Thomas Moore

Air-"Come live with me and be my love." Come wed with me and we will write, My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE.[1] et remigem cantus hortatur. QUINTILIAN.

"The greater the truth, the worse the libel." A certain Sprite, who dwells below, ('Twere a libel perhaps to mention where,)

Half Whig, half Tory, like those mid-way things, 'Twixt bird and beast, that by mistake have wings; A mongrel Stateman, 'twixt two factions nurst,

"Then I heard one saint speaking, and another saint said unto that saint," St. Sinclair rose and declared in smooth, That he wouldn't give sixpence to Maynooth.

The present Lord Kenyon (the Peer who writes letters, For which the waste-paper folks much are his debtors) Hath one little oddity well worth reciting,

I just had turned the classic page. And traced that happy period over, When blest alike were youth and age,

--risum tenaetis, amici "The longer one lives, the more one learns," Said I, as off to sleep I went,

BY SIR W. CURTIS. 1826. 'Twas evening time, in the twilight sweet

I thought this heart enkindled lay On Cupid's burning shrine: I thought he stole thy heart away,

Not long in bed had Lyndhurst lain, When, as his lamp burned dimly, The ghosts of corporate bodies slain,[1]

"animas sapientiores fieri quiescendo." And now-cross-buns and pancakes o'er-- Hail, Lords and Gentlemen, once more!

"Come, come," said Tom's father, "at your time of life, "There's no longer excuse for thus playing the rake-- "It is time you should think, boy, of taking a wife"--

[1] regnis EX sul ademptis.--Verg. 1827. To Swanage--that neat little town in whose bay

A SHORT STRAIN OF MUSIC FROM THE ORCHESTRA. There breathes a language known and felt Far as the pure air spreads its living zone;

How oft a cloud, with envious veil, Obscures yon bashful light, Which seems so modestly to steal

BY JOHN BULL. Dublin, March 12, 1827.--Friday, after the arrival of the packet bringing the account of the defeat of the Catholic Question, in the House of Commons, orders were sent to the Pigeon-House to forward 5,000,000 rounds of musket-ball cartridge to the different garrisons round the country.--Freeman's Journal. I have found out a gift for my Erin,

See how, beneath the moonbeam's smile, Yon little billow heaves its breast, And foams and sparkles for awhile,--

"If it be the undergraduate season at which this rabies religiosa is to be so fearful, what security has Mr. Goulburn against it at this moment, when his son is actually exposed to the full venom of an association with Dissenters?" --The Times, March 25. How sad a case!--just think of it--

Of all speculations the market holds forth, The best that I know for a lover of pelf, Is to buy Marcus up, at the price he is worth,

Behold, my love, the curious gem Within this simple ring of gold; 'Tis hallow'd by the touch of them

"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

'Twas on the Red Sea coast, at morn, we met The venerable man;[1] a healthy bloom Mingled its softness with the vigorous thought

"Up!" said the Spirit and ere I could pray One hasty orison, whirled me away To a Limbo, lying--I wist not where--

TO ....... Oh, fair as heaven and chaste as light! Did nature mould thee all so bright.

[1] Missing or lost, last Sunday night, A Waterloo coin whereon was traced

Night closed around the conqueror's way, And lightnings showed the distant hill, Where those who lost that dreadful day,

God preserve us!--there's nothing now safe from assault;-- Thrones toppling around, churches brought to the hammer; And accounts have just reached us that one Mr. Galt

FROM ALCIPHRON AT ALEXANDRIA TO CLEON AT ATHENS. Well may you wonder at my flight From those fair Gardens in whose bowers

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. Memphis. 'Tis true, alas--the mysteries and the lore

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. Memphis. There is some star--or may it be

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRAETORIAN PREFECT. Rejoice, my friend, rejoice;--the youthful Chief Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,

(SUNG IN THE CHARACTER OF BRITANNIA.) "The Public Debt is due from ourselves to ourselves, and resolves itself into a Family Account."--Sir Robert Peel's Letter.

All that's bright must fade,-- The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made

Almighty GOD! when round thy shrine The Palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine,[1] (Emblem of Life's eternal ray,

Alone in crowds to wander on, And feel that all the charm is gone Which voices dear and eyes beloved

BANK. Is all then forgotten? those amorous pranks You and I in our youth, my dear Government, played;

"quem das finem, rex magne, laborum?" VERGIL. 1826.

Air.--Come with me, and we will go Where the rocks of coral grow. Come with me and we will blow

Fine and feathery artisan, Best of Plumists (if you can With your art so far presume)

I filled to thee, to thee I drank, I nothing did but drink and fill; The bowl by turns was bright and blank,

Friend of my soul, this goblet sip, 'Twill chase that pensive tear; 'Tis not so sweet as woman's lip,

And doth not a meeting like this make amends, For all the long years I've been wandering away-- To see thus around me my youth's early friends,

Angel of Charity, who, from above, Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, Thy voice is music, thy smile is love,

Tho' famed was Mesmer, in his day, Nor less so, in ours, is Dupotet, To say nothing of all the wonders done

"Histoire d'Anne Boleyn." "S'elle estoit belle et de taille 'l'gante, Estoit des yeulx encor plus attirante,

Loud complaints being made in these quick-reading times, Of too slack a supply both of prose works and rhymes, A new Company, formed on the keep-moving plan,

When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue The terrible tale of Thalaba sung-- Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout

After some observations from Dr. M'Grig On that fossil reliquium called Petrified Wig, Or Perruquolithus--a specimen rare

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 tinged with a warm sunny smile,

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,

As slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, Her trembling pennant still looked back

As vanquished Erin wept beside The Boyne's ill-fated river, She saw where Discord, in the tide,

Ask not if still I love, Too plain these eyes have told thee; Too well their tears must prove

'Twas in the fair Aspasia's bower, That Love and Learning, many an hour, In dalliance met; and Learning smiled

[1] At night, when all is still around. How sweet to hear the distant sound

At the mid hour of night, when stars are weeping, I fly To the lone vale we loved, when life shone warm in thine eye; And I think oft, if spirits can steal from the regions of air,

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of Erin[1] On him who the brave sons of Usna betrayed! For every fond eye he hath wakened a tear in,

Awake, arise, thy light is come;[1] The nations, that before outshone thee, Now at thy feet lie dark and dumb--

Yes, Winchelsea (I tremble while I pen it), Winehelsea's Earl hath cut the British Senate-- Hath said to England's Peers, in accent gruff,

"I authorized my Committee to take the step which they did, of proposing a fair comparison of strength, upon the understanding that whichever of the two should prove to be the weakest, should give way to the other." --Extract from Mr. W. J. Bankes's Letter to Mr. Goulbourn. Bankes is weak, and Goulbourn too,

I knew by the smoke, that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. And I said, "If there's peace to be found in the world,

Down in yon summer vale, Where the rill flows. Thus said a Nightingale

By the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife; By that sun, whose light is bringing

Behold the Sun, how bright From yonder East he springs, As if the soul of life and light

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly today, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

The brilliant black eye May in triumph let fly All its darts without Caring who feels 'em;

The song that lightens the languid way, When brows are glowing, And faint with rowing,

Bright be thy dreams--may all thy weeping Turn into smiles while thou art sleeping. May those by death or seas removed,

Bright moon, that high in heaven art shining, All smiles, as if within thy bower to-night Thy own Endymion lay reclining,

Bring the bright garlands hither, Ere yet a leaf is dying; If so soon they must wither.

But who shall see the glorious day When, throned on Zion's brow, The LORD shall rend that veil away

By that Lake, whose gloomy shore Sky-lark never warbles o'er,[2] Where the cliff hangs high and steep,

Calm be thy sleep as infant's slumbers! Pure as angel thoughts thy dreams! May every joy this bright world numbers

Here I am, at headquarters, dear Terry, once more, Deep in Tory designs, as I've oft been before: For, bless them! if 'twasn't for this wrong-headed crew,

A hunter once in that grove reclined, To shun the noon's bright eye, And oft he wooed the wandering wind,

I have a garden of my own, Shining with flowers of every hue; I loved it dearly while alone,

Sir--A well-known classical traveller, while employed in exploring, some time since, the supposed site of the Temple of Diana of Ephesus, was so fortunate, in the course of his researches, as to light upon a very ancient bark manuscript, which has turned out, on examination, to be part of an old Ephesian newspaper;--a newspaper published, as you will see, so far back as the time when Demetrius, the great Shrine-Extender,[1] flourished. I am, Sir, yours, etc. EPHESIAN GAZETTE.

Cloris! if I were Persia's king, I'd make my graceful queen of thee; While FANNY, wild and artless thing,

FOUNDED UPON SOME LATE CALCULATIONS. Fine figures of speech let your orators follow, Old Cocker has figures that beat them all hollow.

Come not, oh LORD, in the dread robe of splendor Thou worest on the Mount, in the day of thine ire; Come veiled in those shadows, deep, awful, but tender,

Come o'er the sea, Maiden, with me, Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;

Come, chase that starting tear away, Ere mine to meet it springs; To-night, at least, to-night be gay,

Come, play me that simple air again, I used so to love, in life's young day, And bring, if thou canst, the dreams that then

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,

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,

Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, Come, at God's altar fervently kneel; Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish--

While I touch the string, Wreathe my brows with laurel, For the tale I sing

FROM HIS EXCELLENCY DON STREPITOSO DIABOLO, ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY TO HIS SATANIC MAJESTY. St. James's Street, July 1, 1826. Great Sir, having just had the good luck to catch

utrum horum dirius borun? Incerti Auctoris. What! still those two infernal questions,

The Gentleman's Proposal. Legge aurea, S'ei piace, ei lice."

Preface. The practice which has been lately introduced into literature, of writing very long notes upon very indifferent verses, appears to me a rather happy invention, as it supplies us with a mode of turning dull poetry to account; and as horses too heavy for the saddle may yet serve well enough to draw lumber, so Poems of this kind make excellent beasts of burden and will bear notes though they may not bear reading. Besides, the comments in such cases are so little under the necessity of paying any servile deference to the text, that they may even adopt that Socratic, "quod supra nos nihil ad nos." In the first of the two following Poems, I have ventured to speak of the Revolution of 1688, in language which has sometimes been employed by Tory writers and which is therefore neither very new nor popular. But however an Englishman might be reproached with ingratitude for depreciating the merits and results of a measure which he is taught to regard as the source of his liberties--however ungrateful it might appear in Alderman Birch to question for a moment the purity of that glorious era to which he is indebted for the seasoning of so many orations--yet an Irishman who has none of these obligations to acknowledge, to whose country the Revolution brought nothing but injury and insult, and who recollects that the book of Molyneux was burned by order of William's Whig Parliament for daring to extend to unfortunate Ireland those principles on which the Revolution was professedly founded--an Irishman may be allowed to criticise freely the measures of that period without exposing himself either to the imputation of ingratitude or to the suspicion of being influenced by any Popish remains of Jacobitism. No nation, it is true, was ever blessed with a more golden opportunity of establishing and securing its liberties for ever than the conjuncture of Eighty-eight presented to the people of Great Britain. But the disgraceful reigns of Charles and James had weakened and degraded the national character. The bold notions of popular right which had arisen out of the struggles between Charles the First and his Parliament were gradually supplanted by those slavish doctrines for which Lord Hawkesbury eulogizes the churchmen of that period, and as the Reformation had happened too soon for the purity of religion, so the Revolution came too late for the spirit of liberty. Its advantages accordingly were for the most part specious and transitory, while the evils which it entailed are still felt and still increasing. By rendering unnecessary the frequent exercise of Prerogative,--that unwieldy power which cannot move a step without alarm,--it diminished the only interference of the Crown, which is singly and independently exposed before the people, and whose abuses therefore are obvious to their senses and capabilities.    Like the myrtle over a celebrated statue in Minerva's temple at Athens, it skilfully veiled from the public eye the only obtrusive feature of royalty. At the same time, however, that the Revolution abridged this unpopular attribute, it amply compensated by the substitution of a new power, as much more potent in its effect as it is more secret in its operations. In the disposal of an immense revenue and the extensive patronage annexed to it, the first foundations of this power of the Crown were laid; the innovation of a standing army at once increased and strengthened it, and the few slight barriers which the Act of Settlement opposed to its progress have all been gradually removed during the Whiggish reigns that succeeded; till at length this spirit of influence has become the vital principle of the state,--an agency, subtle and unseen, which pervades every part of the Constitution, lurks under all its forms and regulates all its movements, and, like the invisible sylph or grace which presides over the motions of beauty,

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day, As they met and exchanged a salute-- (Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,

One night the nymph called country dance-- (Whom folks, of late, have used so ill, Preferring a coquette from France,

They told her that he, to whose vows she had listened Thro' night's fleeting hours, was a spirit unblest;-- Unholy the eyes, that beside her had glistened,

Place the helm on thy brow, In thy hand take the spear;-- Thou art armed, Cupid, now,

A lottery, a Lottery, In Cupid's court there used to be; Two roguish eyes

"She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool; "She has wit, but you mustn't be caught, so;" Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool,

Dear Harp of my Country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o'er thee long,[1] When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee,

Dear? yes, tho' mine no more, Even this but makes thee dearer; And love, since hope is o'er,

[1] By the Feal's wave benighted, No star in the skies,

"o ego non felix, quam tu fugis, ut pavet acres agna lupos, capreaeque leones."--HOR. Said a Sovereign to a Note,

Of various scraps and fragments built, Borrowed alike from fools and wits, Dick's mind was like a patchwork quilt,

'Twas a new feeling--something more Than we had dared to own before. Which then we hid not;

Do not say that life is waning, Or that hope's sweet day is set; While I've thee and love remaining,

"vox clamantis in deserto." Said Malthus one day to a clown Lying stretched on the beach in the sun,--

Dost thou remember that place so lonely, A place for lovers and lovers only, Where first I told thee all my secret sighs?

Dreaming for ever, vainly dreaming, Life to the last, pursues its flight; Day hath its visions fairly beaming,

In slumber, I prithee how is it That souls are oft taking the air, And paying each other a visit,

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!

Drink to her, who long, Hath waked the poet's sigh. The girl, who gave to song

How sweet the answer Echo makes To music at night, When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

Sic juvat perire. When wearied wretches sink to sleep, How heavenly soft their slumbers lie!

Though sorrow long has worn my heart; Though every day I've, counted o'er Hath brought a new and, quickening smart

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum. Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree, And tell me what my name may be.

What news to-day?--"Oh! worse and worse-- "Mac[1] is the Prince's Privy Purse!"-- The Prince's Purse! no, no, you fool,

Said his Highness to Ned,[1] with that grim face of his, "Why refuse us the Veto, dear Catholic Neddy?" "Because, Sir," said Ned, looking full in his phiz,

"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.

"I never gave a kiss (says Prue), "To naughty man, for I abhor it." She will not give a kiss, 'tis true;

Last night, as lonely o'er my fire I sat, Thinking of cues, starts, exits, and--all that, And wondering much what little knavish sprite

Dear Lyndhurst,--you'll pardon my making thus free,-- But form is all fudge 'twixt such "comrogues" as we, Who, whate'er the smooth views we, in public, may drive at,

Southampton. As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted

Dear John, as I know, like our brother of London, You've sipt of all knowledge, both sacred and mundane, No doubt, in some ancient Joe Miller, you've read

"Ahi, mio Ben!" --METASTASIO.[3] What! BEN, my old hero, is this your renown?

Alas! my dear friend, what a state of affairs! How unjustly we both are despoiled of our rights! Not a pound of black flesh shall I leave to my heirs,

Lament, lament, Sir Isaac Heard, Put mourning round thy page, Debrett, For here lies one who ne'er preferred

Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! Shining through sorrow's stream,

Like the bright lamp, that shone in Kildare's holy fane,[1] And burn'd thro' long ages of darkness and storm, Is the heart that sorrows have frowned on in vain,

Oh! weep for the hour, When to Eveleen's bower The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

In thus connecting together a series of Songs by a thread of poetical narrative, my chief object has been to combine Recitation with Music, so as to enable a greater number of persons to join in the performance, by enlisting as readers those who may not feel willing or competent to take a part as singers. The Island of Zea where the scene is laid was called by the ancients Ceos, and was the birthplace of Simonides, Bacchylides, and other eminent persons. An account of its present state may be found in the Travels of Dr. Clarke, who says, that "it appeared to him to be the best cultivated of any of the Grecian Isles."--Vol. vi. p. 174. T.M.

Yet, even here, tho' Fiction rules the hour, There shine some genuine smiles, beyond her power; And there are tears, too--tears that Memory sheds

Wednesday. Thro' Manchester Square took a canter just now-- Met the old yellow chariot[1] and made a low bow.

I've had a dream that bodes no good Unto the Holy Brotherhood. I may be wrong, but I confess--

PROEM. Where Kings have been by mob-elections Raised to the throne, 'tis strange to see

I saw it all in Fancy's glass-- Herself, the fair, the wild magician, Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,

PROEM. Of all that, to the sage's survey, This world presents of topsy-turvy,

PROEM "The moment any religion becomes national, or established, its purity must certainly be lost, because it is then impossible to keep it unconnected with men's interests; and, if connected, it must inevitably be perverted by them." --SOAME JENYNS

PROEM. Novella, a young Bolognese, The daughter of a learned Law Doctor,[1]

PROEM. Tho' soldiers are the true supports, The natural allies of Courts,

The money raised--the army ready-- Drums beating, and the Royal Neddy Valiantly braying in the van,

Fairest! put on awhile These pinions of light I bring thee, And o'er thy own green isle

Fallen is thy Throne, oh Israel! Silence is o'er thy plains; Thy dwellings all lie desolate,

The more I've viewed this world, the more I've found, That filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare, Fancy commands within her own bright round

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny, dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn

Fare thee well, thou lovely one! Lovely still, but dear no more; Once his soul of truth is gone,

Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour. That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,

Farewell, Theresa! yon cloud that over Heaven's pale night-star gathering we see, Will scarce from that pure orb have past ere thy lover

Fear not that, while around thee Life's varied blessings pour, One sigh of hers shall wound thee,

Fill the bumper fair! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care

Hark, 'tis the sound that charms The war-steed's wakening ears!-- Oh! many a mother folds her arms

Flow on, thou shining river; But ere thou reach the sea Seek Ella's bower and give her

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour, When pleasure, like the midnight flower That scorns the eye of vulgar light,

I have been, like Puck, I have been, in a trice, To a realm they call Fool's Paradise, Lying N.N.E. of the Land of Sense,

For thee alone I brave the boundless deep, Those eyes my light through every distant sea; My waking thoughts, the dream that gilds my sleep,

Forget not the field where they perished, The truest, the last of the brave, All gone--and the bright hope we cherished

Here lies Factotum Ned at last; Long as he breathed the vital air, Nothing throughout all Europe past

Blest infant of eternity! Before the day-star learned to move, In pomp of fire, along his grand career,

Pity me, love! I'll pity thee, If thou indeed hast felt like me. All, all my bosom's peace is o'er!

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.--JUV. Mark those proud boasters of a splendid line, Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they shine,

From life without freedom, say, who would not fly? For one day of freedom, oh! who would not die? Hark!--hark! 'tis the trumpet! the call of the brave,

Fill high the cup with liquid flame, And speak my Heliodora's name. Repeat its magic o'er and o'er,

Cum digno digna..... SULPICIA. "Who is the maid, with golden hair,

Paris, March 30,1833. You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle, How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;

From this hour the pledge is given, From this hour my soul is thine: Come what will, from earth or heaven,

One day the Chinese Bird of Royalty, FUM, Thus accosted our own Bird of Royalty, HUM, In that Palace or China-shop (Brighton, which is it?)

Gayly sounds the castanet, Beating time to bounding feet, When, after daylight's golden set,

Haste, Maami, the spring is nigh; Already, in the unopened flowers That sleep around us, Fancy's eye

scripsit quidem fata, sed sequitur. SENECA. Of old, the Sultan Genius reigned,

Go forth to the Mount; bring the olive-branch home,[1] And rejoice; for the day of our    freedom is come! From that time,[2] when the moon upon Ajalon's vale,

Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee, Oh! still remember me.

Go, let me weep--there's bliss in tears, When he who sheds them inly feels Some lingering stain of early years

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 flavor ne'er flies,

Go, then--'tis vain to hover Thus round a hope that's dead; At length my dream is over;

As I sate in my study, lone and still, Thinking of Sergeant Talfourd's Bill, And the speech by Lawyer Sugden made,

List! 'tis a Grecian maid that sings, While, from Ilissus' silvery springs, She draws the cool lymph in her graceful urn;

I love a maid, a mystic maid, Whose form no eyes but mine can see; She comes in light, she comes in shade,

Hark! 'tis the breeze of twilight calling; Earth's weary children to repose; While, round the couch of Nature falling,

Hark! the vesper hymn is stealing O'er the waters soft and clear; Nearer yet and nearer pealing,

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, As clouds o'er the morning fleet? Too fast have those young days faded,

"At the interment of the Duke of York, Lord Eldon, in order to guard against the effects of the damp, stood upon his hat during the whole of the ceremony." --metus omnes et inexorabile fatum subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis

Hear me but once, while o'er the grave, In which our Love lies cold and dead, I count each flattering hope he gave

Her last words, at parting, how can I forget? Deep treasured thro' life, in my heart they shall stay; Like music, whose charm in the soul lingers yet,

Here, at thy tomb, these tears I shed, Tears, which though vainly now they roll, Are all love hath to give the dead,

Here sleeps the Bard who knew so well All the sweet windings of Apollo's shell; Whether its music rolled like torrents near.

Here's the bower she loved so much, And the tree she planted; Here's the harp she used to touch--

Here, take my heart--'twill be safe in thy keeping, While I go wandering o'er land and o'er sea; Smiling or sorrowing, waking or sleeping,

"The night wind is moaning with mournful sigh, "There gleameth no moon in the misty sky "No star over Helle's sea;

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim, He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him; Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,

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

odi profanum, valgus et arceo; favete linguis: carmina non prius audila Musarum sacerdos

The man who keeps a conscience pure, (If not his own, at least his Prince's,) Thro' toil and danger walks secure,

persico odi, puer, adparatus; displicent nexae philyra coronae; mitte sectari, Rosa quo locorum

[1] Come, Yarmouth, my boy, never trouble your brains, About what your old crony,

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

How happy, once, tho' winged with sighs, My moments flew along, While looking on those smiling eyes,

How lightly mounts the Muse's wing, Whose theme is in the skies-- Like morning larks that sweeter sing

How oft has the Banshee cried, How oft has death untied Bright links that Glory wove,

Oft, when the watching stars grow pale, And round me sleeps the moonlight scene, To hear a flute through yonder vale

If I speak to thee in friendship's name, Thou think'st I speak too coldly; If I mention Love's devoted flame,

Whene'er you're in doubt, said a Sage I once knew, 'Twixt two lines of conduct which course to pursue, Ask a woman's advice, and, whate'er she advise,

ACCORDING TO THE NEWEST RECEIPT AS DISCLOSED IN A LATE HERALDIC WORK,[1] Choose some title that's dormant--the Peerage hath many-- Lord Baron of Shamdos sounds nobly as any.

qui facit per alium facit per se. 'Mong our neighbors, the French, in the good olden time When Nobility flourisht, great Barons and Dukes

"Hush, hush!"--how well That sweet word sounds, When Love, the little sentinel,

Hush, sweet Lute, thy songs remind me Of past joys, now turned to pain; Of ties that long have ceased to bind me,

Oh, lost, forever lost--no more Shall Vesper light our dewy way Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,

If, after all, you still will doubt and fear me, And think this heart to other loves will stray, If I must swear, then, lovely doubter, hear me;

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,

I saw the moon rise clear O'er hills and vales of snow Nor told my fleet reindeer

I saw thy form in youthful prime, Nor thought that pale decay Would steal before the steps of Time,

I wish I was by that dim Lake,[1] Where sinful souls their farewell take Of this vain world, and half-way lie

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, If thy smiles had left me too; I'd weep when friends deceive me,

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,

If in loving, singing, night and day We could trifle merrily life away, Like atoms dancing in the beam,

If thou wouldst have me sing and play, As once I played and sung, First take this time-worn lute away,

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,

[1] Oh tidings of freedom! oh accents of hope! Waft, waft them, ye zephyrs, to Erin's blue sea,

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,

Miser Catulle, desinas ineptire, etc. Cease the sighing fool to play; Cease to trifle life away;

"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di qu', di l', di giu, di su gli mena." Inferno, canto 5.

With women and apples both Paris and Adam Made mischief enough in their day:-- God be praised that the fate of mankind, my dear Madam,

o dulces comitum valete coetus! CATULLUS. No, never shall my soul forget

'Twas but for a moment--and yet in that time She crowded the impressions of many an hour: Her eye had a glow, like the sun of her clime,

Between Adam and me the great difference is, Tho' a paradise each has been forced to resign, That he never wore breeches, till turned out of his,

In myrtle wreaths my votive sword I'll cover, Like them of old whose one immortal blow Struck off the galling fetters that hung over

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,

SCENE.--Penenden Plain. In the middle, a caldron boiling. Thunder.-- Enter three Brunswickers. 1st Bruns.--Thrice hath scribbling Kenyon scrawled,

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, When surely there's nothing in nature more common? She vows to be true, and while vowing she leaves me--

It glads us much to be able to say, That a meeting is fixt for some early day, Of all such dowagers--he or she--

"This clamor which pretends to be raised for the safety of religion has almost worn put 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

September, 1818. Some think we bards have nothing real; That poets live among the stars so,

According to some learned opinions The Irish once were Carthaginians; But trusting to more late descriptions

Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, When the Spirit leaves this sphere. Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her

It is not the tear at this moment shed, When the cold turf has just been laid o'er him, That can tell how beloved was the friend that's fled,

Whisperings, heard by wakeful maids, To whom the night-stars guide us; Stolen walks thro' moonlight shades,

Keep those eyes still purely mine, Tho' far off I be: When on others most they shine,

WRITTEN AFTER THE LATE NEGOTIATION FOR A NEW MINISTRY. King Crack was the best of all possible Kings, (At least, so his Courtiers would swear to you gladly,)

To Samuel Rogers, Esq. This Eastern Romance Is Inscribed By His Very Grateful And Affectionate Friend,

[1] All in again--unlookt for bliss! Yet, ah! one adjunct still we miss;--

"sic vos non vobis." "The Vicar of Birmingham desires me to state that, in consequence of the passing of a recent Act of Parliament, he is compelled to adopt measures which may by some be considered harsh or precipitate; but, in duty to what he owes to his successors, he feels bound to preserve the rights of the vicarage." --Letter from Mr. S. Powell, August 6.

As news from Olympus has grown rather rare, Since bards, in their cruises, have ceased to touch there, We extract for our readers the intelligence given,

Lay his sword by his side,[1]--it hath served him too well Not to rest near his pillow below; To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,

"We are persuaded that this our artificial man will not only walk and speak and perform most of the outward functions of animal life, but (being wound up once a week) will perhaps reason as well as most of your country parsons."--"Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus," chap. xii. It being an object now to meet

Lesbia hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth; Right and left its arrows fly,

Let Erin remember the days of old. Ere her faithless sons betrayed her; When Malachi wore the collar of gold,[1]

Let thy joys alone be remembered now, Let thy sorrows go sleep awhile; Or if thought's dark cloud come o'er thy brow,

Let's take this world as some wide scene. Thro' which in frail but buoyant boat, With skies now dark and now serene,

Arrah, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?-- Or how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf, When that poor craythur, Bobby--as you were away--

Light sounds the harp when the combat is over, When heroes are resting, and joy is in bloom; When laurels hang loose from the brow of the lover,

Like morning, when her early breeze Breaks up the surface of the seas, That, in those furrows, dark with night,

Like one who, doomed o'er distant seas His weary path to measure, When home at length, with favoring breeze,

If ever life was prosperously cast, If ever life was like the lengthened flow Of some sweet music, sweetness to the last,

In the dirge we sung o'er him no censure was heard, Unembittered and free did the tear-drop descend; We forgot, in that hour, how the statesman had erred,

principibus placuisse viris! --HORAT. Yes, grief will have way--but the fast falling tear

[1] at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis. vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas.

carbone notati. Ay--down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,

Gia era in loco ove s'udia l'rimbombo Dell' acqua. DANTE. From rise of morn till set of sun

That sky of clouds is not the sky To light a lover to the pillow Of her he loves--

Alone by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, And bright were its flowery banks to his eye; But far, very far were the friends that he loved,

Wanted--Authors of all-work to job for the season, No matter which party, so faithful to neither; Good hacks who, if posed for a rhyme or a reason.

To the tune of "There was a little man, and he wooed a little maid." DEDICATED TO THE RT. HON. CHARLES ABBOT. arcades ambo et cantare pares

Long years have past, old friend, since we First met in life's young day; And friends long loved by thee and me,

--in Metii decenaat Judicis aures. HORAT. As snug in his bed Lord Henley lay,

So gently in peace Alcibiades smiled, While in battle he shone forth so terribly grand, That the emblem they graved on his seal, was a child

Lord, who shall bear that day, so dread, so splendid, When we shall see thy Angel hovering o'er This sinful world with hand to heaven extended,

If thou wouldst have thy charms enchant our eyes, First win our hearts, for there thy empire lies: Beauty in vain would mount a heartless throne,

At morn, beside yon summer sea, Young Hope and Love reclined; But scarce had noon-tide come, when he

Love had a fever--ne'er could close His little eyes till day was breaking; And wild and strange enough, Heaven knows,

Eque brevi verbo ferre perenne malum. SECUNDUS, eleg. vii. Still the question I must parry,

Quand l'homme commence ' raissonner, il cesse de sentir.--J. J. ROUSSEAU. 'Twas in the summer time so sweet,

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend; "Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers

Young Love found a Dial once in a dark shade Where man ne'er had wandered nor sunbeam played; "Why thus in darkness lie?" whispered young Love,

'Tis said--but whether true or not Let bards declare who've seen 'em-- That Love and Time have only got

Love is a hunter-boy, Who, makes young hearts his prey, And in his nets of joy

Love thee, dearest? love thee? Yes, by yonder star I swear, Which thro' tears above thee

Love thee?--so well, so tenderly Thou'rt loved, adored by me, Fame, fortune, wealth, and liberty,

Pain and sorrow shall vanish before us-- Youth may wither, but feeling will last; All the shadow that e'er shall fall o'er us

Sing to Love--for, oh, 'twas he Who won the glorious day; Strew the wreaths of victory

Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove; When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Love, wandering through the golden maze Of my beloved's hair, Traced every lock with fond delays,

The song of war shall echo thro' our mountains, Till not one hateful link remains Of slavery's lingering chains;

Che con le lor bugie pajon divini. MAURO D'ARCANO. I do confess, in many a sigh,

MONDAY, MARCH 13, 1826. The Budget--quite charming and witty--no hearing, For plaudits and laughs, the good things that were in it;--

Merrily every bosom boundeth, Merrily, oh! Where the song of Freedom soundeth,

Mind not tho' daylight around us is breaking,-- Who'd think now of sleeping when morn's but just waking? Sound the merry viol, and daylight or not,

Carlton Terrace, 1832. Whereas, Lord ---- de ---- Left his home last Saturday,

"His Lordship said that it took a long time for a moral position to find its way across the Atlantic. He was very sorry that its voyage had been so long," etc.--Speech of Lord Dudley and Ward on Colonial Slavery, March 8. T'other night, after hearing Lord Dudley's oration (A treat that comes once a year as May-day does),

ADDRESSED TO J. ATKINSON, ESQ. M. R. I. A. Though long at school and college dozing. O'er books of verse and books of prosing,

TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES. Sir--Having just heard of the wonderful resurrection of Mr. Roger Dodsworth from under an avalanche, where he had remained, bien frappe, it seems, for the last 166 years, I hasten to impart to you a few reflections on the subject.--Yours, etc. Laudator Temporis Acti.

Of all the odd plans of this monstrously queer age, The oddest is that of reforming the peerage;-- Just as if we, great dons, with a title and star,

"The widow of Nethercoat is appointed jailer of Loughrea, in the room of her deceased husband."--Limerick Chronicle. Whether as queens or subjects, in these days, Women seem formed to grace alike each station:--

"My birth-day"--what a different sound That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round,

My gentle harp, once more I waken The sweetness of thy slumbering strain; In tears our last farewell was taken,

My harp has one unchanging theme, One strain that still comes o'er Its languid chord, as 'twere a dream

I give thee all--I can no more-- Tho' poor the offering be; My heart and lute are all the store

My Mopsa is little, my Mopsa is brown, But her cheek is as smooth as the peach's soft down, And, for blushing, no rose can come near her;

In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul's reflection in the face; In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,

Nay, tell me not, dear, that the goblet drowns One charm of feeling, one fond regret; Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns

Ne'er ask the hour--what is it to us How Time deals out his treasures? The golden moments lent us thus,

Ne'er talk of Wisdom's gloomy schools; Give me the sage who's able To draw his moral thoughts and rules

Come, listen to my story, while Your needle task you ply: At what I sing some maids will smile,

"His 'prentice han' He tried on man, And then he made the lasses."

Come, step in, gentlefolks, here ye may view An exact and natural representation (Like Siburn's Model of Waterloo[1])

With all humility we beg To inform the public, that Tom Tegg-- Known for his spunky speculations

Sir,-- Most of your readers are no doubt acquainted with the anecdote told of a certain not over-wise judge who, when in the act of delivering a charge in some country court-house, was interrupted by the braying of an ass at the door. "What noise is that?" asked the angry judge. "Only an extraordinary echo there is in court, my Lord," answered one of the counsel. As there are a number of such "extraordinary echoes" abroad just now, you will not, perhaps, be unwilling, Mr. Editor, to receive the following few lines suggested by them.

Dear Coz, as I know neither you nor Miss Draper, When Parliament's up, ever take in a paper, But trust for your news to such stray odds and ends

Nights of music, nights of loving, Lost too soon, remembered long. When we went by moonlight roving,

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, When half-awaking from fearful slumbers,

No--leave my heart to rest, if rest it may, When youth, and love, and hope, have past away. Couldst thou, when summer hours are fled,

Good reader! if you e'er have seen, When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, The mermaids, with their tresses green,

Not from thee the wound should come, No, not from thee. Care not what or whence my doom,

Of all the misfortunes as yet brought to pass By this comet-like Bill, with its long tail of speeches, The saddest and worst is the schism which, alas!

O say, thou best and brightest, My first love and my last. When he, whom now thou slightest,

Of all the fair months, that round the sun In light-linked dance their circles run, Sweet May, shine thou for me;

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!

(Entering as if to announce the Play.) Ladies and Gentlemen, on Monday night, For the ninth time--oh accents of delight

--altum aedificat caput." JUVENAL 1826.

Et tu, Brute! 1828.[1] What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!

Quit the sword, thou King of men, Grasp the needle once again; Making petticoats is far

BY SIR THOMAS LETHBRIDGE. "legiferoe Cereri Phoeboque."--VERGIL. Dear Goddess of Corn whom the ancients, we know,

Great Sultan, how wise are thy state compositions! And oh! above all I admire that Decree, In which thou command'st that all she politicians

Let other bards to groves repair, Where linnets strain their tuneful throats; Mine be the Woods and Forests where

[1] I saw the smiling bard of pleasure, The minstrel of the Teian measure;

Give me the harp of epic song, Which Homer's finger thrilled along; But tear away the sanguine string,

[1] Listen to the Muse's lyre, Master of the pencil's fire!

[1] Vulcan! hear your glorious task; I did not from your labors ask

I pray thee, by the gods above, Give me the mighty bowl I love, And let me sing, in wild delight,

[1] When wine I quaff, before my eyes Dreams of poetic glory rise;[2]

Fly not thus my brow of snow, Lovely wanton! fly not so. Though the wane of age is mine,

[1] Away, away, ye men of rules, What have I do with schools?

When I behold the festive train Of dancing youth, I'm young again! Memory wakes her magic trance,

Ripened by the solar beam, Now the ruddy clusters teem, In osier baskets borne along

[1] While we invoke the wreathed spring, Resplendent rose! to thee we'll sing;

He, who instructs the youthful crew To bathe them in the brimmer's dew, And taste, uncloyed by rich excesses,

[1] Whose was the artist hand that spread Upon this disk the ocean's bed?

When Gold, as fleet as zephyr's' pinion, Escapes like any faithless minion,[1] And flies me (as he flies me ever),[2]

[1] Awake to life, my sleeping shell, To Phoebus let thy numbers swell;

[1] Youth's endearing charms are fled; Hoary locks deform my head;

[1] Fill me, boy, as deep a draught, As e'er was filled, as e'er was quaffed;

[1] To Love, the soft and blooming child, I touch the harp in descant wild;

[1] Haste thee, nymph, whose well-aimed spear Wounds the fleeting mountain-deer!

They wove the lotus band to deck And fan with pensile wreath each neck; And every guest, to shade his head,

[1] Like some wanton filly sporting, Maid Of Thrace, thou flyest my courting.

[1] To thee, the Queen of nymphs divine, Fairest of all that fairest shine;

Rich in bliss, I proudly scorn The wealth of Amalthea's horn; Nor should I ask to call the throne

Now Neptune's month our sky deforms, The angry night-cloud teems with storms; And savage winds, infuriate driven,

A broken cake, with honey sweet, Is all my spare and simple treat: And while a generous bowl I crown

With twenty chords my lyre is hung, And while I wake them all for thee, Thou, O maiden, wild and young,

Fare thee well, perfidious maid, My soul, too long on earth delayed, Delayed, perfidious girl, by thee,

Awhile I bloomed, a happy flower, Till love approached one fatal hour, And made my tender branches feel

Monarch Love, resistless boy, With whom the rosy Queen of Joy, And nymphs, whose eyes have Heaven's hue,

Spirit of Love, whose locks unrolled, Stream on the breeze like floating gold; Come, within a fragrant cloud

Hither, gentle Muse of mine, Come and teach thy votary old Many a golden hymn divine,

Would that I were a tuneful lyre, Of burnished ivory fair, Which, in the Dionysian choir,

When Cupid sees how thickly now, The snows of Time fall o'er my brow, Upon his wing of golden light.

Sculptor, wouldst thou glad my soul, Grave for me an ample bowl, Worthy to shine in hall or bower,

[1] As late I sought the spangled bowers, To cull a wreath of matin flowers,

The women tell me every day That all my bloom has pas past away. "Behold," the pretty wantons cry,

[1] I care not for the idle state Of Persia's king, the rich, the great.

[1] How am I to punish thee, For the wrong thou'st done to me

[1] "Tell me, gentle youth, I pray thee, What in purchase shall I pay thee

They tell how Atys, wild with love, Roams the mount and haunted grove;[1] Cvbele's name he howls around,

I will, I will, the conflict's past, And I'll consent to love at last. Cupid has long, with smiling art,

[1] Count me, on the summer trees, Every leaf that courts the breeze;

[1] Here recline you, gentle maid, Sweet is this embowering shade;

I know that Heaven hath sent me here, To run this mortal life's career; The scenes which I have journeyed o'er,

When Spring adorns the dewy scene, How sweet to walk the velvet green, And hear the west wind's gentle sighs,

[1] Yes, be the glorious revel mine, Where humor sparkles from the wine.

While our rosy fillets shed Freshness o'er each fervid head, With many a cup and many a smile

[1] Buds of roses, virgin flowers, Culled from Cupid's balmy bowers,

When Bacchus, Jove's immortal boy, The rosy harbinger of joy, Who, with the sunshine of the bowl,

Within this goblet, rich and deep, I cradle all my woes to sleep. Why should we breathe the sigh of fear,

[1] Behold, the young, the rosy Spring, Gives to the breeze her scented wing:

'Tis true, my fading years decline, Yet can I quaff the brimming wine, As deep as any stripling fair,

When my thirsty soul I steep, Every sorrow's lulled to sleep. Talk of monarchs! I am then

[1] Tell me, why, my sweetest dove, Thus your humid pinions move,

[1] Thou, whose soft and rosy hues Mimic form and soul infuse,

And now with all thy pencil's truth, Portray Bathyllus, lovely youth! Let his hair, in masses bright,

Now the star of day is high, Fly, my girls, in pity fly. Bring me wine in brimming urns

[1] One day the Muses twined the hands Of infant Love with flowery bands;

[1] Observe when mother earth is dry, She drinks the droppings of the sky;

The Phrygian rock, that braves the storm, Was once a weeping matron's form;[1] And Progne, hapless, frantic maid,

I often wish this languid lyre, This warbler of my soul's desire, Could raise the breath of song sublime,

To all that breathe the air of heaven, Some boon of strength has Nature given. In forming the majestic bull,

Yes--loving is a painful thrill, And not to love more painful still But oh, it is the worst of pain,

Once in each revolving year, Gentle bird! we find thee here. When Nature wears her summer-vest,

Thy harp may sing of Troy's alarms, Or tell the tale of Theban arms; With other wars my song shall burn,

We read the flying courser's name Upon his side, in marks of flame; And, by their turbaned brows alone,

As, by his Lemnian forge's flame, The husband of the Paphian dame Moulded the glowing steel, to form

[1] 'Twas in a mocking dream of night-- I fancied I had wings as light

[1] Armed with hyacinthine rod, (Arms enough for such a god,)

[1] Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves, Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;

'Twas noon of night, when round the pole The sullen Bear is seen to roll; And mortals, wearied with the day,

[1] Oh thou, of all creation blest, Sweet insect, that delight'st to rest

How I love the festive boy, Tripping through the dance of joy! How I love the mellow sage,

[1] Cupid once upon a bed Of roses laid his weary head;

[1] If hoarded gold possest the power To lengthen life's too fleeting hour,

'Twas night, and many a circling bowl Had deeply warmed my thirsty soul; As lulled in slumber I was laid,

Let us drain the nectared bowl, Let us raise the song of soul To him, the god who loves so well

[1] Methinks, the pictured bull we see Is amorous Jove--it must be he!

[Greek: NEA turannei] EURPID. "Medea," v. 967. Nay, tempt me not to love again,

Oft in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light

Oh banquet not in those shining bowers, Where Youth resorts, but come to me: For mine's a garden of faded flowers,

Oh fair! oh purest! be thou the dove That flies alone to some sunny grove, And lives unseen, and bathes her wing,

Oh for the swords of former time! Oh for the men who bore them, When armed for Right, they stood sublime,

Thro' Erin's Isle, To sport awhile, As Love and Valor wandered,

"He healeth the broken in heart and bindeth up their wounds," --Psalm. cxlvii. 3. Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,

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

Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonored his relics are laid: Sad, silent, and dark, be the tears that we shed,

Oh! doubt me not--the season Is o'er, when Folly made me rove, And now the vestal, Reason,

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,

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

Oh! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, How oft I dream of thee, And of those days when, by thy shore,

Oh, call it by some better name, For Friendship sounds too cold, While Love is now a worldly flame,

Oh, come to me when daylight sets; Sweet! then come to me, When smoothly go our gondolets

Oh, could we do with this world of ours As thou dost with thy garden bowers, Reject the weeds and keep the flowers,

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded, Why thus for ever haunt my view? When in the grave your light lay shrouded,

Oh, do not look so bright and blest, For still there comes a fear, When brow like thine looks happiest,

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,

Oh, no--not even when first we loved, Wert thou as dear as now thou art; Thy beauty then my senses moved,

Our white sail caught the evening ray, The wave beneath us seemed to burn, When all the weeping maid could say,

Oh, teach me to love Thee, to feel what thou art, Till, filled with the one sacred image, my heart Shall all other passions disown;

Oh, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing, O'er files arrayed

Oh, ye Dead! oh, ye Dead![1] whom we know by the light you give From your cold gleaming eyes, tho' you move like men who live, Why leave you thus your graves,

To no one Muse does she her glance confine, But has an eye, at once, to all the Nine!

When thro' life unblest we rove, Losing all that made life dear, Should some notes we used to love,

Pure as the mantle, which, o'er him who stood By Jordan's stream, descended from the sky, Is that remembrance which the wise and good

Sweet spirit! if thy airy sleep Nor sees my tears not hears my sighs, Then will I weep, in anguish weep,

One bumper at parting!--tho' many Have circled the board since we met, The fullest, the saddest of any

Couldst thou look as dear as when First I sighed for thee; Couldst thou make me feel again

Our first young love resembles That short but brilliant ray, Which smiles and weeps and trembles

About fifty years since, in the days of our daddies, That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud, Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,

[1] At length, dearest Freddy, the moment is night When, with Perceval's leave, I may throw my chains by;

WRITTEN ON THE APPROACH OF WAR. Where is now the smile, that lightened Every hero's couch of rest?

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

Peace to the slumberers! They lie on the battle-plain. With no shroud to cover them;

When I am dead. Then lay my head In some lone, distant dell,

Among other stray flashmen disposed of, this week, Was a youngster named Stanley, genteelly connected, Who has lately been passing off coins as antique,

Poor broken flower! what art can now recover thee? Torn from the stem that fed thy rosy breath-- In vain the sunbeams seek

Poor wounded heart, farewell! Thy hour of rest is come; Thou soon wilt reach thy home,

--"quas ipsa decus sibi dia Camilla delegit pacisque bonas bellique ministras." VERGIL.

Quick! we have but a second, Fill round the cup, while you may; For Time, the churl, hath beckoned,

Reason and Folly and Beauty, they say, Went on a party of pleasure one day: Folly played

A Bishop and a bold dragoon, Both heroes in their way, Did thus, of late, one afternoon,

I'm quite of your mind;--tho' these Pats cry aloud That they've got "too much Church," 'tis all nonsense and stuff; For Church is like Love, of which Figaro vowed

suosque tibi commendat, Troja Penates hos cape fatorum comites. VERGIL. 1813.

"Sir Robert Peel believed it was necessary to originate all respecting religion and trade in a Committee of the House." --Church Extension, May 22, 1830. Say, who was the wag, indecorously witty,

Remember the time, in La Mancha's shades, When our moments so blissfully flew; When you called me the flower of Castilian maids,

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,

After a Conversation with Lord John Russell, in which he had intimated some Idea of giving up all political Pursuits. What! thou, with thy genius, thy youth, and thy name-- Thou, born of a Russell--whose instinct to run

Resolved--to stick to every particle Of every Creed and every Article; Reforming naught, or great or little,

The darkness that hung upon Willumberg's walls Had long been remembered with awe and dismay; For years not a sunbeam had played in its halls,

View of the Lake of Geneva from the Jura.[1]--Anxious to reach it before the Sun went down.--Obliged to proceed on Foot.--Alps.--Mont Blanc.--Effect of the Scene. 'Twas late--the sun had almost shone His last and best when I ran on

FATE OF GENEVA IN THE YEAR 1782. A FRAGMENT. Yes--if there yet live some of those,

Fancy and Truth--Hippomenes and Atalanta. Mont Blanc.--Clouds. Even here in this region of wonders I find That light-footed Fancy leaves Truth far behind;

The Picture Gallery.--Albano's Rape of Proserpine.--Reflections.-- Universal Salvation.--Abraham sending away Agar, by Guercino.--Genius. Went to the Brera--saw a Dance of Loves By smooth ALBANO! him whose pencil teems

The English to be met with everywhere.--Alps and Threadneedle Street.--The Simplon and the Stocks.--Rage for travelling.--Blue Stockings among the Wahabees.--Parasols and Pyramids.--Mrs. Hopkins and the Wall of China. And is there then no earthly place, Where we can rest in dream Elysian,

Fancy and Reality.--Rain-drops and Lakes.--Plan of a Story.--Where to place the Scene of it.--In some unknown Region.--Psalmanazar's Imposture with respect to the Island of Formosa. The more I've viewed this world the more I've found, That, filled as 'tis with scenes and creatures rare.

The Fall of Venice not to be lamented--Former Glory.--Expedition against Constantinople.--Giustinianis.--Republic.--Characteristics of the old Government.--Golden Book.--Brazen Mouths.--Spies.--Dungeons.--Present Desolation. Mourn not for VENICE--let her rest In ruin, 'mong those States unblest,

Lord Byron's Memoirs, written by himself.--Reflections, when about to read them. Let me a moment--ere with fear and hope Of gloomy, glorious things, these leaves I ope--

Female Beauty at Venice.--No longer what it was in the time of Titian.-- His mistress.--Various Forms in which he has painted her.--Venus.--Divine and profane Love.--La Fragilita d'Amore--Paul Veronese.--His Women.-- Marriage of Cana.--Character of Italian Beauty.--Raphael's Fornarina.-- Modesty. Thy brave, thy learned have passed away: Thy beautiful!--ah, where are they?

Verses of Hippolyta to her Husband. They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng;

No--'tis not the region where Love's to be found-- They have bosoms that sigh, they have glances that rove, They have language a Sappho's own lip might resound,

Music in Italy.--Disappointed by it.--Recollections or other Times and Friends.--Dalton.--Sir John Stevenson.--His Daughter.--Musical Evenings together. If it be true that Music reigns, Supreme, in ITALY'S soft shades,

Reflections on reading Du Cerceau's Account of the Conspiracy of Rienzi, in 1347.--The Meeting of the Conspirators on the Night of the 19th of May.--Their Procession in the Morning to the Capitol.--Rienzi's Speech. 'Twas a proud moment--even to hear the words Of Truth and Freedom mid these temples breathed,

Fragment of a Dream.--The great Painters supposed to be Magicians.--The Beginnings of the Art.--Gildings on the Glories and Draperies.-- Improvements under Giotto, etc.--The first Dawn of the true Style in Masaccio.--Studied by all the great Artists who followed him.--Leonardo da Vinci, with whom commenced the Golden Age of Painting.--His Knowledge of Mathematics and of Music.--His female heads all like each other.-- Triangular Faces.--Portraits of Mona Lisa, etc.--Picture of Vanity and Modesty.--His chef-d'oeuvre, the Last Supper.--Faded and almost effaced. Filled with the wonders I had seen In Rome's stupendous shrines and halls,

Mary Magdalen.--Her Story.--Numerous Pictures of her.--Correggio--Guido --Raphael, etc.--Canova's two exquisite Statues.--The Somariva Magdalen. --Chantrey's Admiration of Canova's Works. No wonder, MARY, that thy story Touches all hearts--for there we see thee.

A Visit to the house where Rousseau lived with Madame de Warrens.-- Their Menage.--Its Grossness.--Claude Anet.--Reverence with which the spot is now visited.--Absurdity of this blind Devotion to Fame.--Feelings excited by the Beauty and Seclusion of the Scene. Disturbed by its Associations with Rousseau's History.--Impostures of Men of Genius.--Their Power of mimicking all the best Feelings, Love, Independence, etc. Strange power of Genius, that can throw Round all that's vicious, weak, and low,

Different Attitudes in which Authors compose.--Bayes, Henry Stevens, Herodotus, etc.--Writing in Bed--in the Fields.--Plato and Sir Richard Blackmore.--Fiddling with Gloves and Twigs.--Madame de Sta'l.--Rhyming on the Road, in an old Cal'che. What various attitudes and ways And tricks we authors have in writing!

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

"Go!" said the angry, weeping maid, "The charm is broken!--once betrayed, "Never can this wronged heart rely

Oh Wellington and Stephenson, Oh morn and evening papers, Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,

"Good night! good night!"--And is it so? And must I from my Rosa go? Oh Rosa, say "Good night!" once more,

Rose of the Desert! thou, whose blushing ray, Lonely and lovely, fleets unseen away; No hand to cull thee, none to woo thy sigh,--

Round the world goes, by day and night, While with it also round go we; And in the flight of one day's light

Row gently here, My gondolier, So softly wake the tide,

Sail on, sail on, thou fearless bark-- Wherever blows the welcome wind, It cannot lead to scenes more dark,

Who'll buy a little boy? Look, yonder is he, Fast asleep, sly rogue on his mother's knee; So bold a young imp 'tisn't safe to keep,

Say, what shall be our sport today? There's nothing on earth, in sea, or air, Too bright, too high, too wild, too gay

Say, what shall we dance? Shall we bound along the moonlight plain, To music of Italy, Greece, or Spain?

[1] [Boy discovered at a table, with the Thirty-Nine Articles before him.-- Enter the Rt. Rev. Doctor Phillpots.]

Ere Psyche drank the cup that shed Immortal Life into her soul, Some evil spirit poured, 'tis said,

See, the dawn from Heaven is breaking O'er our sight, And Earth from sin awaking,

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,

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,

She sung of Love, while o'er her lyre The rosy rays of evening fell, As if to feed with their soft fire

Shine out, Stars! let Heaven assemble Round us every festal ray, Lights that move not, lights that tremble,

Should those fond hopes e'er forsake thee, Which now so sweetly thy heart employ: Should the cold world come to wake thee

[1] Silence is in our festal halls,-- Sweet Son of Song! thy course is o'er;

Since first Thy Word awaked my heart, Like new life dawning o'er me, Where'er I turn mine eyes, Thou art,

Sing, sweet Harp, oh sing to me Some song of ancient days, Whose sounds, in this sad memory,

Sing--sing--Music was given, To brighten the gay, and kindle the loving; Souls here, like planets in Heaven,

"nec tu sperne piis venientia somnia portis: cum pia venerunt somnia, pondus liubent." PROPERT. lib. iv. eleg. 7.

"And now," quoth the goddess, in accents jocose, "Having got good materials, I'll brew such a dose "Of Double X mischief as, mortals shall say,

"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,

So warmly we met and so fondly we parted, That which was the sweeter even I could not tell,-- That first look of welcome her sunny eyes darted,

From tongue to tongue the rumor flew; All askt, aghast, "Is't true? is't true?" But none knew whether 'twas fact or fable:

I come from a land in the sun bright deep, Where golden gardens grow; Where the winds of the north, be calmed in sleep,

[1] "I've been, oh, sweet daughter, "To fountain and sea,

They came from a land beyond the sea, And now o'er the western main Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly,

"And those things do best please me, That befall preposterously." PUCK Junior, Midsummer Night's Dream.

TIME--THE NINTH CENTURY. To-morrow, comrade, we On the battle-plain must be,

"We are ever standing on the defensive. All that we say to them is, 'leave us alone.' The Established Church is part and parcel of the constitution of this country. You are bound to conform to this constitution. We ask of you nothing more:--let us alone." --Letter in The Times, Nov. 1838. Come, list to my pastoral tones,

"The parting Genius is with sighing sent." MILTON. It is o'er, it is o'er, my reign is o'er;

qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla OVID Metam. lib iii. v. 227. Now the vapor, hot and damp,

O Abyssinian tree, We pray, we pray to thee; By the glow of thy golden fruit

haud curat Hippoclides. ERASM. Adag. To those we love we've drank tonight;

FIRST CUPBEARER. Drink of this cup--Osiris sips The same in his halls below;

Fly from the world, O Bessy! to me, Thou wilt never find any sincerer; I'll give up the world, O Bessy! for thee,

Have you not seen the timid tear, Steal trembling from mine eye? Have you not marked the flush of fear,

Yes! had I leisure to sigh and mourn, Fanny dearest, for thee I'd sigh; And every smile on my cheek should turn

WRITTEN IN IRELAND. 1799. Of all my happiest hours of joy, And even I have had my measure,

"And Miriam, the Prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her band; 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!

The dance was o'er, yet still in dreams That fairy scene went on; Like clouds still flusht with daylight gleams

But ah! if vain the patriot's zeal, If neither valor's force nor wisdom's light Can break or melt that blood-cemented seal

Hark! from Spain, indignant Spain, Burst the bold, enthusiast strain, Like morning's music on the air;

[1] BY LORD ELDON. "vos inumbrelles video."--Ex Juvenil.

Every season hath its pleasures; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures

FIRST VISIT. 1832. As St. Jerome who died some ages ago,

"This much I dare say, that, since lording and loitering hath come up, preaching hath come down, contrary to the Apostles' times. For they preached and lorded not; and now they lord and preach not.... Ever since the Prelates were made Lords and Nobles, the plough standeth; there is no work done, people starve." --Latimer, "Sermon of the Plough." "Once more," said Jerome, "I'll run up and see

ST. SENANUS.[1] "Oh! haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile;

[1] "Take back the virgin page." MOORE'S Irish Melodies.

[1] Go seek for some abler defenders of wrong, If we must run the gantlet thro' blood and expense;

A beam of tranquillity smiled in the west, The storms of the morning pursued us no more; And the wave, while it welcomed the moment of rest.

Still thou fliest, and still I woo thee, Lovely phantom,--all in vain; Restless ever, my thoughts pursue thee,

Still when daylight o'er the wave Bright and soft its farewell gave, I used to hear, while light was falling,

Still, like dew in silence falling, Drops for thee the nightly tear Still that voice the past recalling,

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke, And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.

Puir, profligate Londoners, having heard tell That the De'il's got amang ye, and fearing 'tis true, We ha' sent ye a mon wha's a match for his spell,

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, May calm and sunshine long be thine! How fair thou art let others tell,--

But wake, the trumpet's blast again, And rouse the ranks of warrior-men! Oh War, when Truth thy arm employs,

TO JULIA. --sine me sit nulla Venus. SULPICIA.

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. Take back the virgin page, White and unwritten still;

Take hence the bowl;--tho' beaming Brightly as bowl e'er shone, Oh, it but sets me dreaming

Tell her, oh, tell her, the lute she left lying Beneath the green arbor is still lying there; And breezes like lovers around it are sighing,

Next week will be published (as "Lives" are the rage) The whole Reminiscences, wondrous and strange, Of a small puppy-dog that lived once in the cage

Supposed to be sung by OLD PROSY, the Jew, in the character of Major CARTWRIGHT. Vill nobodies try my nice Annual Pill, Dat's to purify every ting nashty avay?

The bird, let loose in eastern skies,[1] When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Lightly, Alpine rover, Tread the mountains over; Rude is the path thou'st yet to go;

"That boy will be the death of me." Matthews at Home. Ah, Tories dear, our ruin is near,

A letter having been addressed to a very distinguished personage, requesting him to become the Patron of this Orange Club, a polite answer was forthwith returned, of which we have been fortunate enough to obtain a copy. Brimstone-hall, September 1, 1828. Private,--Lord Belzebub presents

"A Christian of the best edition."--RABELAIS. Canonize him!--yea, verily, we'll canonize him, Tho' Cant is his hobby and meddling his bliss,

"Come, tell me," says Rosa, as kissing and kist, One day she reclined on my breast; "Come, tell me the number, repeat me the list

[1] See those cherries, how they cover Yonder sunny garden wall;--

[1] "When they do agree, their unanimity is wonderful. The Critic. 1833.

O'er mountains bright With snow and light, We Crystal-Hunters speed along;

"Solemn dances were, on great festivals and celebrations, admitted among the primitive Christians, in which even the Bishops and dignified Clergy were performers. Scaliger says, that the first Bishops were called praesules[2] for other reason than that they led off these dances."--"Cyclopaedia," art. Dances. I've had such a dream--a frightful dream-- Tho' funny mayhap to wags 'twill seem,

The dawn is breaking o'er us, See, heaven hath caught its hue! We've day's long light before us,

The beam of morning trembling Stole o'er the mountain brook, With timid ray resembling

[1] They both were husht, the voice, the chords,-- I heard but once that witching lay;

But, whither have these gentle ones, These rosy nymphs and black-eyed nuns, With all of Cupid's wild romancing,

--"fessus jam sudat asellus, "parce illi; vestrum delicium est asinus." VERGIL. Copa.

Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet,

Nell ora, credo, che dell'oriente Prima raggio nel monte Citerea, Che di fuoco d'amor par sempre dente,

The dream of those days when first I sung thee is o'er, Thy triumph hath stained the charm thy sorrows then wore; And even of the light which Hope once shed o'er thy chains,

Air.--"A master I have, and I am his man, Galloping dreary dun." "Castle of Andalusia."

A wounded Chieftain, lying By the Danube's leafy side, Thus faintly said, in dying,

Come, May, with all thy flowers, Thy sweetly-scented thorn, Thy cooling evening showers,

"We are told that the bigots are growing old and fast wearing out. If it be so why not let us die in peace?" --LORD BEXLEY'S Letter to the Freeholders of Kent. Stop, Intellect, in mercy stop,

Remember'st thou that setting sun, The last I saw with thee, When loud we heard the evening gun

Night waneth fast, the morning star Saddens with light the glimmering sea, Whose waves shall soon to realms afar

'Twas on a day When the immortals at their banquet lay; The bowl

Come, maids and youths, for here we sell All wondrous things of earth and air; Whatever wild romancers tell,

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,

Amiens. Dear DOLL, while the tails of our horses are plaiting, The trunks tying on, and Papa, at the door,

Paris. At length, my Lord, I have the bliss To date to you a line from this

Oh Dick! you may talk of your writing and reading, Your Logic and Greek, but there's nothing like feeding; And this is the place for it, DICKY, you dog,

"Return!"--no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land; While, for the faith my fathers held to God,

My Lord, the Instructions, brought to-day, "I shall in all my best obey." Your Lordship talks and writes so sensibly!

What a time since I wrote!--I'm a sad, naughty girl-- For, tho' like a tee-totum, I'm all in a twirl;-- Yet even (as you wittily say) a tee-totum

Yours of the 12th received, just now-- Thanks, for the hint, my trusty brother! 'Tis truly pleasing to see how

Before we sketch the Present--let us cast A few, short, rapid glances to the Past. When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,

Dear DICK, while old DONALDSON'S[1] mending my stays,-- Which I knew would go smash with me one of these days, And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle,

Well, it isn't the King, after all, my dear creature! But don't you go laugh, now--there's nothing to quiz in't-- For grandeur of air and for grimness of feature,

Yes, 'twas a cause, as noble and as great As ever hero died to vindicate-- A Nation's right to speak a Nation's voice,

At last, DOLLY,--thanks to potent emetic, Which BOBBY and Pa, grimace sympathetic, Have swallowed this morning, to balance the bliss,

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy. Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise-- Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,

Just in time for the post, dear, and monstrously busy, With godly concernments--and worldly ones, too; Things carnal and spiritual mixt, my dear Lizzy,

STANZAS ENCLOSED. TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?--WHAT?--HOW? Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky

He comes from Erin's speechful shore Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er With hot effusions--hot and weak;

As it was but last week that I sint you a letther, You'll wondher, dear Judy, what this is about; And, throth, it's a letther myself would like betther,

Dear Judy, I sind you this bit of a letther, By mail-coach conveyance--for want of a betther-- To tell you what luck in this world I have had

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can, Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man, Who combines in himself all the multiple glory

IRREGULAR ODE. Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers, While yet, beneath some northern sky,

Tuesday evening, I much regret, dear Reverend Sir, I could not come to * * * to meet you;

These few brief lines, my reverend friend, By a safe, private hand I send (Fearing lest some low Catholic wag

Dear Dick--just arrived at my own humbleg'te, I enclose you, post-haste, the account, all complete, Just arrived, per express, of our late noble feat.

The Garland I send thee was culled from those bowers Where thou and I wandered in long vanished hours; Not a leaf or a blossom its bloom here displays,

Dost thou not hear the silver bell, Thro' yonder lime-trees ringing? 'Tis my lady's light gazelle;

Ad harmoniam canere mundum. CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii. There lies a shell beneath the waves,

ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator. OVID. The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,

TO HER LOVER. Was it the moon, or was it morning's ray, That call'd thee, dearest, from these arms away?

The halcyon hangs o'er ocean, The sea-lark skims the brine; This bright world's all in motion,

The harp that once thro' Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls.

In vain all the Knights to the Underwald wooed her, Tho' brightest of maidens, the proudest was she; Brave chieftains they sought, and young minstrels they sued her,

Be still my heart: I hear them come: Those sounds announce my lover near: The march that brings our warriors home

'Twas midnight dark, The seaman's bark, Swift o'er the waters bore him,

"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.

Thro' grief and thro' danger thy smile hath cheered my way, Till hope seemed to bud from each thorn that round me lay; The darker our fortune, the brighter our pure love burned,

[1] I heard as I lay, a wailing sound, "He is dead--he is dead," the rumor flew;

Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss, On which my soul's beloved swore That there should come a time of bliss,

WRITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. "They tell of a young man, who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses."--Anon. "La Poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."

Fly swift, my light gazelle, To her who now lies waking, To hear thy silver bell

"Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee, "So may the stars obey thee "So may each airy

When in death I shall calmly recline, O bear my heart to my mistress dear; Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine

Wouldst know what tricks, by the pale moonlight, Are played by me, the merry little Sprite, Who wing thro' air from the camp to the court,

Who has not heard of the Vale of CASHMERE, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave,[278] Its temples and grottos and fountains as clear

"Cio che si perde qui, l' si raguna." ARIOSTO. "---a valley, where he sees

PREFACE. The Eastern story of the angels Harut and Marut and the Rabbinical fictions of the loves of Uzziel and Sh'mchazai are the only sources to which I need refer for the origin of the notion on which this Romance is founded. In addition to the fitness of the subject for poetry, it struck me also as capable of affording an allegorical medium through which might be shadowed out (as I have endeavored to do in the following stories) the fall of the Soul from its original purity[1]--the loss of light and happiness which it suffers, in the pursuit of this world's perishable pleasures--and the punishments both from conscience and Divine justice with which impurity, pride, and presumptuous inquiry into the awful secrets of Heaven are sure to be visited--The beautiful story of Cupid and Psyche owes its chief charm to this sort of "veiled meaning," and it has been my wish (however I may have failed in the attempt) to communicate to the following pages the same moral interest. Among the doctrines or notions derived by Plato from the East, one of the most natural and sublime is that which inculcates the pre-existence of the soul and its gradual descent into this dark material world from that region of spirit and light which it is supposed to have once inhabited and to which after a long lapse of purification and trial it will return. This belief under various symbolical forms may be traced through almost all the Oriental theologies. The Chaldeans represent the Soul as originally endowed with wings which fall away when it sinks from its native element and must be re-produced before it can hope to return. Some disciples of Zoroaster once inquired of him, "How the wings of the Soul might be mad to grow again?"

FOUNDED ON A LATE DISTRESSING INCIDENT. 1832-3. 'mutantem regna cometem."

"Come, if thy magic Glass have power "To call up forms we sigh to see; "Show me my, love, in that, rosy bower,

When o'er the silent seas alone, For days and nights we've cheerless gone, Oh they who've felt it know how sweet,

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;[2] Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,

SUGGESTED BY THE LATE WORK OF THE REVEREND MR. IRVING "ON PROPHECY." 1826 A millennium at hand!--I'm delighted to hear it--

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.

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night,

"Look here," said Rose, with laughing eyes, "Within this box, by magic hid, "A tuneful Sprite imprisoned lies,

TO .... .... THE MORNING OF HER BIRTHDAY. In witching slumbers of the night,

--nova monstra creavit. OVID. "Metamorph." 1. i. v. 417. Having sent off the troops of brave Major Camac,

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,

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE, "COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES." "We want more Churches and more Clergymen."

'Tis believed 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 roved,

Yes, sad one of Sion,[1] if closely resembling, In shame and in sorrow, thy withered-up heart-- If drinking deep, deep, of the same "cup of trembling"

HE. On to the field, our doom is sealed, To conquer or be slaves:

"To Panurge was assigned the Laird-ship of Salmagundi, which was yearly worth 6,789,106,789 ryals besides the revenue of the Locusts and Periwinkles, amounting one year with another to the value of 2,485,768," etc.--RABELAIS. "Hurra! hurra!" I heard them say, And they cheered and shouted all the way,

To the people of England, the humble Petition Of Ireland's disconsolate Orangemen, showing-- That sad, very sad, is our present condition;--

Dulcis conscia lectuli lucerna. MARTIAL, lib. xiv. epig. 89. "Oh! love the Lamp" (my Mistress said),

Still thus, when twilight gleamed, Far off his Castle seemed, Traced on the sky;

Being weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest;

Tho' dark are our sorrows, to-day we'll forget them, And smile thro' our tears, like a sunbeam in showers: There never were hearts, if our rulers would let them,

"I trust we shall part as we met, in peace and charity. My last payment to you paid your salary up to the 1st of this month. Since that, I owe you for one month, which, being a long month, of thirty-one days, amounts, as near as I can calculate, to six pounds eight shillings. My steward returns you as a debtor to the amount of SEVEN POUNDS TEN SHILLINGS FOR COX-ACRE-GROUND, which leaves some trifling balance in my favor."--Letter of Dismissal from the Rev. Marcus Beresford to his Curate, the Rev. T. A. Lyons. The account is balanced--the bill drawn out,-- The debit and credit all right, no doubt--

---- vo cercand' io, Donna quant' e possibile in altrui La desiata vostra forma vera.

Oh, have you heard what hapt of late? If not, come lend an ear, While sad I state the piteous fate

TO .... .... No--Lady! Lady! keep the ring: Oh! think, how many a future year,

Annulus ille viri. OVID. "Amor." lib. ii. eleg. 15. The happy day at length arrived

Fleetly o'er the moonlight snows Speed we to my lady's bower; Swift our sledge as lightning goes,

I dreamt that, in the Paphian groves, My nets by moonlight laying, I caught a flight of wanton Loves,

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;

PREFACE. The Sceptical Philosophy of the Ancients has been no less misrepresented than the Epicurean. Pyrrho may perhaps have carried it to rather an irrational excess;--but we must not believe with Beattie all the absurdities imputed to this philosopher; and it appears to me that the doctrines of the school, as explained by Sextus Empiricus, are far more suited to the wants and infirmities of human reason as well as more conducive to the mild virtues of humility and patience, than any of those systems of philosophy which preceded the introduction of Christianity. The Sceptics may be said to have held a middle path between the Dogmatists and Academicians; the former of whom boasted that they had attained the truth while the latter denied that any attainable truth existed. The Sceptics however, without either asserting or denying its existence, professed to be modestly and anxiously in search of it; or, as St. Augustine expresses it, in his liberal tract against the Manichaeans, "nemo nostrum dicat jam se invenisse veritatem; sic eam quoeramus quasi ab utrisque nesciatur." From this habit of impartial investigation and the necessity which it imposed upon them of studying not only every system of philosophy but every art and science which professed to lay its basis in truth, they necessarily took a wider range of erudition and were far more travelled in the regions of philosophy than those whom conviction or bigotry had domesticated in any particular system. It required all the learning of dogmatism to overthrow the dogmatism of learning; and the Sceptics may be said to resemble in this respect that ancient incendiary who stole from the altar the fire with which he destroyed the temple. This advantage over all the other sects is allowed to them even by Lipsius, whose treatise on the miracles of the Virgo Hallensis will sufficiently save him from all suspicion of scepticism. "labore, ingenio, memoria," he says, "supra omnes pene philosophos fuisse.--quid nonne omnia aliorum secta tenere debuerunt et inquirere, si poterunt refellere?    res dicit nonne orationes varias, raras, subtiles inveniri ad tam receptas, claras, certas (ut videbatur) sententias evertendas?" etc.--"Manuduct. ad Philosoph. Stoic." Dissert. 4. Between the scepticism of the ancients and the moderns the great difference is that the former doubted for the purpose of investigating, as may be exemplified by the third book of Aristotle's Metaphysics, while the latter investigate for the purpose of doubting, as may be seen through most of the philosophical works of Hume. Indeed the Pyrrhonism of latter days is not only more subtle than that of antiquity, but, it must be confessed, more dangerous in its tendency. The happiness of a Christian depends so essentially upon his belief, that it is but natural he should feel alarm at the progress of doubt, lest it should steal by degrees into that region from which he is most interested in excluding it, and poison at last the very spring of his consolation and hope. Still however the abuses of doubting ought not to deter a philosophical mind from indulging mildly and rationally in its use; and there is nothing surely more consistent with the meek spirit of Christianity than that humble scepticism which professes not to extend its distrust beyond the circle of human pursuits and the pretensions of human knowledge. A follower of this school may be among the readiest to admit the claims of a superintending Intelligence upon his faith and adoration: it is only to the wisdom of this weak world that he refuses or at least delays his assent;--it is only in passing through the shadow of earth that his mind undergoes the eclipse of scepticism. No follower of Pyrrho has ever spoken more strongly against the dogmatists than St. Paul himself, in the First Epistle to the Corinthians; and there are passages in Ecclesiastes and other parts of Scripture, which justify our utmost diffidence in all that human reason originates. Even the Sceptics of antiquity refrained carefully from the mysteries of theology, and in entering the temples of religion laid aside their philosophy at the porch. Sextus Empiricus declares the acquiescence of his sect in the general belief of a divine and foreknowing Power:--In short it appears to me that this rational and well-regulated scepticism is the only daughter of the Schools that can safely be selected as a handmaid for Piety. He who distrusts the light of reason will be the first to follow a more luminous guide; and if with an ardent love for truth he has sought her in vain through the ways of this life, he will but turn with the more hope to that better world where all is simple, true and everlasting: for there is no parallax at the zenith;--it is only near our troubled horizon that objects deceive us into vague and erroneous calculations.

Say, did you not hear a voice of death! And did you not mark the paly form Which rode on the silvery mist of the heath,

My fates had destined me to rove A long, long pilgrimage of love; And many an altar on my way

"Now what, we ask, is become of this Sinking Fund--these eight millions of surplus above expenditure, which were to reduce the interest of the national debt by the amount of four hundred thousand pounds annually? Where, indeed, is the Sinking Fund itself?" --The Times. Take your bell, take your bell,

My love and I, the other day, Within a myrtle arbor lay, When near us, from a rosy bed,

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep An island of lovelier charms; It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep,

Silent, oh Moyle, be the roar of thy water, Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely daughter

The valley lay smiling before me, Where lately I left her behind; Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me,

Let History boast of her Romans and Spartans, And tell how they stood against tyranny's shock; They were all, I confess, in my eye, Betty Martins

There's a song of the olden time, Falling sad o'er the ear, Like the dream of some village chime,

WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE 28TH APRIL.[1] When freshly blows the northern gale,

Come list, while I tell of the heart-wounded Stranger Who sleeps her last slumber in this haunted ground; Where often, at midnight, the lonely wood-ranger

TO THE HONORABLE MRS. NORTON. For the groundwork of the following Poem I am indebted to a memorable F'te, given some years since, at Boyle Farm, the seat of the late Lord Henry Fitzgerald. In commemoration of that evening--of which the lady to whom these pages are inscribed was, I well recollect, one of the most distinguished ornaments--I was induced at the time to write some verses, which were afterwards, however, thrown aside unfinished, on my discovering that the same task had been undertaken by a noble poet,[1] whose playful and happy jeu d'esprit on the subject has since been published. It was but lately, that, on finding the fragments of my own sketch among my papers, I thought of founding on them such a description of an imaginary F'te as might furnish me with situations for the introduction of music. Such is the origin and object of the following Poem, and to MRS. NORTON it is, with every feeling of admiration and regard, inscribed by her father's warmly attached friend,

The summer webs that float and shine, The summer dews that fall, Tho' light they be, this heart of mine

Chloris, I swear, by all I ever swore, That from this hour I shall not love thee more.-- "What! love no more? Oh! why this altered vow?"

A sylph, as bright as ever sported Her figure thro' the fields of air, By an old swarthy Gnome was courted.

On beds of snow the moonbeam slept, And chilly was the midnight gloom, When by the damp grave Ellen wept--

I've heard, there was in ancient days A Lyre of most melodious spell; 'Twas heaven to hear its fairy lays,

doctoribus loetamur tribus. 1826. Tho' many great Doctors there be,

The time I've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light, that lies

Our earth, as it rolls thro' the regions of space, Wears always two faces, the dark and the sunny; And poor human life runs the same sort of race,

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine; My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine; My censer's breath the mountain airs,

There are two Loves, the poet sings, Both born of Beauty at a birth: The one, akin to heaven, hath wings,

Far as the sight can reach, beneath as clear And blue a heaven as ever blest this sphere, Gardens and pillared streets and porphyry domes

It came o'er her sleep, like a voice of those days, When love, only love was the light of her ways; And, soft as in moments of bliss long ago,

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,

A TRIO. WATCHMAN. Past twelve o'clock--past twelve.

"And drink oblivion to our woes." Anna Matilda. Talk no more of your Cheltenham and Harrowgate springs,

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall,[1] And its Chief, mid his heroes reclining, Looks up with a sigh, to the trophied wall,

Come, tell me where the maid is found. Whose heart can love without deceit, And I will range the world around,

The world was husht, the moon above Sailed thro' ether slowly, When near the casement of my love,

I bring thee, love, a golden chain, I bring thee too a flowery wreath; The gold shall never wear a stain,

There came a nymph dancing Gracefully, gracefully, Her eye a light glancing

The young May moon is beaming, love, The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, How sweet to rove

Oh, the joys of our evening posada, Where, resting, at close of day, We, young Muleteers of Grenada,

The young rose I give thee, so dewy and bright, Was the floweret most dear to the sweet bird of night, Who oft, by the moon, o'er her blushes hath hung,

The dawning of morn, the daylight's sinking, The night's long hours still find me thinking Of thee, thee, only thee.

Then first from Love, in Nature's bowers, Did Painting learn her fairy skill, And cull the hues of loveliest flowers,

Then, fare thee well, my own dear love, This world has now for us No greater grief, no pain above

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing, And lamps from every casement shown; While voices blithe within are singing,

There comes a time, a dreary time, To him whose heart hath flown O'er all the fields of youth's sweet prime,

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary-- What may that Desert be?

There's something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me, Some phantom I've for ever got

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,

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,

They met but once, in youth's sweet hour, And never since that day Hath absence, time, or grief had power

They tell me thou'rt the favored guest Of every fair and brilliant throng; No wit like thine to wake the jest,

This life is all checkered with pleasures and woes, That chase one another like waves of the deep,-- Each brightly or darkly, as onward it flows,

This world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,

Tho' 'tis all but a dream at the best, And still, when happiest, soonest o'er, Yet, even in a dream, to be blest

Tho' 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,

Tho' lightly sounds the song I sing to thee, Tho' like the lark's its soaring music be, Thou'lt find even here some mournful note that tells

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,

Those evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth and home and that sweet time

(Air.--Unknown.)[1] "The day is thine, the night is also thine: thou hast prepared the light and the sun. "Thou hast set all the borders of the earth: thou hast made summer and winter."

Thou bidst me sing the lay I sung to thee In other days ere joy had left this brow; But think, tho' still unchanged the notes may be,

Too plain, alas, my doom is spoken Nor canst thou veil the sad truth o'er; Thy heart is changed, thy vow is broken,

BY LORD STANLEY. (HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.) "Evil, be thou my good."

What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes, And, better still, a man of guineas, To talk of "patrons," in these times,

(VIDE DESCRIPTION OF A LATE F'TE.)[1] 1832. What a pleasing contrivance! how aptly devised

I sat me down in my easy chair, To read, as usual, the morning papers; But--who shall describe my look of despair,

Oft have I seen, in gay, equestrian pride, Some well-rouged youth round Astley's Circus ride Two stately steeds--standing, with graceful straddle,

nulla tuum nobis subducet femina lectum, etc., Lib. iv. Carm. 13. "Never shall woman's smile have power "To win me from those gentle charms!"--

If life for me hath joy or light, 'Tis all from thee, My thoughts by day, my dreams by night,

'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,

'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,

'Tis the last rose of summer Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions

And hast thou marked the pensive shade, That many a time obscures my brow, Midst all the joys, beloved maid.

Put off the vestal Veil, nor, oh! Let weeping angels View it; Your cheeks belie its virgin snow.

Come, take thy harp--'tis vain to muse Upon the gathering ills we see; Oh! take thy harp and let me lose

Go then, if she, whose shade thou art, No more will let thee soothe my pain; Yet, tell her, it has cost this heart

To be the theme of every hour The heart devotes to Fancy's power, When her prompt magic fills the mind

Is it not sweet, beloved youth, To rove through Erudition's bowers, And cull the golden fruits of truth,

When, casting many a look behind, I leave the friends I cherish here-- Perchance some other friends to find,

Thy song has taught my heart to feel Those soothing thoughts of heavenly love, Which o'er the sainted spirits steal

Concealed within the shady wood A mother left her sleeping child, And flew, to cull her rustic food,

When midnight came to close the year, We sighed to think it thus should take The hours it gave us--hours as dear

WRITTEN AT LACOCK ABBEY, JANUARY, 1832. When I would sing thy beauty's light, Such various forms, and all so bright,

I could resign that eye of blue. How e'er its splendor used to thrill me; And even that cheek of roseate hue,--

GENERAL IN HIS MAJESTY'S FORCES, MASTER-GENERAL OF THE ORDNANCE, CONSTABLE OF THE TOWER, ETC. MY LORD, It is impossible to think of addressing a Dedication to your Lordship without calling to mind the well-known reply of the Spartan to a rhetorician, who proposed to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules. "Oh Hercules!" said the honest Spartan, "who ever thought of blaming Hercules?" In a similar manner the concurrence of public opinion has left to the panegyrist of your Lordship a very superfluous task. I shall, therefore, be silent on the subject, and merely entreat your indulgence to the very humble tribute of gratitude which I have here the honor to present.

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. Oh, what a sea of storm we've past!-- High mountain waves and foamy showers,

Donington Park, 1802 To catch the thought, by painting's spell, Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,

BRIGHTON, JUNE, 1825. This life, dear Corry, who can doubt?-- Resembles much friend Ewart's[1] wine,

FROM BERMUDA.[1] "The daylight is gone--but, before we depart, "One cup shall go round to the friend of my heart,

Oh! if your tears are given to care, If real woe disturbs your peace, Come to my bosom, weeping fair!

I saw the peasant's hand unkind From yonder oak the ivy sever; They seemed in very being twined;

Mock me no more with Love's beguiling dream, A dream, I find, illusory as sweet: One smile of friendship, nay, of cold esteem,

Why, let the stingless critic chide With all that fume of vacant pride Which mantles o'er the pendant fool,

When Time was entwining the garland of years, Which to crown my beloved was given, Though some of the leaves might be sullied with tears,

To Ladies' eyes around, boy, We can't refuse, we can't refuse, Tho' bright eyes so abound, boy,

"Tunnebridge est ' la m'me distance de Londres, que Fontainebleau l'est de Paris. Ce qu'il y a de beau et de galant dans l'un et dans l'autre sexe s'y rassemble au terns des eaux. La compagnie," etc.

Gift of the Hero, on his dying day, To her, whose pity watched, for ever nigh; Oh! could he see the proud, the happy ray,

Written at Middleton. Oh albums, albums, how I dread Your everlasting scrap and scrawl!

ABOARD THE PHAETON FRIGATE, OFF THE AZORES, BY MOONLIGHT. Sweet Moon! if, like Crotona's sage,[1] By any spell my hand could dare

I'll ask the sylph who round thee flies, And in thy breath his pinion dips, Who suns him in thy radiant eyes,

In days, my Kate, when life was new, When, lulled with innocence and you, I heard, in home's beloved shade,

I more than once have heard at night A song like those thy lip hath given, And it was sung by shapes of light,

Mon ame sur mon l'vre 'toit lors toute enti're. Pour savourer le miel qui sur la votre 'toit; Mais en me retirant, elle resta derri're,

To see thee every day that came, And find thee still each day the same; In pleasure's smile or sorrow's tear

Is not thy mind a gentle mind? Is not that heart a heart refined? Hast thou not every gentle grace,

WRITTEN IN HER ALBUM. They say that Love had once a book (The urchin likes to copy you),

Tell me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain,

WRITTEN IN A POCKET BOOK, 1822. They tell us of an Indian tree, Which, howsoe'er the sun and sky

Phillis, you little rosy rake, That heart of yours I long to rifle; Come, give it me, and do not make

A far conserva, e cumulo d'amanti. "Past. Fid." And are you then a thing of art,

Is the song of Rosa mute? Once such lays inspired her lute! Never doth a sweeter song

The wisest soul, by anguish torn, Will soon unlearn the lore it knew; And when the shrining casket's worn,

effare causam nominis, utrumne mores hoc tui nomen dedere, an nomen hoc

WRITTEN IN A COMMONPLACE BOOK, CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" IN WHICH EVERY ONE THAT OPENED IT WAS TO CONTRIBUTE SOMETHING. This tribute's from a wretched elf, Who hails thee, emblem of himself.

With triumph, this morning, oh Boston! I hail The stir of thy deck and the spread of thy sail, For they tell me I soon shall be wafted, in thee,

At morning, when the earth and sky Are glowing with the light of spring, We see thee not, thou humble fly!

When I have seen thy snow-white wing From the blue wave at evening spring, And show those scales of silvery white,

FROM BUFFALO, UPON LAKE ERIE. nec venit ad duros musa vocata Getas. OVID. ex Ponto, lib. 1. ep. 5.

They try to persuade me, my dear little sprite, That you're not a true daughter of ether and light, Nor have any concern with those fanciful forms

FROM THE BANKS OF THE ST. LAWRENCE. Not many months have now been dreamed away Since yonder sun, beneath whose evening ray

IN ALLUSION TO SOME PARTNERSHIP IN A LOTTERY SHARE IMPROMPTU. --Ego Pars--VIRG.

FROM THE CITY OP WASHINGTON. If former times had never left a trace Of human frailty in their onward race,

FROM BERMUDA, JANUARY, 1804. Lady! where'er you roam, whatever land Woos the bright touches of that artist hand;

AUTHOR OF THE POETICAL PORTRAITURE OF THE CHURCH. Sweet singer of Romaldkirk, thou who art reckoned, By critics Episcopal, David the Second,[1]

What, you, too, my ******, in hashes so knowing, Of sauces and soups Aristarchus profest! Are you, too, my savory Brunswicker, going

No wonder bards, both high and low, From Byron down to ***** and me, Should seek the fame which all bestow

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3. So may my Lady's prayers prevail, And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,

FROM THE CITY OF WASHINGTON. 'Tis evening now; beneath the western star Soft sighs the lover through his sweet cigar,

To weave a garland for the rose. And think thus crown'd 'twould lovelier be, Were far less vain than to suppose

To-day, dearest! is ours; Why should Love carelessly lose it? This life shines or lowers

I pledge myself thro' thick and thin, To labor still with zeal devout To get the Outs, poor devils, in,

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."--Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16. Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium, When "civil advantages" are to be gained,

Scripta manet. 'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny,[1] In letters four and letters three;

peninsularum Sirmio, insularumque ocelle. Sweet Sirmio! thou, the very eye Of all peninsulas and isles,

dicebas quondam, etc. To Lesbia. Thou told'st me, in our days of love,

pauca nunciate meae puellae. Comrades and friends! with whom, where'er The fates have willed thro' life I've roved,

College.--We announced, in our last that Lefroy and Shaw were returned. They were chaired yesterday; the Students of the College determined, it would seem, to imitate the mob in all things, harnessing themselves to the car, and the Masters of Arts bearing Orange flags and bludgeons before, beside, and behind the car." Dublin Evening Post, Dec. 20, 1832. Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,

'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,

Twin'st thou with lofty wreath thy brow? Such glory then thy beauty sheds, I almost think, while awed I bow

Twopenny Post-Bag, INTERCEPTED LETTERS, ETC. LETTER IV. PAGE 584. Among the papers, enclosed in Dr. Duigenan'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. She begins by reminding him tenderly of the time, when they were together at Athens--when, as she says,

DEDICATION. TO STEPHEN WOOLRICHE, ESQ. MY DEAR WOOLRICHE,-- It is now about seven years since I promised (and I grieve to think it is almost as long since we met) to dedicate to you the very first Book, of whatever size or kind I should publish. Who could have thought that so many years would elapse, without my giving the least signs of life upon the subject of this important promise? Who could have imagined that a volume of doggerel, after all, would be the first offering that Gratitude would lay upon the shrine of Friendship?

FROM COLONEL M'MAHON TO GOULD FRANCIS LECKIE, ESQ. DEAR SIR-- I've just had time to look

FROM GEORGE PRINCE REGENT TO THE EARL OF YARMOUTH.[1] We missed you last night at the "hoary old sinner's," Who gave us as usual the cream of good dinners;

FROM THE RIGHT HON. PATRICK DUIGENAN TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR JOHN NICHOL. Last week, dear Nichol, making merry At dinner with our Secretary,

FROM THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK TO LADY---. My dear Lady---! I've been just sending out About five hundred cards for a snug little Rout--

FROM ABDALLAH,[1] IN LONDON, TO MOHASSAN, IN ISPAHAN. Whilst thou, Mohassan, (happy thou!) Dost daily bend thy loyal brow

FROM MESSRS. LACKINGTON AND CO. TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ. Per Post, Sir, we send your MS.--look it thro'-- Very sorry--but can't undertake--'twouldn't do.

FROM COLONEL THOMAS TO ---- SKEFFINGTON, ESQ. Come to our F'te and bring with thee Thy newest, best embroidery.

Unbind thee, love, unbind thee, love, From those dark ties unbind thee; Tho' fairest hand the chain hath wove,

Up, sailor boy, 'tis day! The west wind blowing, The spring tide flowing,

Ask what prevailing, pleasing power Allures the sportive, wandering bee To roam untired, from flower to flower,

[1] (WRITTEN MAY, 1832.) All, as he left it!--even the pen,

Wake thee, my dear--thy dreaming Till darker hours will keep; While such a moon is beaming,

Wake up, sweet melody! Now is the hour When young and loving hearts

"War against Babylon!" shout we around, Be our banners through earth unfurled; Rise up, ye nations, ye kings, at the sound--

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,[2]

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,

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,

Weep on, weep on, your hour is past; Your dreams of pride are o'er; The fatal chain is round you cast,

Weep, weep for him, the Man of God--[1] In yonder vale he sunk to rest; But none of earth can point the sod[2]

Were not the sinful Mary's tears An offering worthy Heaven, When, o'er the faults of former years,

TO ----. What shall I sing thee? Shall I tell Of that bright hour, remembered well

HE. What the bee is to the floweret, When he looks for honey-dew,

Quest. Why is a Pump like Viscount Castlereagh? Answ. Because it is a slender thing of wood, That up and down its awkward arm doth sway,

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.

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,

When first I met thee, warm and young, There shone such truth about thee. And on thy lip such promise hung,

When first that smile, like sunshine, blest my sight, Oh what a vision then came o'er me! Long years of love, of calm and pure delight,

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

When Love is kind, Cheerful and free, Love's sure to find

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,

When Love, who ruled as Admiral o'er Has rosy mother's isles of light, Was cruising off the Paphian shore,

When midst the gay I meet That gentle smile of thine, Tho' still on me it turns most sweet,

When night brings the hour Of starlight and joy, There comes to my bower

When on the lip the sigh delays, As if 'twould linger there for ever; When eyes would give the world to gaze,

When the first summer bee O'er the young rose shall hover, Then, like that gay rover,

When the sad word, "Adieu," from my lip is nigh falling, And with it, Hope passes away, Ere the tongue hath half breathed it, my fond heart recalling

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,

When thou art nigh, it seems A new creation round; The sun hath fairer beams,

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,

When thro' the Piazzetta Night breathes her cool air, Then, dearest Ninetta,

When to sad Music silent you listen, And tears on those eyelids tremble like dew, Oh, then there dwells in those eyes as they glisten

When twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft

Whene'er I see those smiling eyes, So full of hope, and joy, and light, As if no cloud could ever rise,

"Where are the visions that round me once hovered, "Forms that shed grace from their shadows alone; "Looks fresh as light from a star just discovered,

Oh, where's the slave so lowly, Condemned to chains unholy, Who, could he burst

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted? Thro' what Elysium more bright Than fancy or hope ever painted,

Where shall we bury our shame? Where, in what desolate place, Hide the last wreck of a name

While gazing on the moon's light, A moment from her smile I turned, To look at orbs, that, more bright,

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,

Who is the Maid my spirit seeks, Thro' cold reproof and slander's blight? Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Hymen, late, his love-knots selling, Called at many a maiden's dwelling: None could doubt, who saw or knew them,

Why does she so long delay? Night is waning fast away; Thrice have I my lamp renewed,

Wind thy horn, my hunter boy, And leave thy lute's inglorious sighs; Hunting is the hero's joy,

With moonlight beaming Thus o'er the deep, Who'd linger dreaming

[1] Wo, wo unto him who would check or disturb it-- That beautiful Light which is now on its way;

Away, away--you're all the same, A smiling, fluttering, jilting throng; And, wise too late, I burn with shame,

Wreath the bowl With flowers of soul, The brightest wit can find us;

Hither, Flora, Queen of Flowers! Haste thee from old Brompton's bowers-- Or, (if sweeter that abode)

Air.--"Sleep on, sleep on, my Kathleen dear. salvete, fratres Asini. ST. FRANCIS. Write on, write on, ye Barons dear,

Here is one leaf reserved for me, From all thy sweet memorials free; And here my simple song might tell

See you, beneath yon cloud so dark, Fast gliding along a gloomy bark? Her sails are full,--though the wind is still,

Yes, yes, when, the bloom of Love's boyhood is o'er, He'll turn into friendship that feels no decay; And, tho' Time may take from him the wings he once wore,

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blest her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride,

Young Jessica sat all the day, With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining; Her needle bright beside her lay,

"Tell me, what's Love?" said Youth, one day, To drooping Age, who crest his way.-- "It is a sunny hour of play,