclining,
“We'll make, if you please, Sir, a Friendship of him.”
So the bargain was struck; with the little god laden
She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove:
“Farewell,” said the sculptor, “you're not the first maiden
“Who came but for Friendship and took away Love.”
 

The thought is taken from a song by Le Prieur, called “La Statue de l'Amitié.”


153

FLOW ON, THOU SHINING RIVER.

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

Flow on, thou shining river;
But, ere thou reach the sea,
Seek Ella's bower, and give her
The wreaths I fling o'er thee.
And tell her thus, if she'll be mine,
The current of our lives shall be,
With joys along their course to shine,
Like those sweet flowers on thee.
But if, in wandering thither,
Thou find'st she mocks my prayer,
Then leave those wreaths to wither
Upon the cold bank there;
And tell her thus, when youth is o'er,
Her lone and loveless charms shall be
Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,
Like those sweet flowers from thee.

154

ALL THAT'S BRIGHT MUST FADE.

[_]

(Indian Air.)

All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made,
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;—
The flower that drops in springing;—
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!
Who would seek or prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?

155

Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be bless'd with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,—
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!

156

SO WARMLY WE MET.

[_]

(Hungarian Air.)

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted,
That which was the sweeter ev'n I could not tell,—
That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,
Or that tear of passion, which bless'd our farewell.
To meet was a heaven, and to part thus another,—
Our joy and our sorrow seem'd rivals in bliss;
Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker each other
In smiles and in tears, than that moment to this.
The first was like day-break, new, sudden, delicious,—
The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled up yet;
The last like the farewell of daylight, more precious,
More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearer its set.
Our meeting, though happy, was tinged by a sorrow
To think that such happiness could not remain;
While our parting, though sad, gave a hope that to-morrow
Would bring back the bless'd hour of meeting again.

157

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

[_]

(Air.—The Bells of St. Petersburgh.)

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells,
Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,
When last I heard their soothing chime.
Those joyous hours are past away;
And many a heart, that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.
And so 'twill be when I am gone;
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

158

SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES.

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee ,
Which now so sweetly thy heart employ;
Should the cold world come to wake thee
From all thy visions of youth and joy;
Should the gay friends, for whom thou wouldst banish
Him who once thought thy young heart his own,
All, like spring birds, falsely vanish,
And leave thy winter unheeded and lone;—
Oh! 'tis then that he thou hast slighted
Would come to cheer thee, when all seem'd o'er;
Then the truant, lost and blighted,
Would to his bosom be taken once more.

159

Like that dear bird we both can remember,
Who left us while summer shone round,
But, when chill'd by bleak December,
On our threshold a welcome still found.
 

This is one of the many instances among my lyrical poems, —though the above, it must be owned, is an extreme case,— where the metre has been necessarily sacrificed to the structure of the air.


160

REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY.

[_]

(Italian Air.)

Reason, and Folly, and Beauty, they say,
Went on a party of pleasure one day:
Folly play'd
Around the maid,
The bells of his cap rung merrily out;
While Reason took
To his sermon-book—
Oh! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt,
Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt.
Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage,
Turn'd for a moment to Reason's dull page,
Till Folly said,
“Look here, sweet maid!”—
The sight of his cap brought her back to herself;
While Reason read
His leaves of lead,
With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!
No,—no one to mind him, poor sensible elf!

161

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap;
Had he that on, he her heart might entrap—
“There it is,”
Quoth Folly, “old quiz!”
(Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said,)
“Under the sun
“There's no such fun,
“As Reason with my cap and bells on his head,
“Reason with my cap and bells on his head!”
But Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore,
That Beauty now liked him still less than before;
While Folly took
Old Reason's book,
And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton,
That Beauty vow'd
(Though not aloud),
She liked him still better in that than his own,
Yes,—liked him still better in that than his own.

162

FARE THEE WELL, THOU LOVELY ONE!

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

Fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.
Thy words, whate'er their flatt'ring spell,
Could scarce have thus deceived;
But eyes that acted truth so well
Were sure to be believed.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.
Yet those eyes look constant still,
True as stars they keep their light;
Still those cheeks their pledge fulfil
Of blushing always bright.

163

'Tis only on thy changeful heart
The blame of falsehood lies;
Love lives in every other part,
But there, alas! he dies.
Then, fare thee well, thou lovely one!
Lovely still, but dear no more;
Once his soul of truth is gone,
Love's sweet life is o'er.

164

DOST THOU REMEMBER.

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

Dost thou remember that place so lonely,
A place for lovers, and lovers only,
Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?
When, as the moonbeam, that trembled o'er thee,
Illumed thy blushes, I knelt before thee,
And read my hope's sweet triumph in those eyes?
Then, then, while closely heart was drawn to heart,
Love bound us—never, never more to part!
And when I call'd thee by names the dearest
That love could fancy, the fondest, nearest,—
“My life, my only life!” among the rest;
In those sweet accents that still inthral me,
Thou saidst, “Ah! wherefore thy life thus call me?
“Thy soul, thy soul's the name that I love best;
“For life soon passes,—but how bless'd to be
“That Soul which never, never parts from thee!”
 

The thought in this verse is borrowed from the original Portuguese words.


165

OH, COME TO ME WHEN DAYLIGHT SETS.

[_]

(Venetian Air.)

Oh, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
When Mirth's awake, and Love begins,
Beneath that glancing ray,
With sound of lutes and mandolins,
To steal young hearts away.
Then, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
Oh, then's the hour for those who love,
Sweet, like thee and me;
When all's so calm below, above,
In Heav'n and o'er the sea.

166

When maidens sing sweet barcarolles ,
And Echo sings again
So sweet, that all with ears and souls
Should love and listen then.
So, come to me when daylight sets;
Sweet! then come to me,
When smoothly go our gondolets
O'er the moonlight sea.
 

Barcarolles, sorte de chansons en langue Vénitienne, que chantent les gondoliers à Venise. —Rousseau, Dictionnaire de Musique.


167

OFT, IN THE STILLY NIGHT.

[_]

(Scotch Air.)

Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Fond Memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood's years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm'd and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
When I remember all
The friends, so link'd together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;

168

I feel like one,
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere Slumber's chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

169

HARK! THE VESPER HYMN IS STEALING.

[_]

(Russian Air.)

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing
O'er the waters soft and clear;
Nearer yet and nearer pealing,
And now bursts upon the ear:
Jubilate, Amen.
Farther now, now farther stealing,
Soft it fades upon the ear:
Jubilate, Amen.
Now, like moonlight waves retreating
To the shore, it dies along;
Now, like angry surges meeting,
Breaks the mingled tide of song:
Jubilate, Amen.
Hush! again, like waves, retreating
To the shore, it dies along:
Jubilate, Amen.

170

LOVE AND HOPE.

[_]

(Swiss Air.)

At morn, beside yon summer sea,
Young Hope and Love reclined;
But scarce had noon-tide come, when he
Into his bark leap'd smilingly,
And left poor Hope behind.
“I go,” said Love, “to sail awhile
“Across this sunny main;”
And then so sweet his parting smile,
That Hope, who never dreamt of guile,
Believed he'd come again.
She linger'd there till evening's beam
Along the waters lay;
And o'er the sands, in thoughtful dream,
Oft traced his name, which still the stream
As often wash'd away.

171

At length a sail appears in sight,
And tow'rd the maiden moves!
'Tis Wealth that comes, and gay and bright,
His golden bark reflects the light,
But ah! it is not Love's.
Another sail—'twas Friendship show'd
Her night-lamp o'er the sea;
And calm the light that lamp bestow'd;
But Love had lights that warmer glow'd,
And where, alas! was he?
Now fast around the sea and shore
Night threw her darkling chain;
The sunny sails were seen no more,
Hope's morning dreams of bliss were o'er,—
Love never came again!

172

THERE COMES A TIME.

[_]

(German Air.)

There comes a time, a dreary time,
To him whose heart hath flown
O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,
And made each flower its own.
'Tis when his soul must first renounce
Those dreams so bright, so fond;
Oh! then's the time to die at once,
For life has nought beyond.
When sets the sun on Afric's shore,
That instant all is night;
And so should life at once be o'er,
When Love withdraws his light;—
Nor, like our northern day, gleam on
Through twilight's dim delay,
The cold remains of lustre gone,
Of fire long pass'd away.

173

MY HARP HAS ONE UNCHANGING THEME.

[_]

(Swedish Air.)

My harp has one unchanging theme,
One strain that still comes o'er
Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream
Of joy that's now no more.
In vain I try, with livelier air,
To wake the breathing string;
That voice of other times is there,
And saddens all I sing.
Breathe on, breathe on, thou languid strain,
Henceforth be all my own;
Though thou art oft so full of pain
Few hearts can bear thy tone.
Yet oft thou'rt sweet, as if the sigh,
The breath that Pleasure's wings
Gave out, when last they wanton'd by,
Were still upon thy strings.

174

OH, NO—NOT EV'N WHEN FIRST WE LOVED.

[_]

(Cashmerian Air.)

Oh, no—not ev'n when first we loved,
Wert thou as dear as now thou art;
Thy beauty then my senses moved,
But now thy virtues bind my heart.
What was but Passion's sigh before,
Has since been turn'd to Reason's vow;
And, though I then might love thee more,
Trust me, I love thee better now.
Although my heart in earlier youth
Might kindle with more wild desire,
Believe me, it has gain'd in truth
Much more than it has lost in fire.
The flame now warms my inmost core,
That then but sparkled o'er my brow,
And, though I seem'd to love thee more,
Yet, oh, I love thee better now.

175

PEACE BE AROUND THEE.

[_]

(Scotch Air.)

Peace be around thee, wherever thou rov'st;
May life be for thee one summer's day,
And all that thou wishest, and all that thou lov'st,
Come smiling around thy sunny way!
If sorrow e'er this calm should break,
May even thy tears pass off so lightly,
Like spring-showers, they'll only make
The smiles that follow shine more brightly.
May Time, who sheds his blight o'er all,
And daily dooms some joy to death,
O'er thee let years so gently fall,
They shall not crush one flower beneath.
As half in shade and half in sun
This world along its path advances,
May that side the sun's upon
Be all that e'er shall meet thy glances!

176

COMMON SENSE AND GENIUS.

[_]

(French Air.)

While I touch the string,
Wreathe my brows with laurel,
For the tale I sing
Has, for once, a moral.
Common Sense, one night,
Though not used to gambols,
Went out by moonlight,
With Genius, on his rambles.
While I touch the string, &c.
Common Sense went on,
Many wise things saying;
While the light that shone
Soon set Genius straying.
One his eye ne'er raised
From the path before him;
T'other idly gazed
On each night-cloud o'er him.
While I touch the string, &c.

177

So they came, at last,
To a shady river;
Common Sense soon pass'd;
Safe, as he doth ever;
While the boy, whose look
Was in Heaven that minute,
Never saw the brook,
But tumbled headlong in it!
While I touch the string, &c.
How the Wise One smiled,
When safe o'er the torrent,
At that youth, so wild,
Dripping from the current!
Sense went home to bed;
Genius, left to shiver
On the bank, 'tis said,
Died of that cold river!
While I touch the string, &c.

178

THEN, FARE THEE WELL.

[_]

(Old English Air.)

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love,
This world has now for us
No greater grief, no pain above
The pain of parting thus,
Dear love!
The pain of parting thus.
Had we but known, since first we met,
Some few short hours of bliss,
We might, in numbering them, forget
The deep, deep pain of this,
Dear love!
The deep, deep pain of this.
But no, alas, we've never seen
One glimpse of pleasure's ray,

179

But still there came some cloud between,
And chased it all away,
Dear love!
And chased it all away.
Yet, ev'n could those sad moments last,
Far dearer to my heart
Were hours of grief, together past,
Than years of mirth apart,
Dear love!
Than years of mirth apart.
Farewell! our hope was born in fears,
And nursed 'mid vain regrets;
Like winter suns, it rose in tears,
Like them in tears it sets,
Dear love!
Like them in tears it sets.

180

GAILY SOUNDS THE CASTANET.

[_]

(Maltese Air.)

Gaily sounds the castanet,
Beating time to bounding feet,
When, after daylight's golden set,
Maids and youths by moonlight meet.
Oh, then, how sweet to move
Through all that maze of mirth,
Led by light from eyes we love
Beyond all eyes on earth.
Then, the joyous banquet spread
On the cool and fragrant ground,
With heav'n's bright sparklers overhead,
And still brighter sparkling round.
Oh, then, how sweet to say
Into some loved one's ear,
Thoughts reserved through many a day
To be thus whisper'd here.

181

When the dance and feast are done,
Arm in arm as home we stray,
How sweet to see the dawning sun
O'er her cheek's warm blushes play!
Then, too, the farewell kiss—
The words, whose parting tone
Lingers still in dreams of bliss,
That haunt young hearts alone.

182

LOVE IS A HUNTER-BOY.

[_]

(Languedocian Air.)

Love is a hunter-boy,
Who makes young hearts his prey;
And, in his nets of joy,
Ensnares them night and day.
In vain conceal'd they lie—
Love tracks them every where;
In vain aloft they fly—
Love shoots them flying there.
But 'tis his joy most sweet,
At early dawn to trace
The print of Beauty's feet,
And give the trembler chase.
And if, through virgin snow,
He tracks her footsteps fair,
How sweet for Love to know
None went before him there.

183

COME, CHASE THAT STARTING TEAR AWAY.

[_]

(French Air.)

Come, chase that starting tear away,
Ere mine to meet it springs;
To-night, at least, to-night be gay,
Whate'er to-morrow brings.
Like sun-set gleams, that linger late
When all is dark'ning fast,
Are hours like these we snatch from Fate—
The brightest, and the last.
Then, chase that starting tear, &c.
To gild the deepening gloom, if Heaven
But one bright hour allow,
Oh, think that one bright hour is given,
In all its splendour, now.

184

Let's live it out—then sink in night,
Like waves that from the shore
One minute swell, are touch'd with light,
Then lost for evermore!
Come, chase that starting tear, &c.

185

JOYS OF YOUTH, HOW FLEETING!

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

Whisp'rings, heard by wakeful maids,
To whom the night-stars guide us;
Stolen walks through moonlight shades,
With those we love beside us,
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Tears starting,
At parting;
Oh, sweet youth, how soon it fades!
Sweet joys of youth, how fleeting!
Wand'rings far away from home,
With life all new before us;
Greetings warm, when home we come,
From hearts whose prayers watch'd o'er us.

186

Tears starting,
At parting;
Hearts beating,
At meeting;
Oh, sweet youth, how lost on some!
To some, how bright and fleeting!

187

HEAR ME BUT ONCE.

[_]

(French Air.)

Hear me but once, while o'er the grave,
In which our Love lies cold and dead,
I count each flatt'ring hope he gave
Of joys, now lost, and charms now fled.
Who could have thought the smile he wore,
When first we met, would fade away?
Or that a chill would e'er come o'er
Those eyes so bright through many a day?
Hear me but once, &c.

188

WHEN LOVE WAS A CHILD.

[_]

(Swedish Air.)

When Love was a child, and went idling round,
'Mong flowers, the whole summer's day,
One morn in the valley a bower he found,
So sweet, it allured him to stay.
O'erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,
A fountain ran darkly beneath;—
'Twas Pleasure had hung up the flow'rets there;
Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath.
But Love didn't know—and, at his weak years,
What urchin was likely to know?—
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears
The fountain that murmur'd below.

189

He caught at the wreath—but with too much haste,
As boys when impatient will do—
It fell in those waters of briny taste,
And the flowers were all wet through.
This garland he now wears night and day;
And, though it all sunny appears
With Pleasure's own light, each leaf, they say,
Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

190

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

Say, what shall be our sport to-day?
There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air,
Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay
For spirits like mine to dare!
'Tis like the returning bloom
Of those days, alas, gone by,
When I loved, each hour—I scarce knew whom—
And was bless'd—I scarce knew why.
Ay—those were days when life had wings,
And flew, oh, flew so wild a height,
That, like the lark which sunward springs,
'Twas giddy with too much light.
And, though of some plumes bereft,
With that sun, too, nearly set,
I've enough of light and wing still left
For a few gay soarings yet.

191

BRIGHT BE THY DREAMS.

[_]

(Welsh Air.)

Bright be thy dreams—may all thy weeping
Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping.
May those by death or seas removed,
The friends, who in thy spring-time knew thee,
All, thou hast ever prized or loved,
In dreams come smiling to thee!
There may the child, whose love lay deepest,
Dearest of all, come while thou sleepest;
Still as she was—no charm forgot—
No lustre lost that life had given;
Or, if changed, but changed to what
Thou'lt find her yet in Heaven!

192

GO, THEN—'TIS VAIN.

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

Go, then—'tis vain to hover
Thus round a hope that's dead;
At length my dream is over;
'Twas sweet—'twas false—'tis fled!
Farewell! since nought it moves thee,
Such truth as mine to see—
Some one, who far less loves thee,
Perhaps more bless'd will be.
Farewell, sweet eyes, whose brightness
New life around me shed;
Farewell, false heart, whose lightness
Now leaves me death instead.
Go, now, those charms surrender
To some new lover's sigh—
One who, though far less tender,
May be more bless'd than I.

193

THE CRYSTAL-HUNTERS.

[_]

(Swiss Air.)

O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song;
And, when we meet with store of gems,
We grudge not kings their diadems.
O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While grots and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song.
Not half so oft the lover dreams
Of sparkles from his lady's eyes,

194

As we of those refreshing gleams
That tell where deep the crystal lies;
Though, next to crystal, we too grant,
That ladies' eyes may most enchant.
O'er mountains bright, &c.
Sometimes, when on the Alpine rose
The golden sunset leaves its ray,
So like a gem the flow'ret glows,
We thither bend our headlong way;
And, though we find no treasure there,
We bless the rose that shines so fair.
O'er mountains bright
With snow and light,
We Crystal-Hunters speed along;
While rocks and caves,
And icy waves,
Each instant echo to our song.

195

ROW GENTLY HERE.

[_]

(Venetian Air.)

Row gently here,
My gondolier,
So softly wake the tide,
That not an ear,
On earth, may hear,
But hers to whom we glide.
Had Heaven but tongues to speak, as well
As starry eyes to see,
Oh, think what tales 'twould have to tell
Of wand'ring youths like me!
Now rest thee here,
My gondolier;
Hush, hush, for up I go,
To climb yon light
Balcony's height,
While thou keep'st watch below.

196

Ah! did we take for Heaven above
But half such pains as we
Take, day and night, for woman's love,
What Angels we should be!

197

OH, DAYS OF YOUTH.

[_]

(French Air.)

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not Memory die there too?
Vainly doth Hope her strain now sing me,
Telling of joys that yet remain—
No, never more can this life bring me
One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.
Dim lies the way to death before me,
Cold winds of Time blow round my brow;
Sunshine of youth! that once fell o'er me,
Where is your warmth, your glory now?
'Tis not that then no pain could sting me;
'Tis not that now no joys remain;
Oh, 'tis that life no more can bring me
One joy so sweet as that worst pain.

198

WHEN FIRST THAT SMILE.

[_]

(Venetian Air.)

When first that smile, like sunshine, bless'd my sight,
Oh what a vision then came o'er me!
Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,
Seem'd in that smile to pass before me.
Ne'er did the peasant dream of summer skies,
Of golden fruit, and harvests springing,
With fonder hope than I of those sweet eyes,
And of the joy their light was bringing.
Where now are all those fondly-promised hours?
Ah! woman's faith is like her brightness—
Fading as fast as rainbows, or day-flowers,
Or aught that's known for grace and lightness.
Short as the Persian's prayer, at close of day,
Should be each vow of Love's repeating;
Quick let him worship Beauty's precious ray—
Even while he kneels, that ray is fleeting!

199

PEACE TO THE SLUMBERERS!

[_]

(Catalonian Air.)

Peace to the slumberers!
They lie on the battle-plain,
With no shroud to cover them;
The dew and the summer rain
Are all that weep over them.
Peace to the slumberers!
Vain was their bravery!—
The fallen oak lies where it lay,
Across the wintry river;
But brave hearts, once swept away,
Are gone, alas! for ever.
Vain was their bravery!
Woe to the conqueror!
Our limbs shall lie as cold as theirs
Of whom his sword bereft us,
Ere we forget the deep arrears
Of vengeance they have left us!
Woe to the conqueror!

200

WHEN THOU SHALT WANDER.

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

When thou shalt wander by that sweet light
We used to gaze on so many an eve,
When love was new and hope was bright,
Ere I could doubt or thou deceive—
Oh, then, rememb'ring how swift went by
Those hours of transport, even thou may'st sigh.
Yes, proud one! even thy heart may own
That love like ours was far too sweet
To be, like summer garments, thrown
Aside, when pass'd the summer's heat;
And wish in vain to know again
Such days, such nights, as bless'd thee then.

201

WHO'LL BUY MY LOVE-KNOTS?

[_]

(Portuguese Air.)

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling,
Call'd at many a maiden's dwelling:
None could doubt, who saw or knew them,
Hymen's call was welcome to them.
“Who'll buy my love-knots?
“Who'll buy my love-knots?”
Soon as that sweet cry resounded,
How his baskets were surrounded!
Maids, who now first dreamt of trying
These gay knots of Hymen's tying;
Dames, who long had sat to watch him
Passing by, but ne'er could catch him;—
“Who'll buy my love-knots?
“Who'll buy my love-knots?”—
All at that sweet cry assembled;
Some laugh'd, some blush'd, and some trembled.
“Here are knots,” said Hymen, taking
Some loose flowers, “of Love's own making;

202

“Here are gold ones—you may trust 'em”—
(These, of course, found ready custom).
“Come, buy my love-knots!
“Come, buy my love-knots!
“Some are labell'd ‘Knots to tie men—
“Love the maker—Bought of Hymen.’”
Scarce their bargains were completed,
When the nymphs all cried, “We're cheated!
“See these flowers—they're drooping sadly;
“This gold-knot, too, ties but badly—
“Who'd buy such love-knots?
“Who'd buy such love-knots?
“Even this tie, with Love's name round it—
“All a sham—He never bound it.”
Love, who saw the whole proceeding,
Would have laugh'd, but for good breeding;
While Old Hymen, who was used to
Cries like that these dames gave loose to—
“Take back our love-knots!
“Take back our love-knots!”
Coolly said, “There's no returning
“Wares on Hymen's hands—Good morning!”

203

SEE, THE DAWN FROM HEAVEN.

[_]

(To an Air sung at Rome, on Christmas Eve.)

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking
O'er our sight,
And Earth, from sin awaking,
Hails the light!
See those groups of angels, winging
From the realms above,
On their brows, from Eden, bringing
Wreaths of Hope and Love.
Hark, their hymns of glory pealing
Through the air,
To mortal ears revealing
Who lies there!
In that dwelling, dark and lowly,
Sleeps the Heavenly Son,
He, whose home's above,—the Holy,
Ever Holy One!

204

NETS AND CAGES.

[_]

(Swedish Air.)

Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.
Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as ours,
Yet Truth sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While some, perhaps, will sigh.

205

Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,
Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,
E'er caught so much small game:
But gentle Sue, less giv'n to roam,
While Cloe's nets were taking
Such lots of Loves, sat still at home,
One little Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, &c.
Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on:
These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age, were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was able to break through them.
Come, listen, maids, &c.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong to sever,
One Love with golden pinions caught,
And caged him there for ever;

206

Instructing, thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
'Tis wiser to make Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply.—
May all who hear like Susan smile,
And not, like Cloe, sigh!
 

Suggested by the following remark of Swift's:—“The reason why so few marriages are happy, is, because young ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages.”


207

WHEN THROUGH THE PIAZZETTA.

[_]

(Venetian Air.)

When through the Piazzetta
Night breathes her cool air,
Then, dearest Ninetta,
I'll come to thee there.
Beneath thy mask shrouded,
I'll know thee afar,
As Love knows, though clouded,
His own Evening Star.
In garb, then, resembling
Some gay gondolier,
I'll whisper thee, trembling,
“Our bark, love, is near:
“Now, now, while there hover
“Those clouds o'er the moon,
“'Twill waft thee safe over
“Yon silent Lagoon.”

208

GO, NOW, AND DREAM.

[_]

(Sicilian Air.)

Go, now, and dream o'er that joy in thy slumber—
Moments so sweet again ne'er shalt thou number.
Of Pain's bitter draught the flavour ne'er flies,
While Pleasure's scarce touches the lip ere it dies.
Go, then, and dream, &c.
That moon, which hung o'er your parting, so splendid,
Often will shine again, bright as she then did—
But, never more will the beam she saw burn
In those happy eyes, at your meeting, return.
Go, then, and dream, &c.

209

TAKE HENCE THE BOWL.

[_]

(Neapolitan Air.)

Take hence the bowl;—though beaming
Brightly as bowl e'er shone,
Oh, it but sets me dreaming
Of happy days now gone.
There, in its clear reflection,
As in a wizard's glass,
Lost hopes and dead affection,
Like shades, before me pass.
Each cup I drain brings hither
Some scene of bliss gone by;—
Bright lips, too bright to wither,
Warm hearts, too warm to die.
Till, as the dream comes o'er me
Of those long vanish'd years,
Alas, the wine before me
Seems turning all to tears!

210

FAREWELL, THERESA!

[_]

(Venetian Air.)

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over
Heaven's pale night-star gath'ring we see,
Will scarce from that pure orb have pass'd, ere thy lover
Swift o'er the wide wave shall wander from thee.
Long, like that dim cloud, I've hung around thee,
Dark'ning thy prospects, sadd'ning thy brow;
With gay heart, Theresa, and bright cheek I found thee;
Oh, think how changed, love, how changed art thou now!
But here I free thee: like one awaking
From fearful slumber, thou break'st the spell;
'Tis over—the moon, too, her bondage is breaking—
Past are the dark clouds; Theresa, farewell!

211

HOW OFT, WHEN WATCHING STARS.

[_]

(Savoyard Air.)

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale,
And round me sleeps the moonlight scene,
To hear a flute through yonder vale
I from my casement lean.
“Come, come, my love!” each note then seems to say,
“Oh, come, my love! the night wears fast away!”
Never to mortal ear
Could words, though warm they be,
Speak Passion's language half so clear
As do those notes to me!
Then quick my own light lute I seek,
And strike the chords with loudest swell;
And, though they nought to others speak,
He knows their language well.
“I come, my love!” each note then seems to say,
“I come, my love!—thine, thine till break of day.”

212

Oh, weak the power of words,
The hues of painting dim,
Compared to what those simple chords
Then say and paint to him!

213

WHEN THE FIRST SUMMER BEE.

[_]

(German Air.)

When the first summer bee
O'er the young rose shall hover,
Then, like that gay rover,
I'll come to thee.
He to flowers, I to lips, full of sweets to the brim—
What a meeting, what a meeting for me and for him!
When the first summer bee, &c.
Then, to every bright tree
In the garden he'll wander;
While I, oh, much fonder,
Will stay with thee.
In search of new sweetness through thousands he'll run,
While I find the sweetness of thousands in one.
Then, to every bright tree, &c.

214

THOUGH 'TIS ALL BUT A DREAM.

[_]

(French Air.)

Though 'tis all but a dream at the best,
And still, when happiest, soonest o'er,
Yet, even in a dream, to be bless'd
Is so sweet, that I ask for no more.
The bosom that opes
With earliest hopes,
The soonest finds those hopes untrue;
As flowers that first
In spring-time burst
The earliest wither too!
Ay—'tis all but a dream, &c.
Though by friendship we oft are deceived,
And find love's sunshine soon o'ercast,
Yet friendship will still be believed,
And love trusted on to the last.

215

The web 'mong the leaves
The spider weaves
Is like the charm Hope hangs o'er men;
Though often she sees
'Tis broke by the breeze,
She spins the bright tissue again.
Ay—'tis all but a dream, &c.

216

WHEN THE WINE-CUP IS SMILING.

[_]

(Italian Air.)

When the wine-cup is smiling before us,
And we pledge round to hearts that are true, boy, true,
Then the sky of this life opens o'er us,
And Heaven gives a glimpse of its blue.
Talk of Adam in Eden reclining,
We are better, far better off thus, boy, thus;
For him but two bright eyes were shining—
See, what numbers are sparkling for us!
When on one side the grape-juice is dancing,
While on t'other a blue eye beams, boy, beams,
'Tis enough, 'twixt the wine and the glancing,
To disturb ev'n a saint from his dreams.
Yet, though life like a river is flowing,
I care not how fast it goes on, boy, on,
So the grape on its bank is still growing,
And Love lights the waves as they run.

217

WHERE SHALL WE BURY OUR SHAME?

[_]

(Neapolitan Air.)

Where shall we bury our shame?
Where, in what desolate place,
Hide the last wreck of a name
Broken and stain'd by disgrace?
Death may dissever the chain,
Oppression will cease when we're gone;
But the dishonour, the stain,
Die as we may, will live on.
Was it for this we sent out
Liberty's cry from our shore?
Was it for this that her shout
Thrill'd to the world's very core?
Thus to live cowards and slaves!—
Oh, ye free hearts that lie dead,
Do you not, ev'n in your graves,
Shudder, as o'er you we tread?

218

NE'ER TALK OF WISDOM'S GLOOMY SCHOOLS.

[_]

(Mahratta Air.)

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools;
Give me the sage who's able
To draw his moral thoughts and rules
From the study of the table;—
Who learns how lightly, fleetly pass
This world and all that's in it,
From the bumper that but crowns his glass,
And is gone again next minute!
The diamond sleeps within the mine,
The pearl beneath the water;
While Truth, more precious, dwells in wine,
The grape's own rosy daughter.
And none can prize her charms like him,
Oh, none like him obtain her,
Who thus can, like Leander, swim
Through sparkling floods to gain her!

219

HERE SLEEPS THE BARD.

[_]

(Highland Air.)

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well
All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell;
Whether its music roll'd like torrents near,
Or died, like distant streamlets, on the ear.
Sleep, sleep, mute bard; alike unheeded now
The storm and zephyr sweep thy lifeless brow;—
That storm, whose rush is like thy martial lay;
That breeze which, like thy love-song, dies away!

220

DO NOT SAY THAT LIFE IS WANING.

Do not say that life is waning,
Or that hope's sweet day is set;
While I've thee and love remaining,
Life is in th' horizon yet.
Do not think those charms are flying,
Though thy roses fade and fall;
Beauty hath a grace undying,
Which in thee survives them all.
Not for charms, the newest, brightest,
That on other cheeks may shine,
Would I change the least, the slightest,
That is ling'ring now o'er thine.

221

THE GAZELLE.

Dost thou not hear the silver bell,
Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing?
'Tis my lady's light gazelle,
To me her love thoughts bringing,—
All the while that silver bell
Around his dark neck ringing.
See, in his mouth he bears a wreath,
My love hath kist in tying;
Oh, what tender thoughts beneath
Those silent flowers are lying,—
Hid within the mystic wreath,
My love hath kist in tying!
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her, the fairest,
Who thus hath breathed her soul to me,
In every leaf thou bearest;
Welcome, dear gazelle, to thee,
And joy to her the fairest!

222

Hail ye living, speaking flowers,
That breathe of her who bound ye;
Oh, 'twas not in fields, or bowers,
'Twas on her lips, she found ye;—
Yes, ye blushing, speaking flowers,
'Twas on her lips she found ye.

223

NO—LEAVE MY HEART TO REST.

No—leave my heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have pass'd away.
Could'st thou, when summer hours are fled,
To some poor leaf that's fall'n and dead,
Bring back the hue it wore, the scent it shed?
No—leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
When youth, and love, and hope, have pass'd away.
Oh, had I met thee then, when life was bright,
Thy smile might still have fed its tranquil light;
But now thou com'st like sunny skies,
Too late to cheer the seaman's eyes,
When wreck'd and lost his bark before him lies!
No—leave this heart to rest, if rest it may,
Since youth, and love, and hope, have pass'd away

224

WHERE ARE THE VISIONS.

Where are the visions that round me once hover'd,
“Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone;
“Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered,
“And voices that Music might take for her own?”
Time, while I spoke, with his wings resting o'er me,
Heard me say, “Where are those visions, oh where?”
And pointing his wand to the sunset before me,
Said, with a voice like the hollow wind, “There.”
Fondly I looked, when the wizard had spoken,
And there, mid the dim-shining ruins of day,
Saw, by their light, like a talisman broken,
The last golden fragments of hope melt away.

225

WIND THY HORN, MY HUNTER BOY.

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy,
And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs;
Hunting is the hero's joy,
Till war his nobler game supplies.
Hark! the hound-bells ringing sweet,
While hunters shout, and the woods repeat,
Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!
Wind again thy cheerful horn,
Till echo, faint with answering, dies:
Burn, bright torches, burn till morn,
And lead us where the wild boar lies.
Hark! the cry, “He's found, he's found,”
While hill and valley our shouts resound,
Hilli-ho! Hilli-ho!

226

OH, GUARD OUR AFFECTION.

Oh, guard our affection, nor e'er let it feel
The blight that this world o'er the warmest will steal:
While the faith of all round us is fading or past,
Let ours, ever green, keep its bloom to the last.
Far safer for Love 'tis to wake and to weep,
As he used in his prime, than go smiling to sleep;
For death on his slumber, cold death follows fast,
While the love that is wakeful lives on to the last.
And tho', as Time gathers his clouds o'er our head,
A shade somewhat darker o'er life they may spread,
Transparent, at least, be the shadow they cast,
So that Love's soften'd light may shine through to the last.

227

SLUMBER, OH SLUMBER.

Slumber, oh slumber; if sleeping thou mak'st
“My heart beat so wildly, I'm lost if thou wak'st.”
Thus sung I to a maiden,
Who slept one summer's day,
And, like a flower o'erladen
With too much sunshine, lay.
Slumber, oh slumber, &c.
“Breathe not, oh breathe not, ye winds, o'er her cheeks;
“If mute thus she charm me, I'm lost when she speaks.”
Thus sing I, while, awaking,
She murmurs words that seem
As if her lips were taking
Farewell of some sweet dream.
Breathe not, oh breathe not, &c.

228

BRING THE BRIGHT GARLANDS HITHER.

Bring the bright garlands hither,
Ere yet a leaf is dying;
If so soon they must wither,
Ours be their last sweet sighing.
Hark, that low dismal chime!
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.
Oh, bring beauty, bring roses,
Bring all that yet is ours;
Let life's day, as it closes,
Shine to the last thro' flowers.
Haste, ere the bowl's declining,
Drink of it now or never;
Now, while Beauty is shining,
Love, or she's lost for ever.
Hark! again that dull chime,
'Tis the dreary voice of Time.

229

Oh, if life be a torrent,
Down to oblivion going,
Like this cup be its current,
Bright to the last drop flowing!

230

IF IN LOVING, SINGING.

If in loving, singing, night and day
We could trifle merrily life away,
Like atoms dancing in the beam,
Like day-flies skimming o'er the stream,
Or summer blossoms, born to sigh
Their sweetness out, and die—
How brilliant, thoughtless, side by side,
Thou and I could make our minutes glide!
No atoms ever glanced so bright,
No day-flies ever danced so light,
Nor summer blossoms mix'd their sigh,
So close, as thou and I!

231

THOU LOV'ST NO MORE.

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken,
Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er;
Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,
Thou lov'st no more—thou lov'st no more.
Tho' kindly still those eyes behold me,
The smile is gone, which once they wore;
Tho' fondly still those arms enfold me,
'Tis not the same—thou lov'st no more.
Too long my dream of bliss believing,
I've thought thee all thou wert before;
But now—alas! there's no deceiving,
'Tis all too plain, thou lov'st no more.
Oh, thou as soon the dead couldst waken,
As lost affection's life restore,
Give peace to her that is forsaken,
Or bring back him who loves no more.

232

WHEN ABROAD IN THE WORLD.

When abroad in the world thou appearest,
And the young and the lovely are there,
To my heart while of all thou'rt the dearest,
To my eyes thou'rt of all the most fair.
They pass, one by one,
Like waves of the sea,
That say to the Sun,
“See, how fair we can be.”
But where's the light like thine,
In sun or shade to shine?
No—no, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.
Oft, of old, without farewell or warning,
Beauty's self used to steal from the skies;
Fling a mist round her head, some fine morning,
And post down to earth in disguise;

233

But, no matter what shroud
Around her might be,
Men peep'd through the cloud,
And whisper'd, “'Tis She.”
So thou, where thousands are,
Shin'st forth the only star,—
Yes, yes, 'mong them all, there is nothing like thee,
Nothing like thee.

234

KEEP THOSE EYES STILL PURELY MINE.

Keep those eyes still purely mine,
Tho' far off I be:
When on others most they shine,
Then think they're turn'd on me.
Should those lips as now respond
To sweet minstrelsy,
When their accents seem most fond,
Then think they're breathed for me.
Make what hearts thou wilt thy own,
If when all on thee
Fix their charmed thoughts alone,
Thou think'st the while on me.

235

HOPE COMES AGAIN.

Hope comes again, to this heart long a stranger,
Once more she sings me her flattering strain;
But hush, gentle syren—for, ah, there's less danger
In still suff'ring on, than in hoping again.
Long, long, in sorrow, too deep for repining,
Gloomy, but tranquil, this bosom hath lain;
And joy coming now, like a sudden light shining
O'er eyelids long darken'd, would bring me but pain.
Fly then, ye visions, that Hope would shed o'er me;
Lost to the future, my sole chance of rest
Now lies not in dreaming of bliss that's before me,
But, ah—in forgetting how once I was blest.

236

O SAY, THOU BEST AND BRIGHTEST.

O say, thou best and brightest,
My first love and my last,
When he, whom now thou slightest,
From life's dark scene hath past,
Will kinder thoughts then move thee?
Will pity wake one thrill
For him who lived to love thee,
And dying loved thee still?
If when, that hour recalling
From which he dates his woes,
Thou feel'st a tear-drop falling,
Ah, blush not while it flows:
But, all the past forgiving,
Bend gently o'er his shrine,
And say, “This heart, when living,
“With all its faults, was mine.”

237

WHEN NIGHT BRINGS THE HOUR.

When night brings the hour
Of starlight and joy,
There comes to my bower
A fairy-wing'd boy;
With eyes so bright,
So full of wild arts,
Like nets of light,
To tangle young hearts;
With lips, in whose keeping
Love's secret may dwell,
Like Zephyr asleep in
Some rosy sea-shell.
Guess who he is,
Name but his name,
And his best kiss,
For reward, you may claim.

238

Where'er o'er the ground
He prints his light feet,
The flow'rs there are found
Most shining and sweet:
His looks, as soft
As lightning in May,
Though dangerous oft,
Ne'er wound but in play:
And oh, when his wings
Have brush'd o'er my lyre,
You'd fancy its strings
Were turning to fire.
Guess who he is,
Name but his name,
And his best kiss,
For reward, you may claim.

239

LIKE ONE WHO, DOOM'D.

Like one who, doom'd o'er distant seas
His weary path to measure,
When home at length, with fav'ring breeze,
He brings the far-sought treasure;
His ship, in sight of shore, goes down,
That shore to which he hasted;
And all the wealth he thought his own
Is o'er the waters wasted!
Like him, this heart, thro' many a track
Of toil and sorrow straying,
One hope alone brought fondly back,
Its toil and grief repaying.
Like him, alas, I see that ray
Of hope before me perish,
And one dark minute sweep away
What years were given to cherish.

240

FEAR NOT THAT, WHILE AROUND THEE.

Fear not that, while around thee
Life's varied blessings pour,
One sigh of hers shall wound thee,
Whose smile thou seek'st no more.
No, dead and cold for ever
Let our past love remain;
Once gone, its spirit never
Shall haunt thy rest again.
May the new ties that bind thee
Far sweeter, happier prove,
Nor e'er of me remind thee,
But by their truth and love.
Think how, asleep or waking,
Thy image haunts me yet;
But, how this heart is breaking
For thy own peace forget.

241

WHEN LOVE IS KIND.

When Love is kind,
Cheerful and free,
Love's sure to find
Welcome from me.
But when Love brings
Heartache or pang,
Tears, and such things—
Love may go hang!
If Love can sigh
For one alone,
Well pleased am I
To be that one.
But should I see
Love giv'n to rove
To two or three,
Then—good-by Love!

242

Love must, in short,
Keep fond and true,
Through good report,
And evil too.
Else, here I swear,
Young Love may go,
For aught I care—
To Jericho.

243

THE GARLAND I SEND THEE.

The Garland I send thee was cull'd from those bowers
Where thou and I wander'd in long vanish'd hours;
Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,
But bears some remembrance of those happy days.
The roses were gathered by that garden gate,
Where our meetings, tho' early, seemed always too late;
Where ling'ring full oft through a summer-night's moon,
Our partings, tho' late, appeared always too soon.
The rest were all cull'd from the banks of that glade,
Where, watching the sunset, so often we've stray'd,
And mourn'd, as the time went, that Love had no power
To bind in his chain even one happy hour.

244

HOW SHALL I WOO?

If I speak to thee in friendship's name,
Thou think'st I speak too coldly;
If I mention Love's devoted flame,
Thou say'st I speak too boldly.
Between these two unequal fires,
Why doom me thus to hover?
I'm a friend, if such thy heart requires,
If more thou seek'st, a lover.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
Fair one, choose between the two.
Tho' the wings of Love will brightly play,
When first he comes to woo thee,
There's a chance that he may fly away
As fast as he flies to thee.
While Friendship, tho' on foot she come,
No flights of fancy trying,

245

Will, therefore, oft be found at home,
When Love abroad is flying.
Which shall it be? How shall I woo?
Dear one, choose between the two.
If neither feeling suits thy heart,
Let's see, to please thee, whether
We may not learn some precious art
To mix their charms together;
One feeling, still more sweet, to form
From two so sweet already—
A friendship that like love is warm,
A love like friendship steady.
Thus let it be, thus let me woo,
Dearest, thus we'll join the two.

246

SPRING AND AUTUMN.

Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.
So Life's year begins and closes;
Days, tho' short'ning, still can shine;
What tho' youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.
Phillis, when she might have caught me,
All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;—she found her lover
Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
In his best autumnal wine.

247

Thus may we, as years are flying,
To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
While we still may taste the fruit.
Oh, while days like this are ours,
Where's the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flow'rs,
So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

248

LOVE ALONE.

If thou would'st have thy charms enchant our eyes,
First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies:
Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,
Her Right Divine is given by Love alone.
What would the rose with all her pride be worth,
Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?
Maidens, unloved, like flowers in darkness thrown,
Wait but that light, which comes from Love alone.
Fair as thy charms in yonder glass appear,
Trust not their bloom, they'll fade from year to year:
Would'st thou they still should shine as first they shone,
Go, fix thy mirror in Love's eyes alone.


SACRED SONGS.



TO EDWARD TUITE DALTON. ESQ. THIS FIRST NUMBER OF SACRED SONGS IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS SINCERE AND AFFECTIONATE FRIEND, THOMAS MOORE.


THOU ART, O GOD.

[_]

(Air.—Unknown. )

“The day is thine; the night also is thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun.

“Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter.”

Psalm lxxxiv. 16, 17.
Thou art, O God, the life and light
Of all this wondrous world we see;
Its glow by day, its smile by night,
Are but reflections caught from Thee.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine!

254

When Day, with farewell beam, delays
Among the opening clouds of Even,
And we can almost think we gaze
Through golden vistas into Heaven—
Those hues, that make the Sun's decline
So soft, so radiant, Lord! are Thine.
When Night, with wings of starry gloom,
O'ershadows all the earth and skies,
Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes—
That sacred gloom, those fires divine,
So grand, so countless, Lord! are Thine.
When youthful Spring around us breathes,
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the Summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye.
Where'er we turn, thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are Thine.
 

I have heard that this air is by the late Mrs. Sheridan. It is sung to the beautiful old words, “I do confess thou'rt smooth and fair.”


255

THE BIRD, LET LOOSE.

[_]

(Air.—Beethoven.)

The bird, let loose in eastern skies ,
When hastening fondly home,
Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies
Where idle warblers roam.
But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.
So grant me, God, from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!

256

No sin to cloud, no lure to stay
My Soul, as home she springs;—
Thy Sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy Freedom in her wings!
 

The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and the place to which she is destined.


257

FALLEN IS THY THRONE.

[_]

(Air.—Martini.)

Fall'n is thy Throne, oh Israel!
Silence is o'er thy plains;
Thy dwellings all lie desolate,
Thy children weep in chains.
Where are the dews that fed thee
On Etham's barren shore?
That fire from Heaven which led thee,
Now lights thy path no more.
Lord! thou didst love Jerusalem—
Once she was all thy own;
Her love thy fairest heritage ,
Her power thy glory's throne .

258

Till evil came, and blighted
Thy long-lov'd olive-tree ;—
And Salem's shrines were lighted
For other gods than Thee.
Then sunk the star of Solyma—
Then pass'd her glory's day,
Like heath that, in the wilderness ,
The wild wind whirls away.
Silent and waste her bowers,
Where once the mighty trod,
And sunk those guilty towers,
While Baal reign'd as God.
“Go”—said the Lord—“Ye Conquerors!
“Steep in her blood your swords,
“And raze to earth her battlements ,
“For they are not the Lord's.

259

“Till Zion's mournful daughter
“O'er kindred bones shall tread,
“And Hinnom's vale of slaughter
“Shall hide but half her dead!”
 

“I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly-beloved of my soul into the hands of her enemies.” —Jeremiah, xii. 7.

“Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory.” —Jer. xiv. 21. IV.

“The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree; fair and of goodly fruit,” &c. —Jer. xi. 16.

“For he shall be like the heath in the desert.” —Jer. xvii. 6.

“Take away her battlements; for they are not the Lord's.” —Jer. v. 10.

“Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it shall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of Hinnom, but the Valley of Slaughter; for they shall bury in Tophet till there be no place.” —Jer vii. 32.


260

WHO IS THE MAID?

ST. JEROME'S LOVE.

[_]

(Air.—Beethoven.)

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks,
Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?
Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No—wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

261

I chose not her, my heart's elect,
From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine.
No—Heaven but faintly warms the breast
That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.
Not so the faded form I prize
And love, because its bloom is gone;
The glory in those sainted eyes
Is all the grace her brow puts on.
And ne'er was Beauty's dawn so bright,
So touching as that form's decay,
Which, like the altar's trembling light,
In holy lustre wastes away.
 

These lines were suggested by a passage in one of St. Jerome's Letters, replying to some calumnious remarks that had been circulated respecting his intimacy with the matron Paula:—“Numquid me vestes sericæ, nitentes gemmæ, picta facies, aut auri rapuit ambitio? Nulla fuit alia Romæ matronarum, quæ meam possit edomare mentem, nisi lugens atque jejunans, fletu pene cæcata.” —Epist. “Si tibi putem.”

Ου γαρ κρυσοφορειν την δακρυουσαν δει. —Chrysost. Homil. 8. in Epist. ad Tim.


262

THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

This world is all a fleeting show,
For man's illusion given;
The smiles of Joy, the tears of Woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow—
There's nothing true but Heaven!
And false the light on Glory's plume,
As fading hues of Even;
And Love and Hope, and Beauty's bloom,
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb—
There's nothing bright but Heaven!
Poor wanderers of a stormy day,
From wave to wave we're driven,
And Fancy's flash, and Reason's ray,
Serve but to light the troubled way—
There's nothing calm but Heaven!

263

OH THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURNER'S TEAR.

[_]

(Air.—Haydn.)

“He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.” —Psalm cxlvii. 3.
Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,
If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee.
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,
Must weep those tears alone.
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,
Which, like the plants that throw
Their fragrance from the wounded part,
Breathes sweetness out of woe.
When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw

264

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom
Our Peace-branch from above?
Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright
With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

265

WEEP NOT FOR THOSE.

[_]

(Air.—Avison.)

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.
Death chill'd the fair fountain, ere sorrow had stain'd it;
'Twas frozen in all the pure light of its course,
And but sleeps till the sunshine of Heaven has unchain'd it,
To water that Eden where first was its source.
Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,
In life's happy morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a blight o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profaned what was born for the skies.

266

Mourn not for her, the young Bride of the Vale ,
Our gayest and loveliest, lost to us now,
Ere life's early lustre had time to grow pale,
And the garland of Love was yet fresh on her brow.
Oh, then was her moment, dear spirit, for flying
From this gloomy world, while its gloom was unknown—
And the wild hymns she warbled so sweetly, in dying,
Were echoed in Heaven by lips like her own.
Weep not for her—in her spring-time she flew
To that land where the wings of the soul are unfurl'd;
And now, like a star beyond evening's cold dew,
Looks radiantly down on the tears of this world.
 

This second verse, which I wrote long after the first, alludes to the fate of a very lovely and amiable girl, the daughter of the late Colonel Bainbrigge, who was married in Ashbourne church, October 31. 1815, and died of a fever in a few weeks after: the sound of her marriage-bells seemed scarcely out of our ears when we heard of her death. During her last delirium she sung several hymns, in a voice even clearer and sweeter than usual, and among them were some from the present collection, (particularly, “There's nothing bright but Heaven,”) which this very interesting girl had often heard me sing during the summer.


267

THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, Lord! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.
My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music, breathes of Thee!
I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

268

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.
I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking through.
There's nothing bright, above, below,
From flowers that bloom to stars that glow,
But in its light my soul can see
Some feature of thy Deity:
There's nothing dark, below, above,
But in its gloom I trace thy Love,
And meekly wait that moment, when
Thy touch shall turn all bright again!
 

Pii orant tacite.


269

SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL.

MIRIAM'S SONG.

[_]

(Air.—Avison. )

“And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand; and all the women went out after her, with timbrels and with dances.” —Exod xv 20.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumph'd—his people are free.
Sing—for the pride of the Tyrant is broken,
His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave—
How vain was their boast, for the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea;
Jehovah has triumph'd—his people are free.

270

Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord!
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword.—
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar of glory ,
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in the tide.
Sound the loud Timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea,
Jehovah has triumph'd—his people are free!
 

I have so much altered the character of this air, which is from the beginning of one of Avison's old-fashioned concertos, that, without this acknowledgment, it could hardly, I think, be recognized.

“And it came to pass, that, in the morning watch, the Lord looked unto the host of the Egyptians, through the pillar of fire and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians.” —Exod. xiv. 24.


271

GO, LET ME WEEP.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

Go, let me weep—there's bliss in tears,
When he who sheds them inly feels
Some lingering stain of early years
Effaced by every drop that steals.
The fruitless showers of worldly woe
Fall dark to earth and never rise;
While tears that from repentance flow,
In bright exhalement reach the skies.
Go, let me weep.
Leave me to sigh o'er hours that flew
More idly than the summer's wind,
And, while they pass'd, a fragrance threw,
But left no trace of sweets behind.—
The warmest sigh that pleasure heaves
Is cold, is faint to those that swell
The heart, where pure repentance grieves
O'er hours of pleasure, loved too well.
Leave me to sigh.

272

COME NOT, OH LORD.

[_]

(Air.—Haydn.)

Come not, oh Lord, in the dread robe of splendour
Thou wor'st on the Mount, in the day of thine ire;
Come veil'd in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,
Which Mercy flings over thy features of fire!
Lord, thou rememb'rest the night, when thy Nation
Stood fronting her Foe by the red-rolling stream;
O'er Egypt thy pillar shed dark desolation,
While Israel bask'd all the night in its beam.

273

So, when the dread clouds of anger enfold Thee,
From us, in thy mercy, the dark side remove;
While shrouded in terrors the guilty behold Thee,
Oh, turn upon us the mild light of thy Love!
 

“And it came between the camp of the Egyptians and the camp of Israel; and it was a cloud and darkness to them, but it gave light by night to these.” —Exod. xiv. 20.


274

WERE NOT THE SINFUL MARY'S TEARS.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

Were not the sinful Mary's tears
An offering worthy Heaven,
When, o'er the faults of former years,
She wept—and was forgiven?
When, bringing every balmy sweet
Her day of luxury stored,
She o'er her Saviour's hallow'd feet
The precious odours pour'd;—
And wiped them with that golden hair,
Where once the diamond shone;
Though now those gems of grief were there
Which shine for God alone!
Were not those sweets, so humbly shed—
That hair—those weeping eyes—

275

And the sunk heart, that inly bled—
Heaven's noblest sacrifice?
Thou, that hast slept in error's sleep,
Oh, would'st thou wake in Heaven,
Like Mary kneel, like Mary weep,
“Love much ” and be forgiven!
 

“Her sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much.” —St. Luke, vii. 47.


276

AS DOWN IN THE SUNLESS RETREATS.

[_]

(Air.—Haydn.)

As down in the sunless retreats of the Ocean,
Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,
So, deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion,
Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee,
My God! silent, to Thee—
Pure, warm, silent, to Thee.
As still to the star of its worship, though clouded,
The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea,
So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded,
The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee,
My God! trembling, to Thee—
True, fond, trembling, to Thee.

277

BUT WHO SHALL SEE

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

But who shall see the glorious day
When, throned on Zion's brow,
The Lord shall rend that veil away
Which hides the nations now?
When earth no more beneath the fear
Of his rebuke shall lie ;
When pain shall cease, and every tear
Be wiped from every eye.
Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn
Beneath the heathen's chain;

278

Thy days of splendour shall return,
And all be new again.
The Fount of Life shall then be quaff'd
In peace, by all who come ;
And every wind that blows shall waft
Some long-lost exile home.
 

“And he will destroy, in this mountain, the face of the covering cast over all people, and the vail that is spread over all nations.” —Isaiah, xxv. 7.

“The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth.” —Isaiah, xxv. 8.

“And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; neither shall there be any more pain.” —Rev. xxi. 4.

“And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.” —Rev. xxi. 5.

“And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely.” —Rev. xxii. 17.


279

ALMIGHTY GOD!

CHORUS OF PRIESTS.

[_]

(Air.—Mozart.)

Almighty God! when round thy shrine
The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine ,
(Emblem of Life's eternal ray,
And Love that “fadeth not away,”)
We bless the flowers, expanded all ,
We bless the leaves that never fall,
And trembling say,—“In Eden thus
“The Tree of Life may flower for us!”

280

When round thy Cherubs—smiling calm,
Without their flames —we wreathe the Palm,
Oh God! we feel the emblem true—
Thy Mercy is eternal too.
Those Cherubs, with their smiling eyes,
That crown of Palm which never dies,
Are but the types of Thee above—
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love!
 

“The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jerusalem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that structure, represented that Life and Immortality which were brought to light by the Gospel.” —Observations on the Palm, as a sacred Emblem, by W. Tighe.

“And he carved all the walls of the house round about with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open flowers.” —1 Kings, vi. 29.

“When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to the great lawgiver in the mount, then the cherubic images which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded by flames; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation of mercy, by which Jehovah confirmed his gracious covenant to redeem mankind.” —Observations on the Palm.


281

OH FAIR! OH PUREST!

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.

[_]

(Air.—Moore.)

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove
That flies alone to some sunny grove,
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,
All vestal white, in the limpid spring.
There, if the hovering hawk be near,
That limpid spring in its mirror clear

282

Reflects him, ere he reach his prey,
And warns the timorous bird away.
Be thou this dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou this dove.
The sacred pages of God's own book
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook,
In whose holy mirror, night and day,
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray;—
And should the foes of virtue dare,
With gloomy wing, to seek thee there,
Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly!
Be thou that dove;
Fairest, purest, be thou that dove.
 

In St. Augustine's Treatise upon the advantages of a solitary life, addressed to his sister, there is the following fanciful passage, from which, the reader will perceive, the thought of this song was taken:—“Te, soror, nunquam nolo esse securam, sed timere semperque tuam fragilitatem habere suspectam, ad instar pavidæ columbæ frequentare rivos aquarum et quasi in speculo accipitris cernere supervolantis effigiem et cavere. Rivi aquarum sententiæ sunt scripturarum, quæ de limpidissimo sapientiæ fonte profluentes,” &c. &c. —De Vit. Eremit. ad Sororem.


283

ANGEL OF CHARITY.

[_]

(Air.—Handel.)

Angel of Charity, who, from above,
Comest to dwell a pilgrim here,
Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,
And Pity's soul is in thy tear.
When on the shrine of God were laid
First-fruits of all most good and fair,
That ever bloom'd in Eden's shade,
Thine was the holiest offering there.
Hope and her sister, Faith, were given
But as our guides to yonder sky;
Soon as they reach the verge of heaven,
There, lost in perfect bliss, they die.
But, long as Love, Almighty Love,
Shall on his throne of thrones abide,
Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above,
Smiling for ever by His side!
 
One lost in certainty, and one in joy.”

Prior.


284

BEHOLD THE SUN.

[_]

(Air.—Lord Mornington.)

Behold the Sun, how bright
From yonder East he springs,
As if the soul of life and light
Were breathing from his wings.
So bright the Gospel broke
Upon the souls of men;
So fresh the dreaming world awoke
In Truth's full radiance then.
Before yon Sun arose,
Stars cluster'd through the sky—
But oh how dim, how pale were those,
To His one burning eye!
So Truth lent many a ray,
To bless the Pagan's night—
But, Lord, how weak, how cold were they
To Thy One glorious Light!

285

LORD, WHO SHALL BEAR THAT DAY.

[_]

(Air.—Dr. Boyce.)

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid,
When we shall see thy Angel, hov'ring o'er
This sinful world, with hand to heav'n extended,
And hear him swear by Thee that Time's no more?
When Earth shall feel thy fast consuming ray—
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?
When through the world thy awful call hath sounded—
“Wake, all ye Dead, to judgment wake, ye Dead!”

286

And from the clouds, by seraph eyes surrounded,
The Saviour shall put forth his radiant head ;
While Earth and Heav'n before Him pass away —
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?
When, with a glance, th' Eternal Judge shall sever
Earth's evil spirits from the pure and bright,
And say to those, “Depart from me for ever!”
To these, “Come, dwell with me in endless light!”
When each and all in silence take their way—
Who, Mighty God, oh who shall bear that day?
 

“And the Angel which I saw stand upon the sea and upon the earth, lifted up his hand to heaven, and sware by Him that liveth for ever and ever, that there should be time no longer.” —Rev. x. 5, 6.

“Awake, ye Dead, and come to judgment.”

“They shall see the Son of Man coming in the clouds of heaven—and all the angels with him.” —Matt. xxiv. 30. and xxv. 31.

“From his face the earth and the heaven fled away.” —Rev. xx. 11.

“And before Him shall be gathered all nations, and He shall separate them one from another.

“Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand, Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you, &c.

“Then shall He say also unto them on the left hand, Depart from me, ye cursed, &c.

“And these shall go away into everlasting punishment; but the righteous into life eternal.” —Matt. xxv. 32. et seq.


287

OH, TEACH ME TO LOVE THEE.

[_]

(Air.—Haydn.)

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art,
Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown;
Like some pure temple, that shines apart,
Reserved for Thy worship alone.
In joy and in sorrow, through praise and through blame,
Thus still let me, living and dying the same,
In Thy service bloom and decay—
Like some lone altar, whose votive flame
In holiness wasteth away.
Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and dearth,
On Thee let my spirit rely—
Like some rude dial, that, fix'd on earth,
Still looks for its light from the sky.

288

WEEP, CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

Weep, weep for him, the Man of GOD
In yonder vale he sunk to rest;
But none of earth can point the sod
That flowers above his sacred breast.
Weep, children of Israel, weep!
His doctrine fell like Heaven's rain ,
His words refresh'd like Heaven's dew—
Oh, ne'er shall Israel see again
A Chief, to God and her so true.
Weep, children of Israel, weep!

289

Remember ye his parting gaze,
His farewell song by Jordan's tide,
When, full of glory and of days,
He saw the promised land—and died.
Weep, children of Israel, weep!
Yet died he not as men who sink,
Before our eyes, to soulless clay;
But, changed to spirit, like a wink
Of summer lightning, pass'd away.
Weep, children of Israel, weep!
 

“And the children of Israel wept for Moses in the plains of Moab.” —Deut. xxxiv. 8.

“And he buried him in a valley in the land of Moab: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day.” —Ibid. ver. 6.

“My doctrine shall drop as the rain, my speech shall distil as the dew.” —Moses' Song.

“I have caused thee to see it with thine eyes, but thou shalt not go over thither.” —Deut. xxxiv. 4.

“As he was going to embrace Eleazer and Joshua, and was still discoursing with them, a cloud stood over him on the sudden, and he disappeared in a certain valley, although he wrote in the Holy Books that he died, which was done out of fear, lest they should venture to say that, because of his extraordinary virtue, he went to God.” —Josephus, book iv. chap. viii.


290

LIKE MORNING, WHEN HER EARLY BREEZE.

[_]

(Air.—Beethoven.)

Like morning, when her early breeze
Breaks up the surface of the seas,
That, in those furrows, dark with night,
Her hand may sow the seeds of light—
Thy Grace can send its breathings o'er
The Spirit, dark and lost before,
And, fresh'ning all its depths, prepare
For Truth divine to enter there.
Till David touch'd his sacred lyre,
In silence lay th' unbreathing wire;
But when he swept its chords along,
Ev'n Angels stoop'd to hear that song.
So sleeps the soul, till Thou, oh Lord,
Shalt deign to touch its lifeless chord—
Till, waked by Thee, its breath shall rise
In music, worthy of the skies!

291

COME, YE DISCONSOLATE.

[_]

(Air.—German.)

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish,
Come, at God's altar fervently kneel;
Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish—
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal.
Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying,
Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure,
Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying—
“Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure.”
Go, ask the infidel, what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal,
Sweet as that heavenly promise Hope sings us—
“Earth has no sorrow that God cannot heal.”

292

AWAKE, ARISE, THY LIGHT IS COME.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

Awake, arise, thy light is come ;
The nations, that before outshone thee,
Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb—
The glory of the Lord is on thee!
Arise—the Gentiles to thy ray,
From ev'ry nook of earth shall cluster;
And kings and princes haste to pay
Their homage to thy rising lustre.
Lift up thine eyes around, and see,
O'er foreign fields, o'er farthest waters,
Thy exiled sons return to thee,
To thee return thy home-sick daughters.

293

And camels rich, from Midian's tents,
Shall lay their treasures down before thee;
And Saba bring her gold and scents,
To fill thy air, and sparkle o'er thee.
See, who are these that, like a cloud ,
Are gathering from all earth's dominions,
Like doves, long absent, when allow'd
Homeward to shoot their trembling pinions.
Surely the isles shall wait for me ,
The ships of Tarshish round will hover,
To bring thy sons across the sea,
And waft their gold and silver over.

294

And Lebanon thy pomp shall grace —
The fir, the pine, the palm victorious
Shall beautify our Holy Place,
And make the ground I tread on glorious.
No more shall Discord haunt thy ways
Nor ruin waste thy cheerless nation;
But thou shalt call thy portals, Praise,
And thou shalt name thy walls, Salvation.
The sun no more shall make thee bright ,
Nor moon shall lend her lustre to thee;
But God, Himself, shall be thy Light,
And flash eternal glory through thee.

295

Thy sun shall never more go down;
A ray, from heav'n itself descended,
Shall light thy everlasting crown—
Thy days of mourning all are ended.
My own, elect, and righteous Land!
The Branch, for ever green and vernal,
Which I have planted with this hand—
Live thou shalt in Life Eternal.
 

“Arise, shine; for thy light is come, and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.” —Isaiah, lx.

“And the Gentiles shall come to thy light, and kings to the brightness of thy rising.” —Ib.

“Lift up thine eyes round about and see; all they gather themselves together, they come to thee: thy sons shall come from afar, and thy daughters shall be nursed at thy side.” —Isaiah, lx.

“The multitude of camels shall cover thee; the dromedaries of Midian and Ephah; all they from Sheba shall come; they shall bring gold and incense.” —Ib.

“Who are these that fly as a cloud, and as the doves to their windows?” —Ib.

“Surely the isles shall wait for me, and the ships of Tarshish first, to bring thy sons from far, their silver and their gold with them.” —Ib.

“The glory of Lebanon shall come unto thee; the fir-tree, the pine-tree, and the box together, to beautify the place of my sanctuary, and I will make the place of my feet glorious.” —Isaiah, lx.

“Violence shall no more be heard in thy land, wasting nor destruction within thy borders; but thou shalt call thy walls, Salvation, and thy gates, Praise.” —Ib.

“Thy sun shall be no more thy light by day; neither for brightness shall the moon give light unto thee: but the Lord shall be unto thee an everlasting light, and thy God thy glory.” —Ib.

“Thy sun shall no more go down; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.” —Isaiah, lx.

“Thy people also shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever, the branch of my planting, the work of my hands.” —Ib.


296

THERE IS A BLEAK DESERT.

[_]

(Air.—Crescentini.)

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary—
What may that Desert be?
'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come
Are lost, like that daylight, for 'tis not their home.
There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies—
Who may that Pilgrim be?
'Tis Man, hapless Man, through this life tempted on
By fair shining hopes, that in shining are gone.
There is a bright Fountain, through that Desert stealing
To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing—
What may that Fountain be?

297

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground,
By the gifted of Heaven alone can be found.
There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell—
Who may that Spirit be?
'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learn'd that, where'er
Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must be there!
 

In singing, the following line had better be adopted,—

“Can but by the gifted of Heaven be found.”


298

SINCE FIRST THY WORD.

[_]

(Air.—Nicholas Freeman.)

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart,
Like new life dawning o'er me,
Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,
All light and love before me.
Nought else I feel, or hear or see—
All bonds of earth I sever—
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
Like him whose fetters dropp'd away
When light shone o'er his prison ,
My spirit, touch'd by Mercy's ray,
Hath from her chains arisen.

299

And shall a soul Thou bidst be free,
Return to bondage?—never!
Thee, O God, and only Thee
I live for, now and ever.
 

“And, behold, the angel of the Lord came upon him, and a light shined in the prison, and his chains fell off from his hands.” —Acts, xii. 7.


300

HARK! 'TIS THE BREEZE.

[_]

(Air.—Rousseau.)

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling
Earth's weary children to repose;
While, round the couch of Nature falling,
Gently the night's soft curtains close.
Soon o'er a world, in sleep reclining,
Numberless stars, through yonder dark,
Shall look, like eyes of Cherubs shining
From out the veils that hid the Ark.
Guard us, oh Thou, who never sleepest,
Thou who, in silence throned above,
Throughout all time, unwearied, keepest
Thy watch of Glory, Pow'r, and Love.
Grant that, beneath thine eye, securely,
Our souls, awhile from life withdrawn,
May, in their darkness, stilly, purely,
Like “sealed fountains,” rest till dawn.

301

WHERE IS YOUR DWELLING, YE SAINTED?

[_]

(Air.—Hasse.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
Through what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
Or hope to dwell with you there?
Sages! who, ev'n in exploring
Nature through all her bright ways,
Went, like the Seraphs, adoring,
And veil'd your eyes in the blaze—
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
Truths you had sown in your blood—
Sinners! whom long years of weeping
Chasten'd from evil to good—

302

Maidens! who, like the young Crescent,
Turning away your pale brows
From earth, and the light of the Present,
Look'd to your Heavenly Spouse—
Say, through what region enchanted
Walk ye, in Heaven's sweet air?
Say, to what spirits 'tis granted,
Bright souls, to dwell with you there?

303

HOW LIGHTLY MOUNTS THE MUSE'S WING.

[_]

(Air.—Anonymous.)

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing,
Whose theme is in the skies—
Like morning larks, that sweeter sing
The nearer Heav'n they rise.
Though Love his magic lyre may tune,
Yet ah, the flow'rs he round it wreathes
Were pluck'd beneath pale Passion's moon,
Whose madness in their odour breathes.
How purer far the sacred lute,
Round which Devotion ties
Sweet flow'rs that turn to heav'nly fruit,
And palm that never dies.
Though War's high-sounding harp may be
Most welcome to the hero's ears,
Alas, his chords of victory
Are wet, all o'er, with human tears.

304

How far more sweet their numbers run,
Who hymn, like Saints above,
No victor, but th' Eternal One,
No trophies but of Love!

305

GO FORTH TO THE MOUNT.

[_]

(Air.—Stevenson.)

Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home ,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
From that time , when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,
Looking motionless down , saw the kings of the earth,
In the presence of God's mighty Champion, grow pale—
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such mirth!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!

306

Bring myrtle and palm—bring the boughs of each tree
That's worthy to wave o'er the tents of the Free.
From that day, when the footsteps of Israel shone,
With a light not their own, through the Jordan's deep tide,
Whose waters shrunk back as the Ark glided on —
Oh, never had Judah an hour of such pride!
Go forth to the Mount—bring the olive-branch home,
And rejoice, for the day of our Freedom is come!
 

“And that they should publish and proclaim in all their cities, and in Jerusalem, saying, Go forth unto the mount, and fetch olive-branches,” &c. &c. —Neh. viii. 15.

“For since the days of Joshua the son of Nun unto that day had not the children of Israel done so: and there was very great gladness.” —Ib. 17.

“Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon.” —Josh. x. 12.

“Fetch olive-branches and pine-branches, and myrtle-branches, and palm-branches, and branches of thick trees, to make booths.” —Neh. viii. 15.

“And the priests that bare the ark of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on dry ground in the midst of Jordan, and all the Israelites passed over on dry ground.” —Josh. iii. 17.


307

IS IT NOT SWEET TO THINK, HEREAFTER.

[_]

(Air.—Haydn.)

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter,
When the Spirit leaves this sphere,
Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her
To those she long hath mourn'd for here?
Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever,
Eyes, this world can ne'er restore,
There, as warm, as bright as ever,
Shall meet us and be lost no more.
When wearily we wander, asking
Of earth and heav'n, where are they,
Beneath whose smile we once lay basking,
Blest, and thinking bliss would stay?
Hope still lifts her radiant finger
Pointing to th' eternal Home,

308

Upon whose portal yet they linger,
Looking back for us to come.
Alas, alas—doth Hope deceive us?
Shall friendship—love—shall all those ties
That bind a moment, and then leave us,
Be found again where nothing dies?
Oh, if no other boon were given,
To keep our hearts from wrong and stain,
Who would not try to win a Heaven
Where all we love shall live again?

309

WAR AGAINST BABYLON.

[_]

(Air.—Novello.)

War against Babylon!” shout we around ,
Be our banners through earth unfurl'd;
Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound —
“War against Babylon!” shout through the world!
Oh thou, that dwellest on many waters ,
Thy day of pride is ended now;
And the dark curse of Israel's daughters
Breaks, like a thunder-cloud, over thy brow!
War, war, war against Babylon!

310

Make bright the arrows, and gather the shields ,
Set the standard of God on high;
Swarm we, like locusts, o'er all her fields,
“Zion” our watchword, and “vengeance” our cry!
Woe! woe!—the time of thy visitation
Is come, proud Land, thy doom is cast—
And the black surge of desolation
Sweeps o'er thy guilty head, at last!
War, war, war against Babylon!
 

“Shout against her round about.” —Jer. 1. 15.

“Set up a standard in the land, blow the trumpet among the nations, prepare the nations against her, call together against her the kingdoms,” &c. &c. —Ib. li. 27.

“Oh thou that dwellest upon many waters, thy end is come.” Ib. 13.

“Make bright the arrows; gather the shields.....set the standard upon the walls of Babylon” —Jer. li. 11, 12.

“Woe unto them! for their day is come, the time of their visitation!” —Jer. 1. 27.



THE SUMMER FÊTE.



TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. NORTON.


Where are ye now, ye summer days,
“That once inspired the poet's lays?
“Blest time! ere England's nymphs and swains,
“For lack of sunbeams, took to coals—
“Summers of light, undimm'd by rains,
“Whose only mocking trace remains
“In watering-pots and parasols.”
Thus spoke a young Patrician maid,
As, on the morning of that Fête
Which bards unborn shall celebrate,
She backward drew her curtain's shade,
And, closing one half-dazzled eye,
Peep'd with the other at the sky—
Th' important sky, whose light or gloom
Was to decide, this day, the doom

316

Of some few hundred beauties, wits,
Blues, Dandies, Swains, and Exquisites.
Faint were her hopes; for June had now
Set in with all his usual rigour!
Young Zephyr yet scarce knowing how
To nurse a bud, or fan a bough,
But Eurus in perpetual vigour;
And, such the biting summer air,
That she, the nymph now nestling there—
Snug as her own bright gems recline,
At night, within their cotton shrine—
Had, more than once, been caught of late
Kneeling before her blazing grate,
Like a young worshipper of fire,
With hands uplifted to the flame,
Whose glow as if to woo them nigher,
Through the white fingers flushing came.
But oh! the light, the unhoped-for light,
That now illumed this morning's heaven!
Up sprung Iänthe at the sight,
Though—hark!—the clocks but strike eleven,

317

And rarely did the nymph surprise
Mankind so early with her eyes.
Who now will say that England's sun
(Like England's self, these spendthrift days)
His stock of wealth hath near outrun,
And must retrench his golden rays—
Pay for the pride of sunbeams past,
And to mere moonshine come at last?
“Calumnious thought!” Iänthe cries,
While coming mirth lit up each glance,
And, prescient of the ball, her eyes
Already had begun to dance:
For brighter sun than that which now
Sparkled o'er London's spires and towers,
Had never bent from heaven his brow
To kiss Firenze's City of Flowers.
What must it be—if thus so fair
Mid the smoked groves of Grosvenor Square—
What must it be where Thames is seen
Gliding between his banks of green,

318

While rival villas, on each side,
Peep from their bowers to woo his tide,
And, like a Turk between two rows
Of Harem beauties, on he goes—
A lover, loved for ev'n the grace
With which he slides from their embrace.
In one of those enchanted domes,
One, the most flowery, cool, and bright
Of all by which that river roams,
The Fête is to be held to-night—
That Fête already link'd to fame,
Whose cards, in many a fair one's sight
(When look'd for long, at last they came,)
Seem'd circled with a fairy light;—
That Fête to which the cull, the flower
Of England's beauty, rank and power,
From the young spinster, just come out,
To the old Premier, too long in
From legs of far descended gout,
To the last new-mustachio'd chin—
All were convoked by Fashion's spells
To the small circle where she dwells,

319

Collecting nightly, to allure us,
Live atoms, which, together hurl'd,
She, like another Epicurus,
Sets dancing thus, and calls “the World.”
Behold how busy in those bowers
(Like May-flies, in and out of flowers,)
The countless menials swarming run,
To furnish forth, ere set of sun,
The banquet-table richly laid
Beneath yon awning's lengthen'd shade,
Where fruits shall tempt, and wines entice,
And Luxury's self, at Gunter's call,
Breathe from her summer-throne of ice
A spirit of coolness over all.
And now the important hour drew nigh,
When, 'neath the flush of evening's sky,
The west-end “world” for mirth let loose,
And moved, as he of Syracuse
Ne'er dreamt of moving worlds, by force
Of four-horse power, had all combined

320

Through Grosvenor Gate to speed their course,
Leaving that portion of mankind,
Whom they call “Nobody,” behind;—
No star for London's feasts to-day,
No moon of beauty, new this May,
To lend the night her crescent ray;—
Nothing, in short, for ear or eye,
But veteran belles, and wits gone by,
The relics of a past beau-monde,
A world, like Cuvier's, long dethroned!
Ev'n Parliament this evening nods
Beneath th' harangues of minor gods,
On half its usual opiate's share;
The great dispensers of repose,
The first-rate furnishers of prose
Being all call'd to—prose elsewhere.
Soon as through Grosvenor's lordly square —
That last impregnable redoubt,
Where, guarded with Patrician care,
Primeval Error still holds out—

321

Where never gleam of gas must dare
'Gainst ancient Darkness to revolt,
Nor smooth Macadam hope to spare
The dowagers one single jolt;—
Where, far too stately and sublime
To profit by the lights of time,
Let Intellect march how it will,
They stick to oil and watchmen still:—
Soon as through that illustrious square
The first epistolary bell,
Sounding by fits upon the air,
Of parting pennies rung the knell;
Warn'd by that tell-tale of the hours,
And by the day-light's westering beam,
The young Iänthe, who, with flowers
Half crown'd, had sat in idle dream
Before her glass, scarce knowing where
Her fingers roved through that bright hair,
While, all capriciously, she now
Dislodged some curl from her white brow,
And now again replaced it there;—
As though her task was meant to be
One endless change of ministry—

322

A routing-up of Loves and Graces,
But to plant others in their places.
Meanwhile—what strain is that which floats
Through the small boudoir near—like notes
Of some young bird, its task repeating
For the next linnet music-meeting?
A voice it was, whose gentle sounds
Still kept a modest octave's bounds,
Nor yet had ventured to exalt
Its rash ambition to B alt,
That point towards which when ladies rise,
The wise man takes his hat and—flies.
Tones of a harp, too, gently played,
Came with this youthful voice communing;
Tones true, for once, without the aid
Of that inflictive process, tuning—
A process which must oft have given
Poor Milton's ears a deadly wound;
So pleased, among the joys of Heaven,
He specifies “harps ever tuned.”

323

She who now sung this gentle strain
Was our young nymph's still younger sister—
Scarce ready yet for Fashion's train
In their light legions to enlist her,
But counted on, as sure to bring
Her force into the field next spring.
The song she thus, like Jubal's shell,
Gave forth “so sweetly and so well,”
Was one in Morning Post much famed,
From a divine collection, named,
“Songs of the Toilet”—every Lay
Taking for subject of its Muse,
Some branch of feminine array,
Some item, with full scope, to choose,
From diamonds down to dancing shoes;
From the last hat that Herbault's hands
Bequeath'd to an admiring world,
Down to the latest flounce that stands
Like Jacob's Ladder—or expands
Far forth, tempestuously unfurl'd.
Speaking of one of these new Lays,
The Morning Post thus sweetly says:—

324

“Not all that breathes from Bishop's lyre,
“That Barnett dreams, or Cooke conceives,
“Can match for sweetness, strength, or fire,
“This fine Cantata upon Sleeves.
“The very notes themselves reveal
“The cut of each new sleeve so well;
“A flat betrays the Imbécilles ,
“Light fugues the flying lappets tell;
“While rich cathedral chords awake
“Our homage for the Manches d' Évêque.”
'Twas the first opening song—the Lay
Of all least deep in toilet-lore,
That the young nymph, to while away
The tiring-hour, thus warbled o'er:—

SONG.

Array thee, love, array thee, love,
In all thy best array thee;
The sun's below—the moon's above—
And Night and Bliss obey thee.

325

Put on thee all that's bright and rare,
The zone, the wreath, the gem,
Not so much gracing charms so fair,
As borrowing grace from them.
Array thee, love, array thee, love,
In all that's bright array thee;
The sun's below—the moon's above—
And Night and Bliss obey thee.
Put on the plumes thy lover gave,
The plumes, that, proudly dancing,
Proclaim to all, where'er they wave,
Victorious eyes advancing.
Bring forth the robe, whose hue of heaven
From thee derives such light,
That Iris would give all her seven
To boast but one so bright.
Array thee, love, array thee, love,
&c. &c. &c.
Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,
Through Pleasure's circles hie thee,
And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,
Will beat, when they come nigh thee.

326

Thy every word shall be a spell,
Thy every look a ray,
And tracks of wondering eyes shall tell
The glory of thy way!
Now hie thee, love, now hie thee, love,
Through Pleasure's circles hie thee,
And hearts, where'er thy footsteps move,
Shall beat when they come nigh thee.
Now in his Palace of the West,
Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,
Like a tired monarch fann'd to rest,
Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;
While round his couch's golden rim
The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept—
Struggling each other's light to dim,
And catch his last smile e'er he slept.
How gay, as o'er the gliding Thames
The golden eve its lustre pour'd,
Shone out the high-born knights and dames
Now grouped around that festal board;

327

A living mass of plumes and flowers,
As though they'd robb'd both birds and bowers—
A peopled rainbow, swarming through
With habitants of every hue;
While, as the sparkling juice of France
High in the crystal brimmers flowed,
Each sunset ray that mixed by chance
With the wine's sparkles, showed
How sunbeams may be taught to dance.
If not in written form exprest,
'Twas known, at least, to every guest,
That, though not bidden to parade
Their scenic powers in masquerade,
(A pastime little found to thrive
In the bleak fog of England's skies,
Where wit's the thing we best contrive,
As masqueraders, to disguise,)
It yet was hoped—and well that hope
Was answered by the young and gay—
That, in the toilet's task to-day,
Fancy should take her wildest scope;—
That the rapt milliner should be
Let loose through fields of poesy,

328

The tailor, in inventive trance,
Up to the heights of Epic clamber,
And all the regions of Romance
Be ransacked by the femme de chambre.
Accordingly, with gay Sultanas,
Rebeccas, Sapphos, Roxalanas—
Circassian slaves whom Love would pay
Half his maternal realms to ransom;—
Young nuns, whose chief religion lay
In looking most profanely handsome;—
Muses in muslin—pastoral maids
With hats from the Arcade-ian shades,
And fortune-tellers, rich, 'twas plain,
As fortune-hunters form'd their train.
With these, and more such female groups,
Were mixed no less fantastic troops
Of male exhibiters—all willing
To look, even more than usual, killing;—
Beau tyrants, smock-faced braggadocios,
And brigands, charmingly ferocious;—
M.P.s turned Turks, good Moslems then,
Who, last night, voted for the Greeks;

329

And Friars, staunch No-Popery men,
In close confab with Whig Caciques.
But where is she—the nymph, whom late
We left before her glass delaying,
Like Eve, when by the lake she sate,
In the clear wave her charms surveying,
And saw in that first glassy mirror
The first fair face that lured to error.
“Where is she,” ask'st thou?—watch all looks
As cent'ring to one point they bear,
Like sun-flowers by the sides of brooks,
Turn'd to the sun—and she is there.
Ev'n in disguise, oh never doubt
By her own light you'd track her out:
As when the moon, close shawl'd in fog,
Steals as she thinks, through heaven incog.,
Though hid herself, some sidelong ray,
At every step, detects her way.
But not in dark disguise to-night
Hath our young heroine veil'd her light;—
For see, she walks the earth, Love's own,
His wedded bride, by holiest vow

330

Pledged in Olympus, and made known
To mortals by the type which now
Hangs glittering on her snowy brow,
That butterfly, mysterious trinket,
Which means the Soul (tho' few would think it),
And sparkling thus on brow so white,
Tells us we've Psyche here to-night!
But hark! some song hath caught her ears—
And, lo, how pleased, as though she'd ne'er
Heard the Grand Opera of the Spheres,
Her goddess-ship approves the air;
And to a mere terrestrial strain,
Inspired by nought but pink champagne,
Her butterfly as gaily nods
As though she sate with all her train
At some great Concert of the Gods,
With Phœbus, leader—Jove, director,
And half the audience drunk with nectar.
From a male group the carol came—
A few gay youths, whom round the board
The last-tried flask's superior fame
Had lured to taste the tide it pour'd;

331

And one, who, from his youth and lyre,
Seem'd grandson to the Teian sire,
Thus gaily sung, while, to his song,
Replied in chorus the gay throng:—

SONG.

Some mortals there may be, so wise, or so fine,
As in evenings like this no enjoyment to see;
But, as I'm not particular—wit, love, and wine,
Are for one night's amusement sufficient for me.
Nay—humble and strange as my tastes may appear—
If driv'n to the worst, I could manage, thank Heaven,
To put up with eyes such as beam round me here,
And such wine as we're sipping, six days out of seven.
So pledge me a bumper—your sages profound
May be blest, if they will, on their own patent plan:
But as we are not sages, why—send the cup round—
We must only be happy the best way we can.

332

A reward by some king was once offer'd, we're told,
To whoe'er could invent a new bliss for mankind;
But talk of new pleasures!—give me but the old,
And I'll leave your inventors all new ones they find
Or should I, in quest of fresh realms of bliss,
Set sail in the pinnace of Fancy some day,
Let the rich rosy sea I embark on be this,
And such eyes as we've here be the stars of my way!
In the mean time, a bumper—your Angels, on high,
May have pleasures unknown to life's limited span;
But, as we are not Angels, why—let the flask fly—
We must only be happy all ways that we can.
Now nearly fled was sunset's light,
Leaving but so much of its beam
As gave to objects, late so bright,
The colouring of a shadowy dream;
And there was still where Day had set
A flush that spoke him loth to die—

333

A last link of his glory yet,
Binding together earth and sky.
Say, why is it that twilight best
Becomes even brows the loveliest?
That dimness, with its softening touch,
Can bring out grace, unfelt before,
And charms we ne'er can see too much,
When seen but half enchant the more?
Alas, it is that every joy
In fulness finds its worst alloy,
And half a bliss, but hoped or guess'd,
Is sweeter than the whole possess'd;—
That Beauty, when least shone upon,
A creature most ideal grows;
And there's no light from moon or sun
Like that Imagination throws;—
It is, alas, that Fancy shrinks
Even from a bright reality,
And turning inly, feels and thinks
Far heavenlier things than e'er will be.
Such was th' effect of twilight's hour
On the fair groups that, round and round,

334

From glade to grot, from bank to bower,
Now wander'd through this fairy ground;
And thus did Fancy—and champagne—
Work on the sight their dazzling spells,
Till nymphs that look'd, at noon-day, plain,
Now brighten'd, in the gloom, to belles;
And the brief interval of time,
'Twixt after dinner and before,
To dowagers brought back their prime,
And shed a halo round two-score.
Meanwhile, new pastimes for the eye,
The ear, the fancy, quick succeed;
And now along the waters fly
Light gondoles, of Venetian breed,
With knights and dames, who, calm reclined,
Lisp out love-sonnets as they glide—
Astonishing old Thames to find
Such doings on his moral tide.
So bright was still that tranquil river,
With the last shaft from Daylight's quiver,
That many a group, in turn, were seen
Embarking on its wave serene;

335

And, 'mong the rest, in chorus gay,
A band of mariners, from th' isles
Of sunny Greece, all song and smiles,
As smooth they floated, to the play
Of their oar's cadence, sung this lay:—

TRIO.

Our home is on the sea, boy,
Our home is on the sea;
When Nature gave
The ocean-wave,
She mark'd it for the Free.
Whatever storms befall, boy,
Whatever storms befall,
The island bark
Is Freedom's ark,
And floats her safe through all.
Behold yon sea of isles, boy,
Behold yon sea of isles,
Where every shore
Is sparkling o'er
With Beauty's richest smiles.

336

For us hath Freedom claim'd, boy,
For us hath Freedom claim'd
Those ocean-nests
Where Valour rests
His eagle wing untamed.
And shall the Moslem dare, boy,
And shall the Moslem dare,
While Grecian hand
Can wield a brand,
To plant his Crescent there?
No—by our fathers, no, boy,
No, by the Cross we show—
From Maina's rills
To Thracia's hills
All Greece re-echoes “No!”
Like pleasant thoughts that o'er the mind
A minute come, and go again,
Ev'n so, by snatches, in the wind,
Was caught and lost that choral strain,
Now full, now faint upon the ear,
As the bark floated far or near.

337

At length when, lost, the closing note
Had down the waters died along,
Forth from another fairy boat,
Freighted with music, came this song:—

SONG.

Smoothly flowing through verdant vales,
Gentle river, thy current runs,
Shelter'd safe from winter gales,
Shaded cool from summer suns.
Thus our Youth's sweet moments glide,
Fenced with flow'ry shelter round;
No rude tempest wakes the tide,
All its path is fairy ground.
But, fair river, the day will come,
When, woo'd by whisp'ring groves in vain,
Thou'lt leave those banks, thy shaded home,
To mingle with the stormy main.
And thou, sweet Youth, too soon wilt pass
Into the world's unshelter'd sea,
Where, once thy wave hath mix'd, alas,
All hope of peace is lost for thee.

338

Next turn we to the gay saloon,
Resplendent as a summer noon,
Where, 'neath a pendent wreath of lights,
A Zodiac of flowers and tapers—
(Such as in Russian ball-rooms sheds
Its glory o'er young dancers' heads)—
Quadrille performs her mazy rites,
And reigns supreme o'er slides and capers;—
Working to death each opera strain,
As, with a foot that ne'er reposes,
She jigs through sacred and profane,
From “Maid and Magpie” up to “Moses ;”—
Wearing out tunes as fast as shoes,
Till fagg'd Rossini scarce respires;
Till Mayerbeer for mercy sues,
And Weber at her feet expires.
And now the set hath ceased—the bows
Of fiddlers taste a brief repose,

339

While light along the painted floor,
Arm within arm, the couples stray,
Talking their stock of nothings o'er,
Till—nothing's left, at last, to say.
When, lo!—most opportunely sent—
Two Exquisites, a he and she,
Just brought from Dandyland, and meant
For Fashion's grand Menagerie,
Enter'd the room—and scarce were there
When all flock'd round them, glad to stare
At any monsters, any where.
Some thought them perfect, to their tastes;
While others hinted that the waists
(That in particular of the he thing)
Left far too ample room for breathing:
Whereas, to meet these critics' wishes,
The isthmus there should be so small,
That Exquisites, at last, like fishes,
Must manage not to breathe at all.
The female (these same critics said),
Though orthodox from toe to chin,
Yet lack'd that spacious width of head
To hat of toadstool much akin—

340

That build of bonnet, whose extent
Should, like a doctrine of dissent,
Puzzle church-doors to let it in.
However—sad as 'twas, no doubt,
That nymph so smart should go about,
With head unconscious of the place
It ought to fill in Infinite Space—
Yet all allow'd that, of her kind,
A prettier show 'twas hard to find;
While of that doubtful genus, “dressy men,”
The male was thought a first-rate specimen.
Such Savans, too, as wish'd to trace
The manners, habits, of this race—
To know what rank (if rank at all)
'Mong reas'ning things to them should fall—
What sort of notions heaven imparts
To high-built heads and tight-laced hearts,
And how far Soul, which, Plato says,
Abhors restraint, can act in stays—
Might now, if gifted with discerning,
Find opportunities of learning:
As these two creatures—from their pout
And frown, 'twas plain—had just fall'n out;

341

And all their little thoughts, of course,
Were stirring in full fret and force;—
Like mites, through microscope espied,
A world of nothings magnified.
But mild the vent such beings seek,
The tempest of their souls to speak:
As Opera swains to fiddles sigh,
To fiddles fight, to fiddles die,
Even so this tender couple set
Their well-bred woes to a Duet.

WALTZ DUET.

HE.
Long as I waltz'd with only thee,
Each blissful Wednesday that went by,

342

Nor stylish Stultz, nor neat Nugee
Adorn'd a youth so blest as I.
Oh! ah! ah! oh!
Those happy days are gone—heighho!

SHE.
Long as with thee I skimm'd the ground,
Nor yet was scorn'd for Lady Jane,
No blither nymph tetotum'd round
To Collinet's immortal strain.
Oh! ah! &c.
Those happy days are gone—heighho!

HE.
With Lady Jane now whirl'd about,
I know no bounds of time or breath;
And, should the charmer's head hold out,
My heart and heels are hers till death.
Oh! ah! &c.
Still round and round through life we'll go.

SHE.
To Lord Fitznoodle's eldest son,
A youth renown'd for waistcoats smart,

343

I now have given (excuse the pun)
A vested interest in my heart.
Oh! ah! &c.
Still round and round with him I'll go.

HE.
What if, by fond remembrance led
Again to wear our mutual chain,
For me thou cut'st Fitznoodle dead,
And I levant from Lady Jane.
Oh! ah! &c.
Still round and round again we'll go.

SHE.
Though he the Noodle honours give,
And thine, dear youth, are not so high,
With thee in endless waltz I'd live,
With thee, to Weber's Stop-Waltz, die!
Oh! ah! &c.
Thus round and round through life we'll go.

[Exeunt waltzing.

344

While thus, like motes that dance away
Existence in a summer ray,
These gay things, born but to quadrille,
The circle of their doom fulfil—
(That dancing doom, whose law decrees
That they should live, on the alert toe,
A life of ups-and-downs, like keys
Of Broadwood's in a long concerto:—)
While thus the fiddle's spell, within,
Calls up its realm of restless sprites,
Without, as if some Mandarin
Were holding there his Feast of Lights,
Lamps of all hues, from walks and bowers,
Broke on the eye, like kindling flowers,
Till, budding into light, each tree
Bore its full fruit of brilliancy.
Here shone a garden—lamps all o'er,
As though the Spirits of the Air
Had tak'n it in their heads to pour
A shower of summer meteors there;—
While here a lighted shrubbery led
To a small lake that sleeping lay,

345

Cradled in foliage, but, o'er-head,
Open to heaven's sweet breath and ray;
While round its rim there burning stood
Lamps, with young flowers beside them bedded,
That shrunk from such warm neighbourhood;
And, looking bashful in the flood,
Blush'd to behold themselves so wedded.
Hither, to this embower'd retreat,
Fit but for nights so still and sweet;
Nights, such as Eden's calm recall
In its first lonely hour, when all
So silent is, below, on high,
That if a star falls down the sky,
You almost think you hear it fall—
Hither, to this recess, a few,
To shun the dancers' wildering noise,
And give an hour, ere night-time flew,
To music's more ethereal joys,
Came, with their voices—ready all
As Echo, waiting for a call—
In hymn or ballad, dirge or glee,
To weave their mingling minstrelsy.

346

And, first, a dark-ey'd nymph, array'd—
Like her, whom Art hath deathless made,
Bright Mona Lisa —with that braid
Of hair across the brow, and one
Small gem that in the centre shone—
With face, too, in its form resembling
Da Vinci's Beauties—the dark eyes,
Now lucid, as through crystal trembling,
Now soft, as if suffused with sighs—
Her lute, that hung beside her, took,
And, bending o'er it with shy look,
More beautiful, in shadow thus,
Than when with life most luminous,
Pass'd her light finger o'er the chords,
And sung to them these mournful words:—

SONG.

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying—
Here will I lay me, and list to thy song;

347

Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banish'd so long,
Chase them away—they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.
Sing on, thou mournful lute—day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanish'd, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades!—see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.
The group, that late, in garb of Greeks,
Sung their light chorus o'er the tide—
Forms, such as up the wooded creeks
Of Helle's shore at noon-day glide,
Or, nightly, on her glistening sea,
Woo the bright waves with melody—
Now link'd their triple league again
Of voices sweet, and sung a strain,

348

Such as, had Sappho's tuneful ear
But caught it, on the fatal steep,
She would have paused, entranced, to hear,
And, for that day, deferr'd her leap.

SONG AND TRIO.

On one of those sweet nights that oft
Their lustre o'er th' Ægean fling,
Beneath my casement, low and soft,
I heard a Lesbian lover sing;
And, listening both with ear and thought,
These sounds upon the night-breeze caught—
“Oh, happy as the gods is he,
“Who gazes at this hour on thee!”
The song was one by Sappho sung,
In the first love-dreams of her lyre,
When words of passion from her tongue
Fell like a shower of living fire.
And still, at close of every strain,
I heard these burning words again—

349

“Oh, happy as the gods is he,
“Who listens at this hour to thee!”
Once more to Mona Lisa turn'd
Each asking eye—nor turn'd in vain;
Though the quick, transient blush that burn'd
Bright o'er her cheek, and died again,
Show'd with what inly shame and fear
Was utter'd what all loved to hear.
Yet not to sorrow's languid lay
Did she her lute-song now devote;
But thus, with voice that, like a ray
Of southern sunshine, seem'd to float—
So rich with climate was each note—
Call'd up in every heart a dream
Of Italy with this soft theme:—

SONG.

Oh, where art thou dreaming,
On land, or on sea?
In my lattice is gleaming
The watch-light for thee;

350

And this fond heart is glowing
To welcome thee home,
And the night is fast going,
But thou art not come:
No, thou com'st not!
'Tis the time when night-flowers
Should wake from their rest;
'Tis the hour of all hours,
When the lute singeth best.
But the flowers are half sleeping
Till thy glance they see;
And the hush'd lute is keeping
Its music for thee.
Yet, thou com'st not!
Scarce had the last word left her lip,
When a light, boyish form, with trip
Fantastic, up the green walk came,
Prank'd in gay vest, to which the flame
Of every lamp he pass'd, or blue,
Or green, or crimson, lent its hue;

351

As though a live cameleon's skin
He had despoil'd, to robe him in.
A zone he wore of clattering shells,
And from his lofty cap, where shone
A peacock's plume, there dangled bells
That rung as he came dancing on.
Close after him, a page—in dress
And shape, his miniature express—
An ample basket, fill'd with store
Of toys and trinkets, laughing bore;
Till, having reach'd this verdant seat,
He laid it at his master's feet,
Who, half in speech and half in song,
Chaunted this invoice to the throng:—

SONG.

Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?—
We've toys to suit all ranks and ages;
Besides our usual fools' supply,
We've lots of playthings, too, for sages.
For reasoners, here's a juggler's cup,
That fullest seems when nothing's in it;

352

And nine-pins set, like systems, up,
To be knock'd down the following minute.
Who'll buy?—'tis Folly's shop, who'll buy?
Gay caps we here of foolscap make,
For bards to wear in dog-day weather;
Or bards the bells alone may take,
And leave to wits the cap and feather.
Tetotums we've for patriots got,
Who court the mob with antics humble;
Like theirs the patriot's dizzy lot,
A glorious spin, and then—a tumble.
Who'll buy, &c. &c.
Here, wealthy misers to inter,
We've shrouds of neat post-obit paper;
While, for their heirs, we've quicksilver,
That, fast as they can wish, will caper.
For aldermen we've dials true,
That tell no hour but that of dinner;
For courtly parsons sermons new,
That suit alike both saint and sinner.
Who'll buy, &c. &c.

353

No time we've now to name our terms,
But, whatsoe'er the whims that seize you,
This oldest of all mortal firms,
Folly and Co., will try to please you.
Or, should you wish a darker hue
Of goods than we can recommend you,
Why then (as we with lawyers do)
To Knavery's shop next door we'll send you.
Who'll buy, &c. &c.
While thus the blissful moments roll'd,
Moments of rare and fleeting light,
That show themselves, like grains of gold
In the mine's refuse, few and bright;
Behold where, opening far away,
The long Conservatory's range,
Stripp'd of the flowers it wore all day,
But gaining lovelier in exchange,
Presents, on Dresden's costliest ware,
A supper such as Gods might share.

354

Ah much-lov'd Supper!—blithe repast
Of other times, now dwindling fast,
Since Dinner far into the night
Advanced the march of appetite;
Deployed his never-ending forces
Of various vintage and three courses,
And, like those Goths who play'd the dickens
With Rome and all her sacred chickens,
Put Supper and her fowls so white,
Legs, wings, and drumsticks, all to flight.
Now waked once more by wine—whose tide
Is the true Hippocrene, where glide
The Muse's swans with happiest wing,
Dipping their bills, before they sing—
The minstrels of the table greet
The listening ear with descant sweet:—

SONG AND TRIO.

THE LEVEEE AND COUCHEE.

Call the Loves around,
Let the whisp'ring sound

355

Of their wings be heard alone,
Till soft to rest
My Lady blest
At this bright hour hath gone.
Let Fancy's beams
Play o'er her dreams,
Till, touch'd with light all through,
Her spirit be
Like a summer sea,
Shining and slumbering too.
And, while thus hush'd she lies,
Let the whisper'd chorus rise—
“Good evening, good evening, to our Lady's bright eyes.”
But the day-beam breaks,
See, our Lady wakes!
Call the Loves around once more,
Like stars that wait
At Morning's gate,
Her first steps to adore.
Let the veil of night
From her dawning sight
All gently pass away,

356

Like mists that flee
From a summer sea,
Leaving it full of day.
And, while her last dream flies,
Let the whisper'd chorus rise—
“Good morning, good morning, to our Lady's bright eyes.”

SONG.

If to see thee be to love thee,
If to love thee be to prize
Nought of earth or heav'n above thee,
Nor to live but for those eyes:
If such love to mortal given,
Be wrong to earth, be wrong to heaven,
'Tis not for thee the fault to blame,
For from those eyes the madness came.
Forgive but thou the crime of loving,
In this heart more pride 'twill raise
To be thus wrong, with thee approving,
Than right, with all a world to praise!

357

But say, while light these songs resound,
What means that buz of whispering round,
From lip to lip—as if the Power
Of Mystery, in this gay hour,
Had thrown some secret (as we fling
Nuts among children) to that ring
Of rosy, restless lips, to be
Thus scrambled for so wantonly?
And, mark ye, still as each reveals
The mystic news, her hearer steals
A look tow'rds yon enchanted chair,
Where, like the Lady of the Masque,
A nymph, as exquisitely fair
As Love himself for bride could ask,
Sits blushing deep, as if aware
Of the wing'd secret circling there.
Who is this nymph? and what, oh Muse,
What, in the name of all odd things
That woman's restless brain pursues,
What mean these mystic whisperings?
Thus runs the tale:—yon blushing maid,
Who sits in beauty's light array'd,

358

While o'er her leans a tall young Dervise,
(Who from her eyes, as all observe, is
Learning by heart the Marriage Service,)
Is the bright heroine of our song,—
The Love-wed Psyche, whom so long
We've miss'd among this mortal train,
We thought her wing'd to heaven again.
But no—earth still demands her smile;
Her friends, the Gods, must wait awhile.
And if, for maid of heavenly birth,
A young Duke's proffer'd heart and hand
Be things worth waiting for on earth,
Both are, this hour, at her command.
To-night, in yonder half-lit shade,
For love concerns expressly meant,
The fond proposal first was made,
And love and silence blush'd consent.
Parents and friends (all here, as Jews,
Enchanters, house-maids, Turks, Hindoos,)
Have heard, approved, and blest the tie;
And now, hadst thou a poet's eye,
Thou might'st behold, in th' air, above
That brilliant brow, triumphant Love,

359

Holding, as if to drop it down
Gently upon her curls, a crown
Of Ducal shape—but, oh, such gems!
Pilfer'd from Peri diadems,
And set in gold like that which shines
To deck the Fairy of the Mines:
In short, a crown all glorious—such as
Love orders when he makes a Duchess.
But see, 'tis morn in heaven; the Sun
Up the bright orient hath begun
To canter his immortal team;
And, though not yet arrived in sight,
His leaders' nostrils send a steam
Of radiance forth, so rosy bright
As makes their onward path all light.
What's to be done? if Sol will be
So deuced early, so must we;
And when the day thus shines outright,
Ev'n dearest friends must bid good night.
So, farewell, scene of mirth and masking
Now almost a by-gone tale;
Beauties, late in lamp-light basking
Now, by daylight, dim and pale;

360

Harpers, yawning o'er your harps,
Scarcely knowing flats from sharps;
Mothers who, while bored you keep
Time by nodding, nod to sleep;
Heads of hair, that stood last night
Crépé, crispy, and upright,
But have now, alas, one sees, a
Leaning like the tower of Pisa;
Fare ye well—thus sinks away
All that's mighty, all that's bright;
Tyre and Sidon had their day,
And even a Ball—has but its night!
 

Archimedes.

I am not certain whether the Dowagers of this Square have yet yielded to the innovations of Gas and Police, but at the time when the above lines were written they still obstinately persevered in their old régime; and would not suffer themselves to be either well guarded or well lighted.

------ their golden harps they took—
Harps ever tuned.

Paradise Lost, book iii.

The name given to those large sleeves that hang loosely.

In England the partition of this opera of Rossini was transferred to the story of Peter the Hermit; by which means the indecorum of giving such names as “Moÿse,” “Pharaon,” &c. to the dances selected from it (as was done in Paris), has been avoided.

It is hardly necessary to remind the reader that this Duet is a parody of the often-translated and parodied ode of Horace, “Donec gratus eram tibi,” &c.

The celebrated portrait by Lionardo da Vinci, which he is said to have occupied four years in painting. —Vasari, vol. vii.

END OF THE FOURTH VOLUME.